#i rarely ever pull that one so it felt like a good omen | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gavisuntiedboot · 1 year

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Just Pretend (Gavi x reader)

Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Most recent part

Warnings: Profanity!! Swearing!! Kinda sad!!

Word Count: 7.4k (fun fact! if you've read the whole story, that's 27 pages of reading!)

A/N: The highly anticipated continuation to my ramblings. Please let me know if you want to be on the tag list for this series (because apparently that's a thing people do?) Also, can you tell I'm a huge Bad Omens fan?

"Wait, you're from San Sebastián? Like the cake?"

"If I had known you were this funny I wouldn't have ordered a soda. It keeps coming out of my nose."

You smiled widely at Martin, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You sat across from him in a restaurant by the beach, the dim yellow light complimenting the fading sun that cascaded through the windows. Salt hung in the air, filling your lungs with a feeling of relaxation. You rarely ever let first dates pick you up, let alone drive you an hour outside of Barcelona. But Martin had made you feel safe.

He had pulled up outside of your building, top down on the blue Mercedes he drove. His sunglasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, allowing him to drink in your sight and let out a low whistle as you approached the car. Your beach dress swayed around you, hugging different parts of your body as you moved. Your hair was pulled away from your face, with the wind shifting a few strands. Martin jumped out of the vehicle at the sight of you, opening the door for you and helping with your bag. The car ride there had been a tad awkward, with both of you nervous to come across too strong or two excited. So he handed you AUX and got a feel for you through your taste in music (which was erratic and all over the place). He let you play whatever you want. Well, almost: when 'Like a Villain' by Bad Omens came on, he changed the song himself, stating that he "could not stand scream music".

You had both loosened up by the time you got to the beach. You set up on the sand and Martin unbuttoned his shirt, glancing up to make sure you were watching him expose his chest inch by inch. You decided to be just as bold, lifting your dress over your head without turning around. Upon rummaging through your belongings, you decided none of your swimsuits gave off the desired impression, which was "I was meant to be a rich football WAG please wife me now". The natural next step was to ask Angelika for one, and she did not disappoint. It was a light pink medium-slutty bikini, sitting ever so prettily on your chest and on the curve of your hips. You laid across the towel on your side, finally able to engross yourself in the conversation with Martin. Once you two started, it was almost impossible for you to stop talking. You were so enamored by this man, who was interesting and funny and good looking and successful and interested in you.

You had spent hours at the beach, walking along the water, swimming in the shallows, and just laying in the warm sand, all while maintaining a great conversation. He was genuine in all his questions about your interests and your life. As you put your dress back on, Martin stared at you. He licked his lips as you let your hair down, shaking it to get any excess sand out. He asked if you didn't mind keeping the night going by having dinner with him, which is how you ended up at a pretty tiny seafood place by the sea. The other three occupied tables in the restaurant also hosted couples, so you felt at ease sitting across from Martin and asking about his home town.

"Okay but I love San Sebastián cake! It's like cheesecake but better and doesn't make me feel like I have butter lining my veins."

Martin laughed shyly and rolled his eyes. He looked at you softly, in a way that few men had. Most guys looked at you with a hardness in their eyes: you were a challenge to defeat, a mountain to climb, a conquest to complete. You were the impossible woman and you were to be treated as such. But Martin? He looked at you with a delicate that made you feel like you were made of glass. He looked at you the way Disney characters looked at the princesses: like something special that needed to be cherished. You rested your hand on the table, and he brought his hand to drape over yours, making you feel like a high schooler with their first crush. It was sweet and delicate and everything a girl wanted in a romance. You looked up at Martin and saw what you had been searching for all this time: potential.

You woke up Monday morning feeling the best you had in weeks. The previous day, you received an email saying you passed your field medicine exam with a 93%, shortly followed by a few texts from Martin saying how much he enjoyed the date and how he couldn't wait to see you again. It felt like everything in your life was falling into place: you were on your way to becoming a successful sports physiotherapist, and you had a hot football player who was sending you "good morning" texts before his 8am training.

You practically skipped into work, coffee in one hand, handbag swinging in the other. You stood in the hall outside your office and stared at your phone, smiling like an idiot at the messages from Martin. A hand came down and grasped your shoulder, scaring you out of your trance.

"Good morning doctora. You didn't answer my texts."

And just like that, your mood was ruined by Pablo, Barca's little storm could of misery. He had sent you several messages over your time off, all of which you had decided not to open:

[Gavi]: Good luck on your exam Doctora.

[Gavi]: Frenkie ripped his knee open today during training. It was nasty as fuck. You would have thought it was cool.

[Gavi]: Sevilla is so fucking cold I can't stand it.

[Gavi]: Did you see the injuries during today's match? You're going to be busy on Monday.

[Gavi]: Say hi to Martin for me and the boys

[Gavi]: Tomorrow morning I need you to remove my back and give me a new one

"Yes Gavi, because I was busy," you breathed out as you opened your office door. Gavi walked in behind you, taking your coffee and bag from your hands to place them in their usual spots. "I gave you my personal number for emergencies. If you keep texting me status updates about your life, I will demote you back to email only. Why is your shirt off?"

"Because you're gonna work on my back, which you would know if you read my messages. Besides, don't lie, you love my little updates."

You pulled your hair up, grabbing clean gloves and some muscle warming lotion as you approached a shirtless Gavi, who had laid himself across your table. Despite not opening them, you had to admit that the messages made a feeling of warmth spread through your chest. Someone on the team was thinking about you, and he had remembered the things you were interested in. You could just barely admit this to yourself, but you would never say it out loud to Gavi. God forbid he ever found out that you enjoyed his presence.

"No one likes them, given that you send them to me rather than your friends."

From his position on his stomach, he looked over his shoulder at you.

"Are we not friends, y/n?"

"I'm not sure, Gavi. We could be if you stopped hating me."

"I don't hate you. I think."

The statement made your cheeks heat up slightly for reasons unknown to you. Instead of focusing on this, you squeezed some of the gel onto Gavi's lower back, an area that consistently gave him trouble. It was odd to hear that Gavi considered the two of you friends. Hell, it was weird to hear that he didn't hate you. Despite him treating you more politely, he never gave you the impression that he enjoyed your presence outside of the fact that you repaired his aching body. Well, that, and the fact that he was sending you daily updates about the team, most of which were not related to work at all. You spread the gel around the area, giving it a moment to heat up before you started working the muscle.

"So how did your exam go?" Gavi asked, laying on his folded hands. It was 7:40am, and he was susceptible to falling asleep unless he maintained a conversation. He also needed something to focus on besides the feeling of your hands on him. There was that damn feeling again: the ache in his chest, the goosebumps on his arms, the feeling like he wanted to run out the room and off the roof. He had no clue what is was about you that made him feel like he was on the verge of exploding. He would deny it if anyone asked, but he felt himself start to get hard every time you put your hands on him. Maybe Pedri was right and he was severely touch starved.

"It went amazing. I was a little scared about the technical test, because I can't really lift more than 60 kilos, so if we had to use the spine board it might have been a problem. But it was a stomach injury, so it was pretty easy. Passed with a 93%."

Your hands moved around Gavi's lower back, and he was letting out sharp breaths of pain.

"Muscle tension?"

"No actually. Your gloves... you know what it's fine I'll live keep going."

"No no. Gavi I don't want to hurt you. Tell me what's the issue."

"Well.. Your gloves are getting caught on the hair of my lower back, and you're pulling on it. I don't really know what you can do about that but that's what hurts."

You looked down at your gloved, realizing the mix of latex and gel had ripped a couple hairs out of Gavi.

"I can go wash my hands and do this without gloves. I'll be right back."

Before Gavi could protest to your bare hands massaging him, you had thrown your gloves away and let the room, washing your hands across the hall and returning. You repositioned yourself to lean over Gavi and began working the muscles in his lower back, your hands digging into his skin. Gavi was now, for the second time in two weeks, seething with anger in your office, because he was about to get hard in front of you from the most platonic touches. He didn't want you to think he was a teenage slave to his hormones. He wanted to show that he was cool and in control (even if in reality he was falling apart under your fingers).

"So how was the beach?" He asked. He knew he shouldn't. He knew you two weren't close enough for him to be asking. Gavi didn't even want to hear the answer - you looked like you were so happy, and the thought of you being happy with another man made him sick. He told himself it was because a boyfriend would make you less available for the team, but the reasoning was weak at best. But he knew the disappointment of hearing about your date would make him flaccid and riled up for training, so he let his lips utter the question that had bothered him for days.

"The beach? Or my date?" You asked, pressing harder into his lower back. The thought of Martin brought you warm sunshine feelings normally, but when Gavi asked, it made you feel nervous - embarrassed. Like you had done something wrong or shameful.

"Either. Both. Did you have a good time?"

You took a deep breath, allowing the memories of Saturday to fill your lungs.

"Honestly, it was great, Gavi, the best date I've been on in so long. The beach was gorgeous, and he seemed to really like me, which is more than I can say about the other guys I've been out with."

He clutched the plush bed tighter, arm veins becoming more pronounced.

"Have you been on dates with a lot of guys here?"

You paused your motions. Usually, you would respond with a sarcastic remark, asserting your dominance and your ability to date whoever you wanted. But Gavi's eyes showed that he wasn't being judgmental like the previous week - he was genuinely curious.

"Yeah like a dozen since I moved back. They've all sucked. Like majorly - they think I'm dumb and looking for a sugar daddy, or they just want to have sex. Or both actually. But Martin was so sweet to me. Every other date I've been on, the guy tried to kiss me or squeeze my thighs. The most physical thing Martin did was hold my hand."

In your dreamy recount of your date, you had lost track of what you were doing with your hands. The medical muscle treatment had shifted towards a much more intimate massage, with your hands lingering slightly too long on sections of Gavi's lower back. This was not helping his tenting issue, and neither was the mental image you were painting. He squeezed his eyes shut, focused on stopping the blood flow to his dick, but instead he pictured you in a swimsuit holding someone's hand. Holding his hand. His eyes shot open and he pushed him up, startling you in the process.

"Sorry, I don't know why I did that." He said, leaning back down and letting you keep working.

"I know I probably shouldn't be giving you this much information about my personal life, but you're not gonna tell on me, are you Gavi?" You asked, winking at him. Why would you do that? Did you hate him? Were you purposely trying to get him hard?

"Of course not, doctora. It's nice to hear you talk about something else besides how shit my muscles are." You continued rambling about your date and about Martin while Gavi listened intently, erection now fully gone, much to his satisfaction. You listed off all the good things you experienced that day, from the feel of the sand to the taste of your drink. As you finished up, Gavi had his eyebrows scrunched together (more than usual).

"You look like you want to say something, so just say it."

"Do you like him?"

The question caught you off guard (much like everything else Gavi had done that day) as you moved to get some paper towels to wipe the gel off Gavi's back.

"He's a great guy and he likes me a lot, so I think I would like to see where things go."

Gavi held out his hand, preferring to wipe himself down. He had just recovered from your touch, and was not eager to have another exchange like that again. He looked at you critically with one eyebrow lifted.

"Tch, you're not listening to the question. I'm sure he's very nice. But I'm asking about you, y/n. Do you like him?"

Looking down, you wiped your hands and pressed your lips together. This conversation had gotten a lot deeper than the ones you and Gavi normally got into. But there was something about the boy in front of you that made your heart soften, urging you to open up to him. Maybe it was the memory of his drunken state and how burdened he seemed. Maybe it was the boyish innocence that he carried, still resilient despite the sin that accompanied being rich and famous so young. There was just something about Gavi that, despite him being immature and infuriating, made you feel safe.

"I don't know. I don't think I can let myself like him before I'm sure that he wants to be with me for the right reasons."

Gavi had never seen you like this. You were one of the most confident people he knew, always walking with your head up and shoulders back. Now, your head hung forward, and despite you standing, it looked like you wanted to curl yourself into a ball. Your eyes were unfocused, as if you were remembering something you would rather forget.

"I understand that."

If Gavi kept surprising you like this, you were going to need your own physio.

"Understand what?"

"Wanting people to like you for the right reasons. Not wanting someone to be interested in you because of your body or your money or your name, but for who you are as a human being."

Your eyes met his hazel ones, holding his gaze. There was something that neither of you were saying, but you both felt. It was a pain that you couldn't explain with words - you either knew what it was like to be an object or you didn't. Feeling the mood weigh heavier on the both of you, you decided it was time to lighten things back up.

"That was really deep Gavi. I didn't know middle schoolers could be so philosophical."

Gavi groaned, cracking a smile in the process. He had gotten up, slipping his shirt over his head, working on getting his shoes back on as well.

"You know good and well that I'm 18, not a middle schoolers. If you want more proof, go ask your mom."

"My mom is an elementary school teacher."

This caused both of you to lose it, gripping your sides in laughter. You looked over at Gavi, watching the way his eyes crinkled and body shook with each laugh. You liked seeing him smile (it finally gave those eyebrows a break).

You and Gavi exited your office, walking to the field together. You would be observing their training to get used to assessing on field injuries with Antonio, another physio assistant. He had graduated from the same program as you, and had been assisting Dr. G for the least 3 years. He had been recruited by Manchester City, and would be moving to England at the end of the season, creating a need to impart all his wisdom on you.

Gavi ran onto the field giddy with excitement. He loved his teammates and all the friends he made at La Masia, but he had a hard time making other friends the more famous he got. Every time he liked a photo or followed someone on Instagram, there would be news articles and headlines reading that he had a wife. He felt comfortable around you, and despite meeting you through his work, you didn't have an obligation to like him in order to win trophies. It started that warm and fuzzy feeling again.

"Gavi, nice of you to join us. You'll be with Ferran and Christensen. Pedri, Lewandowsky, and Kounde, you'll be the other team. It will be precision training."

Ferran sauntered up to Gavi, phone and bottle in hand. As they waited for Christensen to join them, Ferran unlocked his phone and held it up to Gavi. It was a picture of you (seemingly from your private Instagram) this weekend at the beach, sitting on the sand and looking behind you. Your glasses sat at the top of your head as you glanced over your shoulder at the camera.

"In those scrubs, could you ever tell that our little nurse has such a heavenly ass?"

Gavi wished he couldn't hear. Or that Ferran didn't have a mouth to speak. He glared at him and brought his phone up, pressing the side button and making the screen go dark.

"She let you follow her on Instagram and this is what you do? Show her private pictures to the whole team?"

Gavi tried his best to hide the hurt in his voice at the fact that you had yet to follow him, hating that Ferran, nasty as he was to you, got special treatment.

"Oh no, Martin sent this screenshot to me. She hasn't accepted me as a follower yet. And not everyone gets to see - just you, because I know you've been waiting for her to let you hit. Oh and maybe Pedri if you let him."

Gavi wanted to step on Ferran's smug face with his cleats. But what really angered him was Martin. Why was he sharing private photos of you with anyone who asked? Needless to say, Gavi was on fire for the rest of practice, being extra physical with all the boys. He was throwing himself at the ball, scrapping the exposed skin on his arms on almost every play. After five rounds, Gavi's arm had gotten past scrapes and began to bleed, leading to Xavi stopping the drill and calling you over to bandage up the ragefully aggressive boy.

"Hey nurse y/n." Ferran called out, leaning against one of the goal posts.

"Stop calling me a nurse Ferran before I hurt you so bad you're eating through a tube." You were tired of Ferran's remarks from the day you started. The longer you worked with the team, the less they bothered you.

"There's that fire that I love. How was the beach? Do anything...hot?"

Gavi tried to turn around and glare at Ferran, but you gripped his arm tightly, instructing him not to move while you bandaged it.

"Yeah I did actually. I called your dad and almost gave him a son he actually loves, but I decided not to hurt your mom like that." The boys all snickered at your comment. Ferran leaned into Pedri, showing him the picture as well, much to Gavi's displeasure.

"I bet it's bubblegum pink - and I'm not talking about the swimsuit."

You didn't hear what Ferran had said, only Pedri's response of "you're sick dude". The bleeding boy in front of you had. This time you couldn't hold Gavi back, and he turned around fully to smack the phone out of Ferran's hand.

"What's your problem Hermano?" Ferran said, hostility apparent in his voice.

"You're giving me a headache."

"Sounds like a personal issue. y/n, on Thursday after Pedrito tucks Gavi into bed, all the adults are going to the club to celebrate the hopeful win against Espanol. Care to join?"

You pinched Gavi on the arm to keep him from turning around to respond to Ferran's comments about his age. You knew age was a sore spot, but you really needed to make sure his elbow was bandaged properly, and him constantly rotating wasn't helping.

"I'm not sure it's appropriate for me, as a member of staff, to be going out with a group of players. I'm not trying to get in trouble."

Pedri had approached you at this point, draping an arm around Gavi and leaning against him.

"Martin will be there, so you won't be out with the players. You'll be out with the guy you're seeing, and the players will just happen to be there. You should come - you'll get bottle service for free."

Gavi prayed you would say no. He prayed you would be responsible and say that you needed to go home and rest, as you clocked into work at 7:30am. Despite Ferran's taunting, Gavi would also be at the club, and the idea of you seeing him while he was drunk made him queasy. He was already off-putting to some people while sober, so he didn't want to undo the closeness he had achieved with you today with a shot of tequila.

"If Martin's going to be there, I don't see why not. I would love to see what Pedri looks like when confronted by a bottle service girl."

You finished bandaging Gavi's arm, and heard Xavi yelling that this was practice, not school lunch, and everyone got back to their places on and off the field.

The rest of the week passed by rather uncharacteristically. No intense injuries. No texts from Gavi to meet him for an early morning session. It really was just a normal 9-5 job. On Thursday, Barca played at home against Espanol, winning 2-0, with goals from Dembele and Gavi in the second half. Only one head collision between Araujo and another player, so you go to stay on the sides and enjoy the game. At the end, the players came to the sidelines to thank the fans for their support. You watched as Gavi removed his shirt, tossing it to a little girl at the front of the audience, her dad protecting her immediately from the rabid fans around her. You were brought out of your trance by two arms around your waist, lifting you up, causing you to let out a small scream.

"Ready to party bonita?" Ferran's voice asked uncomfortably close to your ear. Upon being put down, you grabbed your medical bag and rushed off the field, eager to get away from the player that felt too comfortable touching you whenever he pleased. Pedri watched you run off from the corner of his eye and turned to Ferran, giving him a side eye for the actions.

You drove home with music blasting over the speakers. It was a great stress relief (even if it encouraged you to speed). You showered and got dressed, excited to get to see some of the boys out in the wild, not only in the secluded space that was Camp Nou. You slipped into a black dress, hair half pulled up, and your makeup done dark and smoky - typical for a night out. A knock at your door made you finally stop admiring your own reflection, and you found Martin in front of you, a black t-shirt hugging his torso, coupled with those dreadful skinny cargo pants in army green (you know the ones that Spanish men love).

"Good evening beautiful. Let me take a look at you." He grabbed your hand spinning you slowly, and taking in every curve the dress hugged.

"Ready to go?" You asked, trying to step into the hallway and close the door to your apartment. He placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you.

"Not quite. You look absolutely stunning, don't get me wrong, but I don't think it's a good idea for you to go out dressed like that. It's a little too revealing, and if anyone were to take pictures of us together, I would want them to think you're my girl, not just someone dancing half naked in the club trying to get a footballer."

You felt a pit develop in your stomach. You had never been told by a man to go change for a night out. This is how you had always dressed, feeling confident in yourself and your ability to look put together without looking cheap. You were ready to tell Martin to fuck off, but you thought back to university. You had dressed this way back then too, and all anyone ever wanted was to sleep with you. Maybe he was right - your clothes were giving off the wrong impression. You stepped inside to change, substituting your dress for a pair of high waisted jeans and a corset top with long sleeves.

"Even better." He said, kissing you on the cheek and leading you out of the building.

'Maybe this is what men want,' you thought to yourself as you strapped into Martin's car and plugged in your phone, queuing several songs that you knew would be Martin-approved.

The line at the club was ridiculously long given that people had to go to work the following morning, but Martin explained that word had gotten out about the footballers frequenting this establishment, and so every girl and all her wannabe WAG friends would flock here after a home game to try and get a glimpse of the million euro boys. Martin shook hands with one of the bouncers, who gave you a once over before leading you both to the VIP section. The Barca boys were already there, not running late because of last minute outfit changes.

The older players had their own section where they sat with their partners, speaking with each other as much as they could over the thump of the speakers. The younger players had the more obvious section that overlooked the rest of the club. Pedri noticed you first, looking away from the bottle service girl he was talking to and waving you over. The closer you got, the more you could see the waitress fidgeting and blushing, overwhelmed by the fact that Pedri was whispering their order into her ear (because the music was loud. no other reason). Gavi sat on the seat next to him, legs spread and arms crossed, looking utterly uninterested until his eyes landed on you. He sat up straighter, wondering if it was ok to come up to you and greet you given that you were with another man. As he thought, someone else beat him to it.

"Martin! Good to see you Hermano. Always great when you join us, especially with something pretty on your arm."

You stopped yourself from responding to Ferran, looking at Martin instead. You didn't know much about men, but there was an assumption that most of them didn't like it when other guys made suggestive remarks at the girls they were with. But the anger never came - only a laugh from Martin before joining hands with Ferran to great him. You look a seat beside Gavi, with Martin on your right. He waved the bottle service girl over, still red as a tomato from taking Pedri's order, and started requesting bottles while placing a hand on your lower thigh, rubbing gentle circles into the skin there.

Gavi followed Martin's fingers with his eyes, tracing the same circles with his vision and damn near going cross-eyed. His body filled with heat despite the fact that he had not yet consumed a drop of liquor. There was something about the possessive grip Martin had, coupled with the nervous way you sat with your hands folded, that upset Gavi. Soon enough there were bottles on tables, and shots were being poured.

"What'll you have baby? Don Julio or Azul?"

"I'm actually not drinking. I have to be at work in the morning" You replied, and Gavi went to remove the shot glass from in in front of you, but Martin stopped him.

"What do you mean you're not drinking? Come on you're out and we got bottles, you have to drink. I'm pouring you a shot of Don Julio. Better take it or I'm leaving you here." Martin said with a slight laugh in his voice. You picked up the shot glass reluctantly. You didn't drink on weeknights, but you didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Gavi leaned into you ear.

"You don't have to take it if you don't want to. He's not in charge of you or what you drink."

You looked over at Gavi, silently thanking him for the encouragement, but felt the cool of the glass against your lips. You looked over at Martin, who licked his lips and gazed at you with hooded eyes. Maybe this is what you needed to be doing - loosening up with the guys you went out with. Maybe it was your uptight nature that made people want to fuck you until you went soft, never sticking around to put the pile of mush back together. You knocked back the shot, reeling from the burn.

"There you go. Good job." You giggled slightly at the praise, leaning into Martin's side. Gavi was not happy. He hadn't known you your whole life, but the three months you had been at Barca showed him fundamentals about your personality. One of them was that you did what you wanted, and didn't let anyone sway you when you were set. Allowing Martin to persuade you into doing things you didn't want to made Gavi uneasy, but he said nothing, knocking back his own shot and leaning back onto the couch. He knew the alcohol would start to damped all his emotions, making the anger and other unnamed feelings more bearable.

Martin had one hand around you, whispering into your ear about nothing in particular, just pleasantries: how good you looked in your jeans, how you pretty you were under the club lights, how nice it was to see you again. The sweet words and the alcohol in your bloodstream made everything slightly hazy and rose tinted. But you weren't relaxed. On the contrary, the panic started to set in at the fact that you were not completely with it in a place full of strangers. This was only made worse by the fact that Martin had poured you another shot, holding it up once again. This time he wasn't even asking, just pushing the glass to your lips waiting for you to oblige.

"Hermano, stop pushing drinks on her." You heard from your other side. Gavi had now pushed himself up from the couch, standing above you almost threateningly. Martin looked up at him and scoffed.

"Listen poquito Pablo. When the adults are speaking, learn to shut up." He looked back down at you, shot glass still raised for you to drink from. His eyes were now angrier and more expectant - like the only way to prove to Pablo that the two of you were happy together was to take the shot. You tried to grab the glass from his hand, but he tutted and moved his hand away: he wanted to feed it to you.

"I might go get something else. I'm not a huge fan of tequila."

"No one is a fan of tequila, bonita. We're just trying to have a good time."

Gavi closed the gap between him and Martin at this point, causing everyone in the group to stand. Pedri disconnected his eyes from the bottle service girl and grabbed Gavi's shoulder, hoping to hold back his outburst. Martin stood, lifting you off the couch with him. He put one arm around your waist, pulling you in close. He then looked Pablo dead in the eyes and took the shot himself.

"Watch the way you speak to your superiors, Cabron. Come on bonita, lets get you a more suitable drink."

He shoved past Gavi with you in tow, walking through past the VIP security and towards the general bar. You looked back over your shoulder at Gavi, who was obviously fuming. Pedri went to stand in front of him, blocking his path in case he decided to retaliate.

"Did you hear what he said to me? I should-"

"You should sit down and not make a scene." Pedri said, looking Gavi in the eye. "Martin wont be coming out with us again, but if you get kicked out of the club, you'll be in deep shit. And you'll worry y/n."

"Why would I care-"

"You just do. Don't make her more anxious than she already is. Sit. Relax. Have one more shot if you want - one, Gavi. Control yourself."

Pedri took his seat again, and the bottle girl came back for them to continue whatever pseudo-flirting they were engaged in.

At the bar, you weren't doing too hot. You thought Martin just wanted to get you away from an uncomfortable encounter, but he seemed intent on getting you to drink. His arm was still tight around your waist as he ordered two Long Islands from the bartender (for all my dear readers that don't drink, that is a mix of rum, tequila, triple sec, gin, and vodka with a splash of cola. Probably the most alcohol you can get in one cocktail). Your stomach dropped further. You didn't usually drink. You hated the feeling of being drunk, and hated more the feeling of not being in control of yourself. But Martin was looking at you like you were the stars that filled the sky as he handed you the glass, clinking his against it, and you couldn't say no. You wanted to keep him happy.

So you sipped, slowly and nervously, as he stood behind you, arms around your waist and swaying to the beat of the music. Ferran had also approached the bar, making conversation with Martin as you tried not to let your distress become visible on your face. The song changed to something more base-y and seductive, and the grip around your waist tightened.

"Come on, bonita. I want to see how you move for me."

You were grateful to be parted from your drink as you were pulled onto the dancefloor, bodies trapping you against your date. You swayed your hips to the beat, allowing yourself to be taken by the feeling of the music. Marin turned you to face him, resting his arms around your lower back, and resting his forehead against yours. It felt good: being able to look at him rather than the other club goers. You felt the occasional brush against your ass (you assumed from Ferran), but worked on steadying yourself. The alcohol was now hitting your system, causing you to become less stable on your feet. Maybe you couldn't handle liquor as well as you thought.

Gavi was back in the booth preparing to take a 4th shot, despite clear instructions from Pedri to stop at 2. The bouncer had said his ID was fake despite letting him in the previous week. The bottle girls, who were blushing and flirting with the other team members, talked to Gavi like he was ordering from the kids menu. And now, his final straw - Martin. "Cabron" didn't bother him. It was a common phrase on the field, usually an indication he was doing well. But it was "poquito" and all the other references to being a child that got under his skin. Children didn't drink - adults did. That's what Gavi was doing, finishing his fourth with no chaser. The alcohol was calming him, making him less likely to punch someone in the face.

He had undone the first button of his shirt and sat on the sofa with his legs spread. He was about to tell the bouncer to let a pretty young thing into the VIP to keep him entertained, when he saw you struggling to walk on the outer edges of the crowd. He should have stayed seated. You were here with your... what was Martin? A date? A boyfriend? Whatever he was, he was meant to be looking after you, not Gavi. Gavi was supposed to be having fun, taking shots and dancing with girls. But he wasn't. He was pushing himself off the couch to go and see why you were walking around shaky and alone.

"Where are you going?" He asked, grabbing onto your shoulders.

"I'm trying to find the bathroom. I feel shaky and nauseous."

"Where is Martin? He didn't offer to take you home?"

"With Ferran. He said to come find him when I feel better. It's fine, he doesn't have to leave because of me." You stumbled forward with that last sentence, being stabilized by Pablo (who, while drunk, was doing better than you). He walked you into the bathroom of the club, helping you lean over the sink and splash some water over your face. He delicately gathered your hair in one hand, keeping it away from the faucet. He looked at the top of your back, shoulder blades peaking out the top. Without thinking he brought his other hand to rest there, rubbing gentle circles into your back as you tried to calm your nausea and anxiety.

"I'm sorry that Martin swore at you." You said, meeting Gavi's eyes through the mirror.

"Don't apologize for him. He's an ass for trying to make you drink. He's an ass for letting you walk around while drunk."

You got up from the sink, turning to face Gavi. His hand slid from your back now to grip your arm. He looked you straight in the eye, despite his vision being foggy at the edges from the shots.

"Don't say that about him, Gavi. Be respectful."

"Why?" The question came out as a yell, startling you slightly.

"Why do i need to respect him when he's cursing me out and treating you like shit? Because I'm younger than him?"

"No one said anything about your age Gavi."

"Why do you keep making excuses for him?"

It was the question you were scared of. The question that lingered in the back of your own mind even before leaving Gavi's lips. Martin was pushing you far outside of your comfort zone, in a way that you hadn't allowed anyone to before.

"He likes me, Gavi. He wants to see where things go. I think I want that too. I've been living my life one way until this point, but obviously it's not working. I have trouble getting close to people," your eyes were welling with tears, "and even when I do get close to them, I can never keep them in my life. No one wants to be around me. So if Martin does, I have to try, don't I?"

Gavi felt a pang in his chest, right where his heart was. It broke him to see you like this - shaking and in tears in a club bathroom, while the man you were trying to impress was probably grinding on other girls. Gavi told himself it had nothing to do with you specifically, just fairness. You were objectively a good person, and you deserved to be treated well by everyone around you. He tugged your shoulder, bringing you in for a tight embrace. You tucked your head into his shoulder, allowing your tears to fall more freely now that he couldn't see you. Something in you began to calm. It was like Gavi had flipped a switch. Your shaking gradually decreased, and you no longer felt like throwing up your internal organs.

"It's because you're a good person."

"What?" Gavi replied, unable to decipher your mumblings while you spoke into his shoulder. You separated from him and looked him in the eyes.

"I don't want you to say things like that about Martin because you're a good person. It just... feels wrong to watch you be a typical rude and angry man. It doesn't fit you."

Gavi let out a breathy laugh, moving away from you and towards the door.

"A lot of people would disagree with you. Being angry is my defining quality."

"On the field maybe. But don't bring that into your real life. I like you how you are."

There was that feeling again. Gavi could try and blame the alcohol, but this was different. It was like there was a match lit right under his skin, burning him from the inside, making it hard for him to breathe - hard to not touch you. Maybe he need help. Or to stop drinking.

"You know I could never be angry with you doctora."

___

You woke up the following morning on the couch of your apartment. You were still in your clothes and makeup from the night before. Your phone was dead and on the coffee table in front of you. You started to recall the night before in bits and pieces, with your interaction with Gavi being the most vivid. You set your phone to charge, going to wipe off the makeup from last night. You wracked your brain trying to remember how you got home. A part of you hoped it was Gavi that brought you there. For safety reasons (nothing else ofc). No one would come near you while walking with Gavi.

As your phone came back on, you heard the *ding* of about 80 messages. You finished washing your face and headed over to check.

[Martin Zubimmendi]: Sad that you didn't invite me in last night. Hope to see you again soon Bonita xx

[Gavi]: Text me when you get up so I know you're alive.

[Gavi]: Are you coming in today?

[Dr. Gonzalez]: Please call me immediately about missing this morning's shift.

It was only after reading that last one that you looked at the time. 10:41am. You had missed all of the morning activities at the camp.

"Good morning Dr. Gonzalez! You wanted me to call?"

"The morning is almost over, miss. I was informed by Pablo this morning that you were at an appointment and not to expect you until noon. Please note it is not appropriate to have the players relay messages for you. In the future, please communicate with me directly about any hours you will miss."

You unclenched your jaw, relived over the fact that you still had a job.

"Yes sir. I apologize. I'll speak with you directly next time. See you at noon."

You ran to get changed, and as you waited for your coffee to brew, you texted your savior.

[You]: you're actually the best friend on the planet. Thank you for covering for me.

[Gavi]: 1. I know I'm the best and 2. You owe me

[You]: anything you want

[Gavi]: famous last words doctora

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I'm hoping the length will keep y'all at bay for a few days. I have been feeling kinda crappy about myself for the last few days, which is why I have missed some of the prompt challenge. Reading messages and comments from y'all has made me feel better, so thanks <3 I am going to make the parts longer from now on to avoid the story being like 25 parts. Please feel free to leave any feedback/ comments. I love hearing from y'all (bonus points if you also say y'all).

Songs I listened to while writing this: Often (the Weeknd), Starboy (the Weeknd), Baby (madison beer), Primadonna (marina & the diamonds), CALL ME BACK (Chase Atlantic), Test me (Melanie Martinez), The Eve (EXO), Sneakers (Knox), Okay (Chase Atlantic), 18 (Anarbor), FOOLS (troye sivan), The A Team (Ed Sheeran), Disasterology (PTV), You're on your own kid (Taylor Swift), Ya'burnee (Halsey), Emergency contact (PTV), A match into water (PTV), Josslyn (olivia o'brien), Anti-hero (Taylor Swift), English love affair (5sos), needy (ariana grande), if you can't hang (Sleeping with Sirens), Talk me down (troye sivan), Young God (Halsey), mockingbird (eminem), would've could've should've (taylor swift), Can I (kehlani), Mary on a cross (Ghost), Happier (ed sheeran), Roman Holiday (Halsey), Dangerous woman (ariana grande), Devil in me (Halsey), lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off (P!ATD), funeral (pheobe bridgers).

*~*Taglist*~*

@l0verl4ne @vibinwkay @anastasia-nova @mxgvmiii @mads-grace4 @bubblebeep69 @katluckybear @scuderiabarca @alwaysclassyeagle

*pls let me know if you want to be added

#pablo martín páez gavira #pablo gavi slow burn #pablo gavi x reader #pablo gavi imagine #pablo gavi #gavi x reader #gavi #gavi x you #gavi fluff #fc barca #footballer imagine #footballer #pablo gavi fluff #gavi fic #pablo gavi fanfiction #gavi fanfic #gavisuntiedboot

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hemeruni · 5 months

Text

Restless

Summary: An overworked fox finds comfort in someone she would’ve never expected… AT NIGHT!!!

Parings: Hemeruni (Hem/Uni)

A/N: So it’s been a bit, huh? Seriously I haven’t been doing so hot as of late, so I decided to finally sit down and get this piece of fiction sent out for… god knows who. When you want something, it’s best that you do it yourself.

Before Reading: This is my first time really WRITING something like this, so I hope the characters don’t seem TOO out of character, Uni is probably written off… and Hemera doesn’t really have that much dialogue… but I hope you enjoy it!!

Hemera is commonly known by her peers as 'busy.' It’s rare to ever see her doing anything in her off time besides her usual routine of garden work. This behavior stretches all the way into the late hours of early morning, as she works away at splicing new hybrids. It’s what makes her happy at the end of the day, so it’s wrong to assume that this behavior is a bad thing.

Tonight isn’t any different however, as she continues to use her few somewhat peaceful hours to work on her passion. That nightly silence would grind to a halt, as the sound of a few knocks ring at her door. The fennec is confused, but she brushes it off as a simple mind trick. After another minute the knocks would continue, only then she would hear a familiar voice from the opposite side-

"Hey, bro! I was wondering if you were still up for some local Co-Op!"

Their pattern of speech, the usage of the word 'bro', it could only be one person… Uni.

"I know that late hour exp grinding isn’t your cup of tea, bro. But we haven’t had a good bro-on-bro conversation in a good while!"

The fox would walk closer to the door, hesitant to let the dogcorn in. She’s right, they really haven’t hung out as 'friends' for a good while now, but the suddenness of it all worries her. Her mind drifts off, knowing that whatever actions she chooses next may lead to some kind of bad omen. But, with a heavy sigh, she unlocks the door, choosing to be a good friend rather than worrying about their safety.

Hem opens the door, greeting the dogcorn on the other side.

"…Surely what you want is important, but the timing of this interaction could’ve been… better, to say the least."

"Well, bro, I didn’t think you’d be afk long enough for a dialogue exchange if I asked during the morning. So… is that a yes on the side quest?"

Now that Hemera had a clear visual of Uni, it seemed that her somewhat composed structure has mysteriously disappeared. It was awkward, and it seems like both of them knew this. Instead of mustering up a response, Hem would simply nod her head, as she would usher the puppycorn into her room.

————————————

Awkward silence flooded into the room as the two sat down. It seemed like the planned 'side quest' wasn’t properly thought out by the Dogcorn, which only made her even more nervous. It wasn’t like her to do something of this caliber, but the real reason she was here was eating away at her. She begins to speak, preparing for what potentially could come next.

"So uh, bro, I don’t know how to explain this without some sort of strategy guide, but I’ve been… uh… fuck, bro-"

The dogcorns gamer lingo was bleeding more and more into her speech patterns as she spoke, but what Hemera really took note of was her horn… it had changed.

"Well, bro, recently I’ve been seeing you as… more than a bro, bro. You’ve made some challenging levels a whole lot easier bro, like some sort of Game Genie. So, bro… I was wondering if… you wanna squad up sometime… as something more?"

What felt like an awkward silence slowly became a comforting feeling, as the fox quickly pulled the dogcorn into a hug, a sign that the feelings were mutual between the two. It was a rare sight, but for what felt like a long while… The fox had something to smile about.

The hug felt like a lifetime had passed between the two. What made the night even special for the dogcorn however was the direct aftermath-

Hemera had fallen asleep in her arms.

(A/N: Yeah! Of course it was kinda short, and yes this wasn’t the original concept for the story, but I finally had enough motivation to at least push THIS out! Once again, sorry if this isn’t the greatest, but I do hope you find some enjoyment out of it!!!)

#my art #fanfic #long post #sparklecare #hemeruni #hemera philly #uni cornelius #reblogs are greatly appreciated with this!!!

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bluebeetle · 1 year

Text

You’re flesh and blood, but what’s underneath?

AO3 Link

15k words.

Summary:

Three years in the life of one Tyki Mikk, from his brother’s Noah awakening to his own.

-- “Do you hate our father, Tyki?” Sheril asked.

Tyki paused, hand lingering over the glass he had been about to clean. “No,” he said, and he found it wasn’t a lie. Perhaps once he had, but that hatred had cooled after the years to indifference--even if a part of him still wanted to paint the walls with that man's blood.

But he felt that way about a lot of people, Sheril included, so their father wasn’t special.

Warning for animal death, blood, gore, abusive themes.

It was uncharastically cold that winter.

Living by the Mediterranean usually guaranteed a warm December, with the weather rarely even approaching freezing. His mother had told him that a cold winter was an ill omen, as frost swept across the country during the worst nights, bringing only death.

Tyki hadn’t thought much of it--his mother was a superstitious woman most of the time. But as he traveled out into the city, bundled up like never before, he sure wasn’t grateful for the chill. At least the snow had held off--unlike some of the inland towns, according to the gossip he overheard from shivering lips.

Cold as it was, while they had been burning more wood and oil than usual, they were doing fine; he didn’t know why his mother worried so much. It was long past harvest time, with Christmas fast approaching.

Which brought him to the market--sheltered in an old church for the winter, where it was just a little warmer than the streets. He frowned at the list, written out in his mother’s too-fancy writing. Why did she have to make it so hard for him to read? But he wouldn’t remember it anyways, and his mother was always scared he’d forget how to read, or something. Better than nothing.

“Tyki! I was worried when I didn’t see you yesterday,” Isabel greeted, as Tyki approached her stand. There wasn’t much available this time of the year--mostly things that kept well, like dried meats, jarred vegetables, and handmade goods. He had already stopped at the general store, but his mother had asked for a few extra things, and with Christmas coming up…

“Something came up with the Kamelots, so we had to deal with it,” Tyki said, watching as she packaged the dried meats for him carefully; she knew his order by heart.

“I see, you’ve become such a busy young man,” Isabel continued, her hand out for Tyki’s money. He gave her the few escudo coins he had left. Money was always tight, but his mother was good at budgeting. They managed. Isabel handed him the meat, a soft smile on her face.

“Um… this is too much,” he said, blinking. He turned the package around in his hands, the paper crinkling as he inspected it.

“Consider it a present,” Isabel replied. “For Christmas, and your birthday.”

Tyki blinked. ��Thanks,” he said, giving a casual wave goodbye.

“And tell your mother I said Merry Christmas!”

The Kamelot manor was quiet when Tyki returned. He squeezed past the gates, heading through the dying gardens towards the servants entrance by the kitchen. After dropping off a few things, he headed to the room he shared with his mother, stashing the rest of their shopping away from sticky hands.

He sighed, sitting down for a moment on his bed, staring at his mother’s neatly made one across the room. It wasn’t much of a room, sparsely decorated and much too small now for the two of them, but it was what they had. It was all Tyki had ever known.

But his break was short, as he pulled himself up and out the door. He was sure his mother was busy with her usual housekeeping duties, so he wouldn’t bother her, instead heading to the kitchen once more to clean up, mostly biding his time for the day.

“Tyki,” a scullery maid said--he thought her name was Aurora, maybe--”Can you bring this tray to the sitting room? The Master has some guests over, and I’ve got to get working on helping with dinner.”

Tyki glanced up from the dishes he had been slowly working on, trying to hide his distaste. He hated dealing with the Kamelots; his mother was well aware of his distaste, often sending him off on errands off manor grounds or finding ways for him to avoid being in their presence. It was just for the best, for everyone involved.

But he couldn’t avoid them forever, he knew. And Aurora had probably been told to get him specifically; Lord Kamelot liked to remind Tyki of just where he belonged whenever he could.

“Alright,” he said, giving her a sliver of a smile. It wasn’t her fault.

He dried his hands, movements slow out of pure spite, before he took the tray gently in his hands. The tray was ornate, silver plated, the type of thing Tyki could never afford in his life, even though he was the one who kept it from being tarnished.

He moved through the winding halls of the manor with practiced ease, the building burned into his memory.

Tyki stopped in his tracks at the door to his destination. He could hear voices, light laughter--a mingling of voices familiar and not.

He didn’t want to go in.

It wasn’t fear that kept his feet rooted in place. It was hatred, spite. He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to see that man.

He didn’t want to see his father.

Tyki sucked in a deep breath, cooling his nerves. This was a show of power, Tyki knew, or intended to be a way to get a message across to him, though he wasn’t sure what for. He hadn’t done anything to get his father’s ire recently, as far as he was aware; he had long learned to stay out from under the man’s feet and off his toes, as much as he wished to make the old koot suffer.

Tyki entered the sitting room, as silent as a ghost.

Lord Kamelot was in his usual ornate chair, chatting with his wife. He said nothing as Tyki sat the tray down on the table they were gathered around; normally gatherings like this would have been on the terrace, but the cold weather brought everyone huddling inside by the fire.

His father glanced at him, an uncaring look in his eyes as he met Tyki’s. Tyki returned it with a disinterested glance. He wouldn’t be riled up, he wouldn’t give the man an excuse to get rid of him and his mother.

There was a family Tyki was sure he had seen before opposite Lord Kamelot. The blond woman with them, small and pale looking, seemed familiar, but Tyki didn’t bother with remembering who was who in the world of nobility and socialites. It didn't matter to him.

Tyki turned to leave, his job done, and whatever message his father had been trying to send him ignored.

“Ah, before you leave, stoke the fire, well you?”

Tyki stopped, blowing a curl out of his eyes. His expression stayed flat, despite the frown trying to tug its way onto his lips. “Of course,” he said, curt, turning to face the speaker.

Of course it was Sheril . His brother. His half brother. A blood bond neither was all that happy about. Sheril was as bad as nobility got; egotistical, entitled, and easily enraged. Tyki hated the man more than anything, and he knew it was mutual.

It didn’t matter to Sheril that Tyki was a child, being 7 years his junior, nor did it matter that they shared a father--if anything, that made his ire towards Tyki stronger. Sheril did not get along with most of the servants of the Kamelot household, but he had a special hatred for Tyki, like he had any control over the circumstances of his own birth. It wasn’t his fault Sheril’s father had more than a passing interest in some common maid, all while still married to Sheril’s mother.

Lord Kamelot’s infidelity was an open secret. Tyki was sure there was not one person in the household who didn’t know. The obvious nature of Tyki as a bastard was one thing--his mother still unmarried at her age, too focused on her work and raising her son. That was impossible to hide.

Perhaps, in some alternate world, they would have been able to dance around the topic of who Tyki’s father was, but as it stood it was nearly impossible to--not with how much Tyki was cursed to resemble his father, to resemble Sheril, with the same cool eyes, the same curly dark hair, and the same sun-kissed skin.

Everyone knew. Though his mother rarely spoke of his father in anything but the most professional tones, even Tyki had known from a young age. Sheril hadn’t let him live without that knowledge, had made it clear why he hated Tyki so much from the beginning.

Realistically, Tyki knew it was Sheril’s own faults showing through; misplaced anger about his father’s actions, fear about Tyki somehow swooping in and stealing his inheritance (which Tyki knew that would never happen).

He turned towards the fire, the flames hot against his skin as he grabbed the poker, stoking them higher. He glanced towards Sheril, noting the closeness the man had to the daughter of the family visiting. Ah.

“He seems rather young,” the woman said, voice soft.

Tyki busied himself with cleaning up the ashes, but his ears were always open, prying for information around the home.

“He’s about 16, that’s a perfectly fine working age,” Sheril replied. He was wrong; Tyki was pretty sure he was about 14, almost 15, but Sheril got it wrong so often that Tyki was sure he was doing it on purpose. Or maybe he just cared that little, that such a small detail wasn’t worth even trying to remember.

“He’s the son of one of the unmarried maids; father was kind enough to let them stay here. ” Kind? He was the one who caused the “problem” of her having to deal with a young child by herself. Tyki wasn’t even sure if his mother had been seduced or coerced, considering the power his father had over her as her employer.

“Oh, that’s good,” she said softly.

“Yes. You’ll be seeing him around a lot shortly,” Sheril replied. “He’s our errand boy most of the time.”

Ah. This was a courtship. Was this Sheril’s plan, then? To what, remind Tyki he was the bastard son, and Sheril was the heir apparent? He already knew that, but Sheril probably got some sort of joy from rubbing it in his face.

Perhaps, too, it was to make sure his future wife would remember Tyki as a servant first, not Sheril’s brother. He wondered if she’d even notice the resemblance; it was hard to miss.

But Tyki didn’t bother with the Kamelot's mind games and petty drama. He had long since learned to not rise to the bait, even the subtlest of it, if he could.

So he finished tending the fire in silence, before leaving as silently he came, even with Sheril’s glare burning into his back.

People had asked him, before, if he hated having his birthday on Christmas, but to be honest, Tyki preferred it that way. It was less strain on his mother, since she felt the need for things like gifts, even if Tyki didn’t really see the point.

Christmas morning was always a quiet affair. Focus first was on making sure things were ready for the Kamelot family the night before and in the early hours of the morning. However, by noon, the servants were left alone, allowed to celebrate in their quarters with each other. The cooks, despite the work they had put in and would put in for Christmas dinner, would usually help the scullery maids whip up a smaller, less decadent meal for everyone.

It was the same every year; they’d attend midnight Mass, prepare for the coming morning, and then rest in the afternoon.

Tyki stretched out onto his bed like a cat, giving a sigh of content. With the Kamelot's busy for the day, it was nice to just be able to rest.

“Good afternoon, Tyki,” his mother, Dionísia, said. She was pale, her brown hair tied up tight, only the darkness under her eyes betraying the long hours she worked the day before. She headed towards her bed, just across their shared room, and dug around in her chest. “I have a gift for you.”

She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, but that was normal for her these days. Her movements were slow, wracked with coughs as her frail form was. She had been sick for years by that point, probably around three or four. It was tuberculosis; the white plague was a “good death” they said, but it didn’t feel that way to Tyki, watching her slowly wither away.

Despite her illness, she was still expected to work if both her and Tyki were to stay fed and housed. It made Tyki’s blood boil, but at the very least she was often given work where she could be isolated and keep from spreading the disease, as much as one could anyways.

Supposedly some American had found out it wasn’t genetic and could be prevented with good hygiene. So, Tyki often had to wash his hands due to his close proximity to her, to reduce the risk of getting others in the manor ill. She would always remind him to clean under his nails--always worried about him getting sick.

Tyki sat up, bare feet ghosting the cold wood of the floor. His mother turned back around, revealing a glinting object between her hands.

“A pocket watch?” he said, gingerly picking it up. It was rather plain, so unlike the intricate metal work on the ones he saw his father with.

“Yes. I got a good deal on it. It’s made of brass, and the gears are all nice and cleaned up,” she explained.

He opened it up, greeted with a simple, plain clock face. It ticked away, already wound up by his mother.

“I thought it would be useful; I know you don’t like extravagant gifts,” she said softly. “I was saving up for it all year.”

Tyki nodded, closing it gently. He sat it aside onto his bed, pulling his mother into a hug. She felt cold. He knew, he knew that she had a feeling this could be their last Christmas together. She had been sick for so long, getting so weak… He hadn’t cried in years, but in that moment, he felt like he could sob.

“Thank you.”

“Where’d you get that?”

Tyki sighed, snapping his watch closed. He really did not want to have to deal with Sheril. “Gift. For Christmas.” It was still cold outside, so he had been hoping Sheril wouldn’t come out of the manor. He was wrong, as always.

Sheril quirked an eyebrow at him, looking at his distorted reflection on the watch’s metal. “Did you now?“

“Yes,” Tyki replied, annoyed. “It’s also my birthday, so my mother got me something nice.”

Sheril merely scoffed in disagreement. Whatever. Tyki found Sheril’s watch rather gaudy anyways, with a confusing pattern and an inlaid stone. Ugh.

“She’s probably going to die soon, you know,” Sheril said offhandedly. He wasn’t looking at Tyki.

Tyki gritted his teeth. “I know,” he said. Stay calm, he thought. Don’t rise to the bait.

“Which will be a good thing. I don’t know why we kept her around when she’s coughing blood everywhere,” Sheril continued. Tyki bit back a comment about how Lord Kamelot clearly only did it out of guilt for siring her son and nothing more. “We could all get sick from that filth, and from you too, I bet; Probably got Tricia sick as well.”

“Huh?” Tyki said, glancing over. “Who?” It was a better topic than his mother’s death, even if he really didn’t care. Sheril liked the sound of his own voice. Tyki merely had to play along.

“Tricia. My wife-to-be. Or she was, until he called the whole thing off because she’s apparently seriously ill now,” Sheril hissed, pacing now. Great. Tyki hated it when Sheril decided to rant to him; he had to pretend to care, and it was annoying.

But Sheril was clearly upset, so he had to try. “...I’m sorry. About Tricia,” he ground out.

“Sorry?” Sheril snapped. “It was probably you who got her sick, with your… everything!” he threw his hands up in the air. Sheril was such a child, despite being so much older than Tyki. “And then they called it all off! I couldn’t care less if she dies, that wedding--the power her family has here, all politicians… All of that, lost because she’s a little ill!” Ah. Of course. Why would Tyki expect Sheril to care about anyone but himself?

A sharp sting snapped Tyki out of his thoughts.

“Huh?” he said, rubbing his cheek. Sheril had slapped him. Sheril had slapped him?

“Don’t give me that look,” Sheril hissed, grabbing Tyki’s wrist like he was worried Tyki was going to run. “Like you think I’m nothing.” “I wasn’t--”

“This is all your fault!” Sheril snapped, claw-like nails digging into his skin. Tyki hissed, trying to draw away. Blood pooled where they were connected.

Sheril took in a deep breath, cooling his anger. “I don’t have time for filth like you,” he said, pushing Tyki’s arm away. Like he wasn’t the one who had initiated the contact. Then, he left, back to the relative warmth of inside.

Tyki was alone in the gardens. He was the only one out, with even the gardener and groundskeeper preferring the indoors over the evening chill. He sat on the dying grass, knees to his chest as he glared at the decaying opulence; the wilted rose, the browned hedges, the fountains on the edge of freezing.

He hated this place. He hated everything about it. He leaned back, the buildings stucco rough against his back.

Small squeaking reached his ears, and to his surprise he noticed some brown rats to his left, sniffing at damage to the building.

I should kill them, Tyki thought. Part of it was because he knew how Lord Kamelot would react if he knew there may be rats in his home. But there was another part of Tyki, a darker part, that felt visceral glee at the very idea of it--of adding to the death around him.

He stood slowly, not wanting to spook them. They didn’t seem to notice him before it was too late, his hands scooping up the biggest one. Its brethren ran away, disappearing from his sight, as his prisoner struggled against him, worm-like tail whipping around, its overly long teeth trying to dig into his skin. Sheril’s nails had felt worse.

It would be so easy to break its bones , he thought, to snap its neck and take the thing apart--

His mother didn’t question the blood he washed off his hands when he came back into the kitchen. She merely reminded him to clean under his nails.

Perhaps he could ask the cook about getting live traps in the future.

That would be fun.

The rest of the week passed without any affair. Snow fell, glistening in the low light spilling out from the manor windows. Tyki scrubbed at the porcelain dish in his hand, staring off into the window. How dull , he thought.

He heard Sheril and Aurora just outside the kitchen, visible in the corner of his eye. Sheril was holding his weight on the wall, talking with Aurora in harsh, quiet tones. Tyki couldn’t pick up his words, so moved his attention back to the window.

A mistake, really.

“Master Sheril!” Aurora cried, the man’s stance faltering as he stumbled. His hand caught the kitchen door frame, knuckles white, shaking. Her hands hovered over him, unsure of what to do.

Tyki glanced up from his work, a frown on his face. Was the idiot drunk?

Sheril growled, face flushed red. “I’m fine, I’m fine, let go of me--” he hissed, reaching up to wipe sweat off his brow.

His hand came away red with blood.

“Wh-what?” he gasped, staring at his trembling fingers in horror. Sheril put his full weight on the wall, his breathing ragged with fear and fever.

“I--Tyki, go to town, get a doctor, I’ll get Master Sheril to his room, and tell Dionísia to go get Lord Kamelot and inform him that his son has fallen in,” Aurora said, finally taking charge as she ushered Sheril to his room.

He must be in a lot of shock , Tyki thought, to allow himself to be manhandled by a lowly scullery maid so easily.

Tyki ran out the door. Distaste for his half-brother aside, if he didn’t do anything, god knows how his father would react. It was better to bow for them, as much as it killed Tyki to do so, than get him and his mother thrown out onto the streets.

He really hoped the doctor could help.

Sheril seemed so different in his sleep, his face flush with fever, and twisted slightly in pain as opposed to disgust. Staring down at him, Tyki could see himself in the man more than ever. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t want Sheril to die.

It was an odd thought for him to have. Had someone asked him before, perhaps he would have said he’d celebrate if the man died.

But now…? He supposed mostly it was selfishness that made him worry. If Sheril died, their father would probably send Tyki out on the streets out of grief--his face a living reminder of the child lost. Plus, it would keep Tyki from even thinking he was privy to any of the Kamelot fortune.

And it’d be trouble, too, if Sheril died, dealing with the funeral and everyone else’s grief despite how terrible the man was. Ugh. He’d rather die himself than have to praise Sheril, even in death. ‘ He was such a kind master ’--bullshit, he was a bully and a coward through and through.

Then there was always the worry of more things going wrong; death was always a bad omen, and it seemed to only bring more with it whenever it happened.

Or so his mother always said.

He just hoped he wouldn’t get sick with whatever it was Sheril had caught. Was it some sort of plague? God, that would just be what they needed. The fever looked bad enough, leaving his brother twisting and turning in his sleep… But when Sheril did wake, he complained of the pain, of the aches in his body, of the unclosing wounds on his head.

The wounds themselves made Tyki feel sick. He wasn’t sure why-- blood wasn’t new to him. But the shape of the broken skin was odd, too uniform. He had heard someone call them stigmata--but that was stupid. Sure, his mother dragged him to church every Sunday, but he had never considered himself that strong of a believer.

He doubted this was anything to do with God--nor the devil.

He worked slowly, changing Sheril’s bandages, careful of his brother's sweat slicked and overly sensitive skin. Tyki laid a cool cloth down, watching as it soaked up the bright red blood, before removing it and applying new bandages. Sheril sucked in a sharp breath as he worked, feeling the sting from the water and alcohol, but his eyes stayed closed, even with the rapid movement behind them.

Tyki wondered if his mother would outlive his brother.

Someone was touching him.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. His back ached, unhappy with the position he had been in, curled up uncomfortably on the chair as he was. He had been having a nice dream, of warmer weather in big open wheatfields and being far, far from the Kamelot Manor.

He cracked open his eyes, blinking sleep out of them as his gaze met with Sherils. His brother's hand was on his shoulder as if to shake him awake.

“...Sheril?” he murmured, mouth dry.

The man seemed better; no longer flushed with his fever seemingly down, and his bandages were browned with old blood as opposed to red with fresh--like it had been despite everything they had tried. He was on his feet, even, without assistance (something Tyki was sure hurt his pride in ways he would never recover from).

Tyki thought that he’d be happy Sheril had recovered, or at least feel relief that he wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath of his death. Instead, ice settled in his stomach as he continued to lock eyes with his brother.

Sheril was different.

He looked the same, sure, but there was something about his expression, his eyes--like he had a divine experience. Like his life was forever changed.

Tyki felt shivers down his spine. Something was wrong.

“Sheril?” Tyki repeated.

Sheril’s hand cupped Tyki’s cheek, thumb stroking where his mole was. “You helped watch me?” Sheril said.

Tyki felt like he had made a grave error.

Why had he offered to help Sheril out? At the time it had seeed pragmatic; a way to get into the good graces for his father and to make sure Sheril didn’t die lest all of Tyki’s worries about his own fate come to pass.

“...yes,” Tyki replied, glancing at the door. He moved to stand, but found himself rooted in place. “Should I go get Lord Ka--”

“No, no, no, it’s alright. I’m alright. They already know, the doctor and some visitors were already here. I thought it was best if you keep sleeping.” Sheril’s voice was sickeningly sweet; just like it always was before he was about to hurt Tyki.

Tyki stiffened in the chair, frozen. Sheril’s hand on him felt like it was burning. “...I should go--” he started, trying to move away.

He didn’t get far. Sheril’s hand moved, grabbing at his curls. Sheril smiled and Tyki felt like a fly caught in a web, with Sheril as the starving spider. Sheril tugged, uncaring about--or perhaps even reveling in--Tyki’s pain. “Were you planning something?” he asked. “I bet you’d just love to have me gone, wouldn’t you?”

Tyki glared up at him. “I didn’t do anything to you--” he said, wincing as Sheril tugged harder. “I didn’t! I don’t--I didn’t want you to die!” it felt odd to say that outloud, especially with Sheril smiling at him like that. It only reminded him more of why he avoided the man.

Sheril scoffed at Tyki. His free hand cupped Tyki’s face once more, in that faux caring way that made Tyki’s skin crawl.”Oh, Tyki… I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised with how spineless you are.” He clicked his tongue. “Yet you seem to struggle to understand your place, even now, tsk tsk.”

Tyki frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Do you think you’re better than me?”

“No,” Tyki lied. He kept staring at the door.

Sheril ‘s hand slipped to his chin, using both his hands to force Tyki to meet his eyes. “Oh, Tyki… It occurred to me, how worthless of a person you are,” he said, humming as his hand slipped to Tyki’s throat, but his grip stayed light. Tyki swallowed, his heart hammering in his throat. No one was around, from what he could tell, and if Sheril did try anything, who would believe Tyki over him?

“But,” Sheril continued. “Perhaps I am being too harsh. After all, it’s only natural to worry about your older brother, hrmmm?” Sheril was toying with him, or something--but Tyki didn’t know why.

“...yeah, I guess,” he breathed, voice small.

Sheril let go of him, pulling away. “Don’t come in my room ever again, you understand? I don’t want you around here, or going anywhere that isn’t for the servants without permission.”

“But they said I could--”

“I don’t care about that, you listen to me , alright?” Sheril said, smiling once more, gripping Tyki’s shoulder tight enough to bruise.. “Because of all the people here, I am the only one worth listening to.”

Tyki’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. Sheril squeezed down, his nails digging into Tyki’s skin through his shirt. “Well… I better go, we have an Earl visiting now that I’m better,” Sheril announced, standing up with a flourish as he removed his bandages.

Tyki stayed where he was, unsure of what had just happened. He moved cautiously slow, leaving the room. He could hear voices from the atrium, mostly unfamiliar; the Kamelots and the guests Sheril had mentioned, he supposed. It really did seem like he had slept through Sheril’s awakening.

Odd… he was a light sleeper by nature.

It didn’t matter. He rubbed at his neck, heading towards his room. It didn’t matter, because Sheril saw him as nothing but trash. He was a fool to think anything else.

Sheril’s odd mood continued into the spring. Tyki wished he knew what had changed Sheril--if only to make him stop the cruel streak he had developed, far worse than before.

Or even to make him stop being so cryptic.

“Do you hate our father, Tyki?” Sheril asked.

But he felt that way about a lot of people, Sheril included, so their fathee wasn’t special.

Tyki was sure his mother would have hated him, if she knew about the thoughts he had. Tyki didn’t mind, however. It was almost fun, in a way, having his own little secrets and fantasies no one else was privy to. He was so used to so much of his life being out in the open, spoken in hush tones around the manor, that it was freeing to keep things to himself. It was a fun--a game.

“No?” Sheril repeated.

“Why are you so surprised? I’m not going to bad mouth the man who keeps me fed,” Tyki said, clicking his tongue. He knew he was pushing it with Sheril, but his patience had begun to wear thin since the day his brother had woken up. Sheril hummed. “I see, I suppose that isn’t that odd for a parasite like you,” he replied. Tyki’s grip tightened on the glass, and for a moment he feared it would shatter in his hand. Maybe he could use the shards to slice open Sheril’s neck then--

“I was just curious, I suppose,” Sheril continued. “Seeing as how I fear he may not be in this world for much longer, with his age… I just thought it’d be awfully sad if he were to go with you hating him so.”

Tyki sat the glass down to dry, moving onto his next one. He was silent, just letting Sheril speak as the man cleaned his monocle. He wasn’t sure what Sheril meant; as far as everyone was aware, Lord Kamelot was fit as a fiddle, and the man was only 50. Certainly not young, but ancient either.

“But it’s good to hear that isn’t the case,” Sheril finished, his smile twitching. Had Tyki said something wrong? Probably, considering Sheril always seemed to find some fault with him.

Tyki watched Sheril leave out of the corner of his eye. Odd.

He supposed it shouldn’t’ve been a shock, then, when Lord Kamelot died not half a year later. His wife had grieved heavily, and after the funeral, seemed to go into a near catatonic state, locking herself in her room, and going off on walks late at night. Often, Sheril had Tyki bring her meals--which was stupid, she hated Tyki as much as Sheril did--but he was turned away more than he was not. She wasn’t hungry, she said. Not yet. Her actions seemed so stiff, her voice without emotion. Broken, Sheril lamented, by the tragic death of his father.

But with Lord Kamelot gone, Sheril rose to the role of head of the family, and inherited all the wealth and power that came with the title. His mother was mostly left forgotten in a wing of the house, but she always seemed to be there when every Sheril called for her, listening with a patience to him Tyki had never seen from her before.

Tyki felt nothing. Not even a tear at the man’s death. He knew that Sheril likely had done something, power hungry man as he was, but Tyki could not will himself to care.

Tricia and Sheril began to court each other again not long after. Apparently her illness was no longer of any worry--it seemed perhaps only Lord Kamelot had really cared about it, as it apparently left her infertile. Or so Tyki had heard. But his father had worried often about the prospect of grandchildren and future heirs--from Sheril only, of course.

Now he’d never see any, being six feet under.

“Tyki?”

“What?” he asked, gritting his teeth. It was Sheril, it was always Sheril. When before the man had often avoided him, now it seemed more than ever he sought Tyki out. Ever since the sickness…

“Is that any way to address the Lord of the Manor?” Sheril asked, hands resting on Tyki’s shoulders. He jumped, unsure when Sheril had gotten so close.

“...sorry, sir, ” Tyki replied. “What is it, sir ?” He felt sick, but he’d tamper down his pride for the time being.

“I was hoping you could help me with something,” Sheril said, letting go to grab Tyki’s wrist.

Tyki winced, but allowed himself to be pulled along.

“...what’s with that grimace? Not very professional,” Sheril said.

“...Just bruised.” From the last time you dragged me around , he thought. “I’ll be fine.” It was a lie. It was always a lie now, around Sheril, who seemed to be delighted with each and every injury he could inflict on Tyki. It was always small; too small to make anyone else worry too much, but Tyki feared it’s escalation now that their father was dead.

No one would save him, he knew. Everyone bowed for Sheril, especially the newer maids. Sheril liked that, loved the control and made sure to see just how far it went. He was the type of man who hated things not going his way to the letter, and he micromanaged Tyki and his mother in a way Lord Kamelot never had.

Tyki’s mother never once complained. She worked diligently as usual, following every order to the end. Tyki tried his best as well, yet Sheril always seemed to find some fatal flaw, something to berate or slap him for.

The bruise still healing on his cheek stung in reminder.

But no one could do anything. Or, rather, no one dared.

“...sorry,” he said softly. “Sir.”

“Do better,” Sheril said, with a cheshire smile that told Tyki he was the source of all the boy’s problems. He probably was, honestly. “Now help me with the new dog.”

A dog?

…ugh, as if Sheril needed something louder than himself around.

“He’s sooooooo cute,” Sheril cooed. “Purebred, of course, the most adorable little--”

“Uh huh,” Tyki replied, wishing he was deaf.

Tyki sighed as he entered the manor, shaking himself off. It was hot and dry, and his trip to the city had been extra dusty. It’d probably be bearable with a horse or carriage, but he was usually left to his own devices on foot. He sighed, checking his pocketwatch. He was on time, if nothing else. Whatever. He had gotten what he was told to get, even if he wasn’t sure why. Sheril definitely had something planned, but Tyki hadn’t cared enough to pry. So long as it didn’t involve tormenting him, that idiot could do whatever he wanted.

He wiped sweat from his brow, stopping in his tracks as he entered the kitchen.

There was a girl by the counter.

A little girl. In a dress probably worth more than what Tyki made in a year. And she was getting into the fresh bread made for whatever Sheril had been cooking up.

Tyki’s eye twitched. He was going to get blamed for this, he just knew it. Who even was she? Did Sheril have guests over, ones who apparently could not keep an eye on their child?

The girl turned to him, her hair trimmed oddly short. “Hello,” she smiled, looking him over, before recognition showed on her face.

Right. Tyki supposed he looked more like his brother than ever, now that he had lost what little baby fat he had been holding onto as a teenager.

The girl smiled. Familiarity tugged at his heart. He ignored it. “Who are you?” she asked, voice saccharine.

“...Tyki. I work here,” he said curtly. He didn’t want to make her cry, or anything. That’d be a pain to deal with.

“Ah~ I see,” she said, climbing up to sit on the counter. Tyki felt his eye twitch again. He sat down what he had bought on another counter, careful of the eggs precariously perched at the top.

“I’m Road,” the girl replied, kicking her legs as she stared him down.

For what it was worth, Tyki did have a soft spot for children. He was only human. So he bit back a sigh, turning back to his groceries to unpack, letting her stay and bother him. “Nice to meet you, then, Road,” he said.

“Have you worked here long?” she asked, looking at him like she was trying to peer into his soul. “How old are you?”

“My whole life, basically,” he said. “About 15. 16.”

“15? I see,” she said, sounding oddly distant for a moment. “Do you like it here?”

Tyki hesitated. “I guess. It’s home,” he said idly.

“Hmm… well it seems nice,” Road continued. “I think I’ll like it here.”

“...huh?” Tyki turned, blinking at her. Road grinned, looking coy and innocent all at once. It was scary. “Sheril’s getting married, you know! This is the engagement party, and after that I get to live here.”

“...Are you Tricia’s kid?” He didn’t know she had a daughter. Actually--no that didn’t make sense, Sheril would never marry a woman who had a child out of wedlock. He was an asshole like that.

Road took joy in his confusion. “No, but I will be soon. Officially, anyways, if not by blood.”

“...oh,” Tyki murmured, fighting to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Of course. Of course Sheril would adopt some poor little girl to seem all special and kind, so giving, while letting his own half-brother suffer as his servant. He was going to get out of here. One day. One day he’d put this whole damn place and everyone in it behind him for good.

“Well, anyways, he was showing me the new tutors I was gonna get and--”

From there, their conversation hit a lull, Tyki was content to let the girl tell him about the things she was excited for or had seen that day. Honestly, despite the biting jealousy in his heart, he found himself enjoying listening to her. She was surprisingly insightful, and had a good sense of humor--enough to get a laugh or two from Tyki as he worked on cooking lunch for himself and some of the other servants. It felt easy to talk to her--like they had been friends for years.

“You’re kidding, you actually said that to his face?” Tyki was saying, snorting as he flipped his eggs.

“Of course! You should have seen his face, and then he--” Road continued, words broken up with giggles.

He found himself not minding the idea of her being around. Maybe Road would be the one shining star in the blackness of his life at Kamelot manor.

Of course, Sheril had to ruin things. He was especially talented at it.

“Tyki,” Sheril began, voice curt. He paused, noticing Road still perched on the counter. “Ah, Road! There you are, what are you doing here? You’re going to get your adorable dress all dirty.”

Like a completely different person at the drop of a hat , Tyki thought. He occupied himself with his lunch again, staring hard at the sizzling oil. He hoped Sheril would forget about him; he was tired of dealing with his brother’s constant abuse.

It was hard not to let his mind wander about all the terrible things Sheril had done to him. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the man coming up behind him. “Did I tell you to talk to Road?” he hissed, suddenly in Tyki’s ear. Tyki jumped, flushing red in embarrassment for not even noticing him. “I--” What was he supposed to do? Ignore her? Leave? He knew not to say anything--this was the type of situation where nothing he could do or say was the right option.

Sheril grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard. Tyki tried to pull away, but all that got him was Sheril twisting it in such a way that hot oil spilled from his pan, burning his skin. It hurt, the pain seering and constant. “Fuck--” A smile played on Sheril’s lips. Tyki let go of his pan and spatula, finally pulling his hand away.

“You really need to be more careful, Tyki,” Sheril said, mocking worry laced into his words.

“Go to hell,” Tyki hissed, cradling his burned arm to his chest.

“Tyki, why are you being so harsh?” Sheril chided, shaking his head. “I know it hurts, but there’s no need to take it out on others.”

Road said nothing, watching them like a statue. Her eyes glinted with curiosity--not horror. Tyki couldn't help but feel a little betrayed.

Tyki gritted his teeth. Fuck this, he was done. He turned on his heel, storming out of the room and up the servant's stairs. Belatedly, he knew he should have gotten water--but whatever, the wonders of indoor plumbing meant he could cool off his wound upstairs.

Anger and frustration clouded his vision. It blocked out the pain from his burn, leaving him with nothing but an empty feeling of bloodlust.

The dog that Sheril had adopted--he couldn’t remember its name--stood in front of him, sniffing around for food. Clearly it had been forgotten about since Sheril had gotten a new thing to adore. Tyki’s hands twitched.

He made sure to clean under his nails, just like his mom always said to.

“Soooo, what’s with you and Tyki?” Road started, twirling around in the garden. It was lush and green; a sharp contrast from the wasteland it had become during the winter months. Even as Akuma, the gardeners tended to it diligently.

“What do you mean?” he asked, adjusting his monocle. It wasn’t too warm, yet, with summer still rolling in. Just the right type of weather to enjoy a short walk under the sun.

Road hummed, shaking her head. “Come on now, I can tell you don’t like him but you keep him around anyways. You really seem to like to torment him.” Her face broke into a grin, all teeth and cruelty.

Sheril shrugged, saying “Maybe I do, why does that matter?”

“It’s personal, isn’t it?” she asked, turning to face him. She kept on walking, not careful of where she was going. Sheril found himself fussing over her safety internally--sure, she was older than him, but she was so adorable that he found himself slotting into the overprotective father role easily.

With a sigh, Sheril replied, “...he’s my bastard half-brother.” And that was all there was to it, really. He had no attachment to the boy other than a frustrating blood tie.

“Ahhh, I suppose he does look a little like you,” she said, sounding distant. With a shrug, she turned back around. “He reminds me of someone I used to know.” Her hands folded behind her back, her face wistful as she glanced at the clouds sheepishly passing by in the sky.

“Does he now?” Sheril asked, eyebrow raised.

“Hmmm,” Road hummed, eyes slipping closed for a moment, voice almost somber. “But they died a long time ago, it’s nothing important.”

Silence floated over them. They reached the edge of the manor grounds, surrounded by treeline and old fences.

“Sooo,” Road began, speaking very much unlike a girl would to her father. “You have an inferiority complex when it comes to your brother, then? Or is it jealousy?”

Sheril squawked. “I do not! It’s nothing like that,” he said, hands moving wildly as he denied it.

“Really?” Road asked, grinning at him as she tapped her face. “Because it seems his existence has struck some sort of chord in you, for you to hate him so much for it,” she laughed.

“You’re too cute to be saying such mean things,” Sheril muttered, deflating.

Road just shrugged, skipping along. “Well, we’ll see how long he lasts around us and the new servants, I…”

Sheril hummed, but he stopped walking as Road’s voice tapered off. She had stopped in her tracks, staring off at something in the distance, among the trees. “Road?” he asked, following her line of sight.

It was a gruesome view--the viscera strewn around the body, half charred, leaving him unable to identify what it was--at first. Then his eyes fell upon a familiar collar.

He couldn’t bring himself to be angry; shocked, more than anything.

“Would an Akuma do that?” he asked Road, noticing her lips twitch into a concerned scowl.

“...maybe a higher level one, I guess, but they usually don’t care about animals and this is… very theatrical. Whoever did this was clearly emotional,” she said. “Do you think maybe your brother…?”

“He’s not my brother,” Sheril cut in, anger flaring up finally. “And no. Never. He’s a coward. He has no backbone, he’d never do a thing. It was probably someone from off the grounds. The dog liked to escape.”

“If you say so,” Road replied, voice light like she was laughing at him.

“I’ll get Dionísia to clean it up,” Sheril said, anger bubbling inside him.

Poetically, it rained the day his mother died.

It had been raining heavily for awhile, though, so it wasn’t a surprise.

He stood there, in front of her grave, staring with dead eyes. It was a humble stone, but more than he could afford. It was the only thing Lord Kamelot had ever really given her, aside from a son and working herself into her own grave.

“Are you going to come back?”

Tyki turned, his face neutral as he locked eyes with Sheril. The man was dressed in black, but he looked more like he was going to a gala than a funeral.

“Does it matter?” Tyki asked, turning back to her grave.

“It does. I need to know if I need to fill two positions, or just one,” Sheril replied, clicking his tongue.

Tyki balled his hands up into fists. He wanted to punch Sheril, wanting to make him suffer and bleed. “I didn’t think you’d want me around.”

“Hrm. I like having you where I can keep an eye on my beloved baby brother, I suppose,” Sheril said, voice dripping with fake saccharine.

Tyki gritted his teeth, his mind supplying gorey images of what he could do with Sheril, if he could get away with it. “....I’ll be back later today,” he said finally, glaring hard at the mud at his feet. His hands gripped his pocket watch until his knuckled turned white. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go, and the manor was better than the streets. For now, anyways; Tyki didn’t intend on staying there forever. He’d look for work elsewhere, a new place to live even, and then he was gone--never to see that smug face again.

He was sure Sheril was smiling at him, that cruel, cold smile he had come to hate. He didn’t dare look back at the man, lest his anger get the best of him. He had been working on cooling his temper over the years, but it had come back red hot in the wake of his loss.

“That’s good to hear. It must be sad to lose her so close to your birthday. What are you now, 18?”

“16, almost,” Tyki replied. “Probably.” Sheril just hummed.

Thunder rolled, distant, as the sound of the rain filled in the silence.

“Do you hate Him for it?” Sheril asked, closer to Tyki than before. He nearly jumped. Nearly--Tyki had adjusted to Sheril’s sneaking, his need to be too close.

“Huh?” Tyki replied. Sheril titled his umbrella, keeping Tyki out of the rain, as futile as it was by this point. Still, even while already soaked with rain, the gesture made Tyki feel weird. But for once, not a bad weird.

“God,” Sheril clarified. “Do you hate God for taking her from you? Do you think you’d bring her back if you could?” He spoke with a soft tone, one that could be mistaken for caring. But Tyki knew Sheril, knew him well enough to catch an edge to it that sent chills down his spine.

Despite that, Tyki didn’t answer right away. He kept silent, thinking Sheril’s words over carefully. “No,” he answered. “I don’t. It’s hard to hate someone who was never there for me anyways. It’s why I don’t hate our father. They’re both nothing to me.” He paused. “No, I wouldn’t bring her back. She’d… she’d probably just work herself to death again.”

Sheril blinked, surprised, before he burst into laughter. “I see, I see… Perhaps we’ll talk again soon, then,” he said, moving away to leave Tyki to the elements once more. “If you’re still around.”

Tyki frowned at the crypticness of Sheril, turning to watch the man slink away back to his carriage.

“Aurora?” Tyki said, knocking on her door. She was staring at her hand mirror, eyes glazed over. It was a gift from her fiance, she had told him.

Aurora didn’t answer, still staring. Tyki moved slowly, sitting down beside her on her bed. “You doing okay? I know you were excited for the wedding, but then… with my mothers death and now this…”

“I’ll be fine,” Aurora replied, voice monotone. “Thank you, Tyki.”

Tyki frowned, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry about Ramiro, for what it’s worth.”

Aurora gave a stiff nod. “I…” she reached out, hand hovering over his arm. She closed her mouth, grinding her teeth. Tyki felt something odd in the pit of his stomach, but the feeling soon passed as she placed her hand back on her mirror. “I think I should be alone.”

Tyki nodded, standing up. “Okay. I am always around, if you want.”

“Thank you, Tyki.”

Aurora barely talked to him after that. Actually, now that he thought of it--none of the staff really did. Most of them were new; Sheril had fired so many at the drop of the hat. Brought in new ones. Aurora had been the last light in Tyki’s life after his mother died, but she, too, grew distant. Sad. Monotonous.

Without her or his mother, Tyki felt so very alone in the manor’s walls. Faces blurred together, names barely sticking in his mind as he lived one day at a time. Work bored him, cleaning the same things again and again and again; listening to each of Sheril’s barked orders with a clenched jaw and tension headache.

He was isolated; no one to talk to during meals, no one to joke along with while he scrubbed the floors. No songs, no stories by the candlelight. No talk about ill omens and the weather. No reminders to clean under his nails.

Nothing.

His heart ached in a way he wasn’t used to. He missed his mother. He hated the manor more than anything. He hated Sheril and his family; everytime their laughter carried through the halls it was like a ghost, haunting Tyki’s mind. Reminding him of how pathetic his life had become.

He was going to leave by the age of 18, he decided one sullen grey day. He stared at his reflection in the windows, cleaned by his calloused hands. He had never been planning on staying, of course, but the idea of leaving had always been a far off fantasy; an idea without a when or how. But now he had a when. As for the how…

Tyki walked through the streets of the town. It was summer now, the sun burning bright. With the warm weather came more people--seasonal workers and rich tourists. The city was bustling, but Tyki moved through the crowds with ease, as though he was just passing through the compact bodies.

He had gotten very good at avoiding being touched. It was useful for his continued survival in the Kamelot home. Still, he could never truly get away from Sheril’s malice when the man had his full attention on him. It was like being held by strings, controlled by a cruel puppeteer.

Tyki was only human--and under the blistering heat, he found himself sweating. A drink, then…. He stopped by a small cafe, fishing out some change.

“Sir… you wouldn’t have any to spare?” came a small voice. Tyki glanced down, seeing a small child, face dirty with grime. “Please, I--” the child continued, but without a word Tyki handed him a few coins. It wasn’t much, but Tyki’s meager pay didn’t leave him with much in the way of savings. He had enough for what he needed, and that was enough. After all, he was always weak to children.

The child ran off, thanking him profusely. Beside him, some men sitting in rickety chairs laughed. “You got any to spare for us,” they asked, looking just as worn and filthy as the child.

“You’re adults, don’t you have a job?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but the mines don’t pay much! Come on,” the man continued, before getting an elbow to his ribs from a friend.

“Sorry ‘bout him, he’s just tryin’ to get more to lose to us in poker, s’all,” the second man said, shaking his head.

Tyki blinked, now noticing the cards splayed on their table. It made sense, he supposed; something to keep them occupied on their break.

“Am not!” the first man snapped. This broke the group into another bout of laughter. “S’just that I ain’t got that much, s’why I took this job even though it’s so far from where I usually am!”

“Ain’t our fault you got piss poor luck, Bruno.”

“Shut up, Mauricio!”

Tyki turned away, getting his drink. He thought for a moment, wondering if maybe that was his way out. Seasonal work in the mines wasn’t the best--it was a lot of physical labour, dangerous conditions, going where the work was and hoping for the best. But it was a guaranteed way out of Kamelot manor, out of the city. Maybe even out of Portugal.

Tyki’s eyes sparkled, plans forming in his head. He turned back to the men, eyeing them up and down. He wasn’t built that different from them, other than being taller.

“...there wouldn’t happen to be any extra work at the mines that needs doing, would there?” Tyki asked, leaning towards the men playing poker.

With a blink, the second one who had spoken glanced up at him. “Hrm… I dunno, but I could always see if there’s anything to be done, kid,” Mauricio said, voice surprisingly gentle. He seemed to understand, at least, the desperation for work that laid underneath Tyki’s curious gaze.

“Thank you,” Tyki replied, and he found himself meaning it for once.

“Don’t go thankin’ me yet, boy, but you can find us here most days around lunch,” the man continued, waving him off. “Now go on, I gotta game to play.”

Tyki returned to the crowds feeling lighter than he had in months. People weren’t so bad, he supposed. When those dark, awful feelings weren’t settling inside him, he found himself enjoying the company of other people, of gentle words under the sun.

He missed his mother.

“You asked the Akuma to leave Tyki alone, hrm?” Road asked, kicking her legs as she idly flipped through a book. Diagrams of flowers and insects filled the pages, colourful and detailed.

“Maybe.” Sheril’s tone was curt, his focus on the documents in front of him. With a flourish, he signed his signature, moving onto the next with robotic movements.

“Why? You seemed almost excited at the possibility of him becoming one after his mother died, but then that never happened.” She pushed herself up into a sitting position, gaze burning into the back at Sheril’s head.

Sheril twitched. “No, which surprised me, is all,” he replied, voice clipped. “But it’s good to have some humans still around, for appearances sake, especially since some of the Akuma aren’t the best at playing along with their disguise.” He gave a huff of annoyance at that. There had been an… incident, not long ago, but that faulty akuma had been dealt with swiftly.

Sheril blamed the dog’s death on it, but Road still disagreed. It felt too… human.

“Hmmm, you just like tormenting him. How cruel,” she laughed, closing her book.

“Does it matter? He’s just some lowly human,” Sheril said, turning slightly to stare her down.

“Who shares your blood, though,” Road pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter to me; you and the Earl are all the family I need,” Sheril replied, the cold, serious look on his face melting away to a smile.

“It seems like it does matter, though,” Road pressed.

Sheril sighed, abandoning his work for a moment. “It’s about control. I just want to keep control of this manor, of this family, eventually of the country. And Tyki… he has always been hard to keep in line. It’s about making a point, is all. He’s really not that important, just a toy to play with. Nothing more.”

Road hummed, seemingly content with that answer.

For now.

Running errands was always thankless work. The foreman at the mine always seemed to need something done, as fast as possible, but never once did any thank you slip from his lips.

So. No different from work at the manor.

Whatever ; the miners were kinder, when he did interact with them. It was hot, the sun blistering, but it kept him busy. Sheril seemed to have lost interest in him--occupied with running the manor more efficiently than his father ever did, and often Tyki fell to the wayside.

Having money that Sheril didn’t know about was only a bonus. If he got enough, then maybe-- maybe --he’d finally be able to leave that horrid house.

It wasn’t home. Not anymore.

“Hey! Tyki, kid!” one of the miners, Mauricio, called.

“..Yeah?” Tyki murmured, moving towards them.

“Yer workin’ yer ass off! Come, sit, have a break,” Mauricio said, tapping the wooden table he sat at with a deck of cards.

“I--”

“Come on, everyone gets at least a lunch break,” Mauricio continued, as Tyki slowly sat down. “Anyways, you know how to play poker, kid?”

“Not at all, no,” he said.

“Then allow us to teach you,” Maurico replied, shuffling the cards with a flourish.

“Cigarette?” Bruno asked, offering him one already rolled from a worn-looking tin.

“Thanks,” Tyki said as he took it, using a match to light it. He wasn’t really allowed to smoke at the manor, but no one was here to stop him. It burned his lungs, but he managed to not cough all over Bruno.

“Well then, poker. This is a game of chance, but also skill--the skill of lying,” Mauricio continued, still shuffling the cards. “First, there’s one dealer and at least two players, who are after specific winning hands--some worth more than others--and then--”

Tyki’s first few games were terrible.

They didn’t have chips like in casinos, only a few belongings and spare coins between them for betting.

Tyki had lost every bet he had made.

“C’mon, Mauricio, go easy on the kid,” Bruno said, kicking the other man under the table. Mauricio yelped like a cat, causing the other players (Tyki had neglected to learn their names-- oh well .) to burst into laughter.

“Fine, fine…” Mauricio sighed as he dusted himself off. He leaned in, close to Tyki’s ear, hand blocking his words from the others. “I’ll let you in on a few, ah, beginners tricks then,” Mauricio whispered, flicking his wrist to reveal cards stowed away under his sleeve.

Tyki stared, suddenly realizing why he was struggling.

They were all cheating.

A grin crept up onto his face. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he said.

Maybe this could be fun after all--especially if he got better at his bluffs.

He ended up staying after the work day ended, playing with the other men even as the sun sunk lower in the sky. It was easy, talking to them--no walking on eggshells, no balancing act of trying to figure out the right thing to say. He could be his lighter self, his human self--all that darkness that seemed to swirl inside him dissipating, even if only temporarily.

It didn’t last.

“So this is where you’ve been running off too?” Sheril’s shrill voice cut in. The laughter died off.

Tyki frowned, hand gripping the bottle of alcohol he had won the last hand--opened to taste his sweet, sweet victory, his cheeks dusted pink and warm. “What are you doing here?” he hissed, turning around to glare at his brother. For once, it was Sheril who looked out of place--all prim and proper, tight seams and wealth--not a hair out of place--contrasted with the rough looking miners dusted with coal.

“What am I doing here?” Sheril asked, grabbing Tyki’s bicep and yanking him onto his feet. “What are you doing here, in an awful place like this?”

“We got a problem here, mate?” Bruno asked, glaring up at Sheril from his hand of cards.

“No, we don’t,” Sheril spat. “I’m going to be taking this idiot now.” He tugged Tyki towards the door, clearly not caring about letting Tyki even put one foot in front of the other before moving.

Tyki staggered after him, swears spilling from his lips. “I see you’ve spent far too long talking to them,” Sheril hissed. “Why the new friends? Where did you even get the money to gamble? Did you steal it--?”

“Shut up!” Tyki snapped, forcing Sheril’s hand away. “Leave me alone, you creep! I made the money on my own, with my own fuckin’ job that is waiting on you hand and foot!”

“What do you want money for?” Sheril asked. “Are you trying to leave me?”

“Of course I am! You want nothing to fuckin’ do with me, so why the hell would I continue to put up with that shithole and all your little games when I don’t have my mother keeping me there anymore?” Tyki yelled, glaring daggers into Sheril’s skull

“I own you ,” Sheril hissed, grabbing a fistful of Tyki’s curls. “Know your place--and it’s one you cannot leave.”

“Fuck you! I’m not your anything-- not your brother, and not your fuckin’ thing-- ” He ripped his head away from Sheril, not caring about the stinging from the scalp, the blood wetting his roots--and pushed Sheril back with his all his strength.

Sheril hit a wall with a look of shock painted on his features. Tyki took his momentary surprise to run- -run , run away from all of this, away from Sheril.

“Follow him,” he heard Sheril say--but to whom Tyki didn’t bother to look back and see.

He heard no footsteps behind him.

No place, it seemed, was safe from his brother. At least no place that didn’t cost money to get to. Tyki wasn’t sure how long he had run, how far--just until his lungs burned worse than from smoking, just until his legs could barely hold his own weight.

He heaved over, panting, hands on his knees as sweat ran down his face. That rat bastard. Tyki screamed in frustration, his throat hoarse. He punched a wall, not caring about the skin on his knuckles splitting at the seam, blood beading.

Everything hurt. His head, his body, his heart.

“Are… are you okay, sir?” a voice came--a man, around his age, eyes wide and bright. He was well dressed--not as well as Sheril, but clearly better off than Tyki was.

It wasn’t fair.

Tyki turned to him, bloodied hand twitching. “I will be,” Tyki replied, voice dark as he rounded on the other man. The stranger backed up, fear sparking in his eyes--but even then, he was too slow to react as Tyki’s hands clamped around his throat.

Tyki couldn’t make out the strangers words--focused solely on the whimpers he made, on the rush of the blood in his veins, thumbing with his heart beat--his pulse jumping against Tyki’s fingers, following the rhythm of blood that dripped as he dig his nails into the skin.

“Help---!”

He was going to have to replace his boots.

After he cleaned his hands, of course.

Tykis breaths came heavy, laboured, as he scrubbed at the blood on his skin like it was acid. It didn’t do much good, though, stained as it was on his clothes. He knew hew must look like a mess--like a murderer --but it was late in the manor. He only had his own oil lamp to light his way, everyone else long asleep as he cleaned under his nails, just like his mother said to.

His heart thrummed with adrenaline still, the high from what he had done lingering still. If anything, the idea of going back to work the next day--like nothing had happened, pretending along with everyone else, comforting others--was exciting in its own way too. It kept things interesting, to lead these two paths.

He had come back to the manor.

Tyki wasn’t sure why he had. But even as he had hidden the body--dragged it to the closest body of water he could think of--he had felt like someone was watching him. Like Sheril would know if he had tried to leave town.

So. He had gone home, the response almost automatic as he entered through the kitchen door, and began to scrub his skin raw in the sink, illuminated by only the moon and a single lamp.

Tyki paused in his cleaning, the wood creaking somewhere in the manor. It was probably nothing; maybe Road or someone unable to sleep, or needing the bathroom. Hopefully no one would question the running water--

“Tyki?”

Tyki jumped. He stared at the doorway, a deer in the headlights, wide eyes meeting Sheril’s.

“Yeah?” Tyki said, with a casualness that didn’t quite fit the situation.

Sheril’s lips fell into a frown as his eyes looked Tyki up and down, taking in the obvious blood splatter on his white shirt, the red dripping down his arms into the drain of the sink.

“I cut myself. By mistake,” Tyki said, stare still unbroken. “After I got back here.”

“...you… cut yourself?” Sheril repeated, looking at Tyki’s hands--then to the splatter on his clothing. “On what?”

“Yes,” Tyki replied. He didn’t dare look away yet, like a dog unyielding to submission.

“I see. You… cut yourself,” Sheril said, nodding a little. “...right.”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other in silence.

“...perhaps avoid cutting things at night, then,” Sheril said, leaving then. “Or. Whatever you did on your way back.”

“Okay.” Tyki blinked, finally, but his eyes never left the spot where Sheril had been standing.

How… had that been one of their most civil conversations?

Tyki turned the water off, and stripped off his shirt. At least he had others, but a pity it was to have ruined it. He dried his hands on it, worrying his lip. Was Sheril going to go to the police? He didn’t have much in the way of proof sure but people would take his word over Tyki’s, he knew, with the type of political power and money Sheril possessed.

He headed back to his room, laying down on his bed, even though he had no intention to sleep. His veins buzzed too much to allow it, a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling within him.

At least rewinding his watch gave him something to ease his mind with, for a few moments.

Sheril had slept uneasy that night himself, to his own surprise. He was not easily bothered by blood--quite the contrary in fact. But he hadn’t expected to find Tyki covered in it--he had been expecting to find Road stealing snacks from the kitchens, not his spineless bastard brother covered in what was obviously not his own blood.

There was too much for it to have been a simple injury, either. The answer was obvious: Tyki had killed someone. Probably. Maybe Sheril was too morbid, jumping to that conclusion, but it had looked like a lot of blood, and if it had been a simple injury from someone else, why lie?

A murder… Who, Sheril didn’t really care that much, since everyone in the manor was accounted for. Honestly, it didn’t affect him at all. Most of the servants were Akuma anyways.

He couldn’t even be mad that Tyki ran off--he had come home like a loyal dog, after all.

Which brought him to his actual concern. Was it accidental? Self defense? Or... “The Earl wouldn’t have happened to have turned Tyki into an Akuma without telling me, would he?” Sheril asked, glancing over at Road.

She looked up from the book she was likely only pretending to read. “Hrmmm? No, he wouldn’t. Plus, didn’t Tyki’s mother die a while ago now? Did someone else die?”

“No… well…” Sheril sighed, rubbing at his temples. Why had he decided to keep that kid around? Tyki was such a headache. Sure, the sadistic part of Sheril loved having Tyki around to torment, but now things were getting tiring.

“Well? Why do you ask, anyways?” Road said, flipping down in her chair.

“He killed someone last night.”

“He did?” Road replied, blinking, surprise on her face. “Did you see it happen?”

“No, but I saw the aftermath of him trying to get the blood off him. Too much for just cutting his hand, like he told me,” Sheril said.

“Hrmm… interesting. He didn’t strike me as the type. Maybe he accidentally killed one of the miner friends he has?”

“No… I don’t think so. There was this look in his eyes, under the surprise. It was bloodlust. I think he murdered them.” Sheril sighed, rubbing at his temples. “Hopefully it’ll be nothing of any worry. We can kill him if you think it’ll be an issue.” Sheril paused. "You knew about him sneaking off and didn't tell me?"

Road gave a grin. “I don’t think it will; I think it just makes things more interesting.” She hummed. “Plus, it confirms what I thought about the dog. And yeah, I thought it was more fun not to share."

“The dog--?” Sheril started, before realising. His lips twitched. “It seems so. I suppose people don’t always start with other humans. He has more of a spine than I thought.”

A knock at the door. “What is it?” Sheril asked, frowning as he glared over the back of his seat.

An akuma poked her head in--Aurora, he thought the maid’s name had been, before her death. “Lord Sheril, sir,” she said, dipping her head in a curtsey. “I followed the boy like you asked, last night. He killed someone and returned home after running towards the merchant district.”

“Old news. Is that all?” Sheril asked.

“No. He hid the body on the Kamelot estate. I can take you to it,” she said, raising her eyes to meet Sheril’s.

Road whistled as the akuma lifted the corpse from the estate’s pond. “He really did a number on him, huh? Looks like he was attacked by a dog,” she said. “So much for him being your ‘meek little brother’. I'd be glad it wasn’t you.”

“Yes,” Sheril agreed, voice uneasy.

Tyki was on edge.

He hadn’t seen Sheril since the night before. As he robotically went through his day--running errands for the manor, odd jobs around the mine and town--he had a feeling of dread settle in his stomach, ice cold contrast to the excitement of the night before.

But nothing came. No police, nothing.

He frowned. Sheril had to have something planned. He wasn’t that stupid (or so Tyki hoped) to have believed the lie had given without thinking, nor did he think Sheril would just leave it be. Something was up.

He sighed, leaning against a wall, taking a drag from a cigarette. A cheap brand, but it was good enough for him. His mother had never been a fan, but she wasn’t around to curb the habit any longer--the other night had reminded him of that.

It did help him relax a little, as he brushed his curls out of his eyes. He needed a haircut.

It was a warm winter, so very different from the previous. Even warmer than usual, but it was a welcome change of pace. Still, Tyki could feel himself sweating already, outside under the bright sun. He groaned, moving to wipe sweat from his brow--only to hiss, his head suddenly pounding. Must be the sun , he thought, as he put out his cigarette. He almost wished for snow to lay face down in.

He found himself wandering back to the same pub he had been with before, with Bruno and Mauricio.

They were still there--enjoying their single day off, laughing with each other. Bruno spotted him, waving him over. “Tyki! There ya are, I was worried about you. Who was that bastard, anyways?”

“....someone I really hate,” Tyki said, not wanting any association with Sheril. Brother wasn’t the right word, not anymore. “It’s fine now.”

“Right,” Bruno replied, but his poker face was never very good--and it showed now, too, his expression unsure and worried.

“You okay there, kid?” Mauricio asked, frowning. “You look awfully pale--” he reached forward, fingers brushing Tyki’s sweat-slicked skin before he could pull away. “Yer burnin’ up.”

“M’fine, just overworked myself,” he lied. His head felt like a nest of angry wasps. “How about another hand? Never got to finish the last one.”

“Only if you’re prepared to lose, kid.”

His migraine persisted throughout the night, and the next day. He did his best to ignore it, at first.

But on the third day, it was hard to not to notice--not with the blood seeping down his face. Tyki stared at the mirror in horror, open wounds so much like Sheril’s all those years ago adorning his forehead, blood flowing freely in red rivets along his features.

It hurt; it hurt like hell, but not in the way he felt such open cuts should. His hands shook as he washed himself of the blood. It wasn’t like Sheril had died from his illness, but if it went the same way… Tyki knew this was only the beginning of the pain, that fever and shakes and awful, awful aches would follow.

Maybe he wouldn’t make it.

After all, people could survive TB, but his mother didn’t.

Blood continued to fall into his vision, no matter how much he wiped away.

He stumbled back into his room, breathing heavily--from fear or fever he did not know. He gripped the side of his bed, trying to will himself to stay calm; the Doctors never found out what had made Sheril sick. Was it familial? A horrible sickness inherited from their shared blood, their shared father?

Tyki swallowed back acidic bile.

Would Sheril even care, get a doctor like Tyki had gotten for him, or just let him suffer? Who was he kidding ; Sheril would probably delight in watching Tyki waste away, suffering in pain until he died.

So.

This was alright.

No one had to know. He’d deal with it on his own, and go to the doctor on his own if he had to.

He stood up straight, his movements wooden, as he scrubbed at his face once more, bandaging the wounds and brushing his bangs to cover them. The blood seeped in, warm and sticky against his skin.

No one has to know , he thought, staring at his flushed face in the mirror. He’d be sick for a while, maybe, but it wasn’t like anyone would notice; he did less and less around the manor these days, and even Sheril had seemed to become bored with harassing him after their conversation in the kitchen that night. His eyes had been watchful, but not omnipresent.

No one had to know, he thought as he washed the blood out from under his nails.

Doctor’s visits cost money, and Tyki hadn’t budgeted for one. He couldn’t miss work, not yet.

For what it was worth, Tyki had managed pretty well that day with his usual work. He had gone slow, trying to not exert himself, and luckily none of the errands he had seemed that urgent. Returning to the Kamelot estate, he was bone tired--but not collapsing. A win in his books.

Of course, while Sheril hadn’t noticed his sorry state (thank God), Road had.

“You look sick,” she said, lips twitching.

“I’m fine,” Tyki replied, downing water from the tap.

“You don’t look fine,” she said, looking him up and down. He was sure he looked like shit; he sure felt it.

“I’m fine,” Tyki hissed, bracing himself on the counter. “You shouldn’t be in the kitchens anyways.” He did not want to deal with Sheril’s incessant worrying over Road’s safety. His migraine already felt like he was being stabbed with hundreds of nails.

Road gave him a doubtful look, opening her mouth. She paused, her face scrunching up into a frown. “Is that blood?” she asked.

Tyki blinked, before he noticed it; the feeling of something warm dripping down his face. He swore--his bandages must have become too saturated, even though he had changed them--

He heard his glass shatter on the ground before he realised he had dropped it. His world spun, and it took him far too long to realise he was on the ground too, his mind hazy with fever and pain.

“Tyki,” Road said, surprisingly calm for such a young girl watching a man dying of illness right before her eyes. She knelt down, reaching for him, brushing his sweat drenched curls away. He heard her gasp--the sound small, but yet hard to miss in his muddled mind--and he didn’t blame her. It probably looked demonic, the markings on his forehead. He remembered all the murmurs of demons and the devil when Sheril had fallen ill.

Maybe there had been more to it at the time they had thought. He supposed, if any people in the manor were to be cursed by Satan, it would be the two of them; they were both fucked up enough for it, and Tyki knew it.

In reality, as much as he liked to pretend it wasn’t true, he and Sheril did have things in common about their personalities.

Road called for someone, he wasn’t sure who--the name sounded like nothing but noise to his ears, as the pain consumed his thoughts and his world went black.

“I didn’t think--”

“Not common, for siblings who aren’t twins--”

His sleep was restless. He dreamed, dreamed of things he could not quite remember in the morning, of a world destroyed, of a pillar that gave him fear he had never experienced before, all swirling around in his head in a sea of overstimulation--pain, heat, voices and sounds, images he couldn’t understand--all mixing together into white noise.

He dreamed of golden fields of wheat, of old trees with beautiful names, of a mother who was still alive and a brother who loved him.

He wasn’t sure if he slept through the night, or had woken up intermittently. Perhaps he had. Maybe even talked, but the words said were lost to his mind.

Tyki opened his eyes.

The world was blurry, unfocused as he looked around. It was a room in the manor, but not his room--far too opulent to be. One of the guest rooms, maybe? Perhaps Sheril had thought it was a better place to die.

No. That didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t want Tyki’s blood getting on the sheets. Why was he here?

“Tyki,” a voice said, close to his face. He groaned, managing to look over, meeting eyes with his half brother. “Good morning,” he replied, a genuine smile on his face.

Ah.

Tyki had died in his sleep, and this was his hell: Sheril.

Tyki groaned, laying his head back down on his pillow as he closed his eyes. “Let me suffer in silence,” he said, his throat parched, his voice like sand.

“Here,” Sheril said, pouring Tyki some water. He still sounded far too kind.

But, Tyki himself had been worried, genuinely worried, when Sheril was sick despite everything, so perhaps it was like that. Didn’t make it any better, though. Tyki still despised that man.

Though his body felt stiff and unnatural, he reached over to take the glass. He downed it easily, not caring at the cool water that split and dripped down his face.

Sheril took the glass back without hesitation, and settled back into his chair, gaze still locked on Tyki.

There was a lack of malice in his brother’s eyes.

Tyki stared back.

“How are you feeling?” Sheril asked, titling his head. Sheril’s hair was messy. Odd. He was so used to it being perfectly kept--Sheril hated being seen disheveled. Violently so.

Tyki kept staring.

“Tyki?” Sheril repeated, looking concerned. Real concern, not the fake act he usually had put on when he wanted something from Tyki, or was mocking him.

“....what the fuck is wrong with you?” Tyki replied. “You’re acting all weird and creepy.”

Sheril blinked at him, before he smiled. “I’d say you’re feeling better then,” he said, clapping his hands together with a tilted head. "Oh! And I had Aurora clean up and fix your watch, the one you always have," he added, presenting it to him. It looked as nice as the day his mother had given it to him, three years ago.

Tyki glared at him. Oooookay. Something was very, very wrong here. Sheril just kept smiling back.

“Sheeeeeeril~” Road sang, coming into the oom with a flourish. “I think you’re scaring him.”

“What’s going on?” Tyki demanded.

“Just a friendly welcome!” came a third voice--jovial, light, belonging to a scruffing looking man Tyki had a vague recollection of. He came over often, to see Sheril. Maybe. Tyki had long since given up paying attention to the faces in the hallways.

“Don’t worry, the Millennium Earl’s here to help!” Road cheered, putting out her arms as to present the weird man to him.

“....the who?” Tyki asked, eyebrows raised. He glanced at Sheril--still smiling--and decided that yeah, he was dead. Definitely dead and in hell.

Road laughed, walking over and pinching his cheek. “Oh c’mon now! Don’t play stupid, you know who Adam and I are,” she said, pouting.

“No. No I really do not know, and I have no idea what is going on with all of you suddenly acting like you, y’know, like me? ” Tyki retorted, feeling like he was going insane. What was going on? He tugged at his hair, wondering what he had done to deserve such a hellish punishment. Damn you, God.

Road blinked, her eyes wide as she took a step back, looking him up and down. Her eyes scrutinized him, as though she was trying to see into his very soul to decipher what he meant. Then, her expression turned serious, dark--far too mature for someone her age.

“...is he just joking with us?” the ‘Earl’--Adam, was it?--stage whispered to Sheril, who’s smile had dropped for a confused frown.

“No,” Road cut in. “No, he really doesn’t remember. In his dreams… I saw very little but... I… I think… with the 13th--I think he might not be able to access his Noah Memory. Not anymore.”

Tyki blinked, feeling like he was missing even more than before. “My what?”

Turns out, he actually did like the Earl--and Road--a lot, once he got to know them, and their weird plans, and everything else.

Sure, it had taken a bit for it to sink it--for him to really accept this was all real. But it felt real, and his skin sure was grey now, and his eyes sure were gold.

Plus--ever since he became a Noah, things had been better. As annoying as Sheril was--he, and the others, all started treating him like an equal. He supposed maybe he ought to have a little more resentment, but… it was hard to stay mad at the Earl and Road!

Sheril, on the other hand…

Well. At least watching the world be destroyed would be fun enough to put up with him. And he got to relive the thrill of killing that stranger, again and again, all while balancing his normal life, his life with the miners--his humanity and his noah side, intertwined, light and dark.

He could get used to this life.

“Let go of me,” Tyki ground out.

“No! You’re my cute little brother.”

“I think I miss it when you hated me.” Tyki struggled to get away, fighting against Sheril’s arms. He felt his world shift, and soon as he could blink he found himself on the ground.

Sheril stared at him, his hands still positioned in a pantomime of his suffocating hug.

Tyki stared back. He had… gone through Sheril’s arms? He had just thought about not wanting to be touched by Sheril and then…Tyki climbed to his feet, making a run for it--right through the wall.

Oh.

He could get so used to this.

#d gray man #dgm #dgrayman #d.gray-man #tyki mikk #road kamelot #sheryl kamelot #sheril kamelot #my writing #fanfic #txt

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mandoinevarro · 3 years

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NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical @pascaliprincess @geannad @coaaster @frietiemeloen @yourbucky084 @brynnstudies @elfwoodfae

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #mywriting #rule maker rule breaker

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castthy-nightedcolour · 3 years

Text

One- Shot: The Seaside Dream (written as part of my series ‘don’t worry about a thing’ on AO3, link can be found at the bottom of the post as it won’t let me embed it)

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: GN Reader, Aziraphale, Crowley

Warnings and Tags: depression, skipping meals, dynamic duo, here come the boysssss, soft crowley

Summary: you don’t show up for wine with crowley and aziraphale, and the two hurry to your apartment to see what’s going on

Word Count: 2281

Link to original: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31055930/chapters/83889112

‘Crowley, please hurry!’

The pained cry of the angel came from the top of the flight of stairs in your apartment block, echoing off the concrete walls. This mixed with the reverberant sigh of Crowley, and the ever- so- slow tread of his footsteps.

‘CROWLEY. This is important! Do you not care?’

The demon stopped dead in his tracks, planting his feet at the bottom of the set of stairs that the out of breath Aziraphale stood at the top of.

Crowley was not at all happy with the angel’s question.

‘Do I not what? Care? Oh Angel, you’re asking to be pushed down these stairs,’ he responded, almost growling under his breath. In any other circumstance, this might have actually pleased Aziraphale, however this time, he was actually terrified.

The scenario had started with what Aziraphale called ‘a dreadfully funny feeling.’

Since Armageddon was narrowly avoided, the angel and the demon had found themselves at somewhat of a loose end on Earth, enjoying their free time together but still constantly striving for some higher purpose.

That’s where you came in. Little did you know that a walk into a lovely little bookshop called A.Z Fell & Co. one day to search for an overpriced illustrated copy of your favourite book would lead to drinking a couple of bottles of wine with the owner and his companion for seven hours straight, and that this would become a weekly tradition. You just clicked with the pair, you found them magnetising and, well, you were a fascinating human to the angel and the demon, so they quickly grew fond of you.

The two supernatural beings then decided that their purpose would be caring. Caring for you.

Not in a suffocating way though, at least that was never the intention. Between the two of them, Crowley and Aziraphale decided from the get go that they would just be there for you as a friend, with little extras added on top like going out and buying your shopping for you whenever there was a thunderstorm, or baking you enough cake to feed the 5000. But, the pair’s talents in observance and intuition slowly made them realise that something was always just slightly off with you.

To them, it seemed like there was always something hidden behind a wall in your head, like a pretence that you constantly held up. Granted, part of their realisation came when in one of your drinking sessions at the bookshop, you let slip that you hadn’t eaten a proper meal for two days and they both nearly hit the roof. They asked you why, and kept asking why (Aziraphale in particular was extremely persistent) but you brushed it off- you always brushed it off.

‘No no, it’s nothing to be worried about, I promise! I’ve just been so busy, y’know? It’s nothing, please Aziraphale, you can sit down. Don’t you worry about me.’

Now, Crowley could sense a lie from a mile off considering he was the lord of them, and Aziraphale could feel that your inner emotions were about as steady as a mongoose riding a pedal bike, and they therefore deduced that they should in fact worry about you.

And so the slightly incompetent suffocation began.

This was definitely mainly from Aziraphale, as his senses for detecting emotional suffering and hurt were a lot stronger than Crowley’s- this was just down to how long he’d been pulling angelic manoeuvres. Crowley was a lot less practised however when he felt that something was off, he really did feel that something was off. This however meant that wherever in London you were, Aziraphale would realise that something was wrong, no matter how small the inconvenience.

Notable occasions included when the tubes on the Central Line were running one minute late and Aziraphale unsuccessfully attempted to miracle another train up, causing even more delay and destruction, when the bottom of your shoe fell off in a puddle and Aziraphale got so upset that he cried for an hour, (to be fair, he’d had a long day; someone had tried to buy a book from the shop which had displeased him greatly) and when a seagull crapped on your shoulder while you were sitting outside a bar at Canary Wharf and the angel managed to manifest a fluke bolt of lightning which struck the seagull down right into your food.

And all this from the comfort of his own home.

Crowley had tried to tell the angel that not every inconvenience could be sorted out, that the pair needed to pick their battles with the perils of the human life.

‘Yes yes, I understand. I’ll stop, I promise. We’ll stick to the original plan. Now have you seen my banana bread recipe? I think they could do with a pep up.’

This lasted for 22 hours.

You hadn’t shown up to the bookshop like you did every week.

‘Oh Angel do stop pacing, they have a life of their own you know,’ Crowley nagged, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand as he stood in the doorway between the main shop and the back room.

‘Something is wrong, Crowley. I have a dreadfully funny feeling,’ Aziraphale insisted, wringing his hands and pacing at twice the average speed of an angel.

‘Right, yes, okay but the problem is, you’ve said that every night for two weeks and it hasn’t been true once.’

‘You can’t sense it like I can.’ The angel stormed towards the coat stand, reaching for his coat.

‘Oh no no no, we agreed, no suffocation. Put that down, you’re not going anywhere,’ the demon asserted.

‘Oh yes we are. Put that wine in the back, you’re driving.’

Crowley had rarely heard Aziraphale’s voice like this before, low and extremely demanding. There wasn’t any way he was getting out of this, the angel was on a mission.

And so, Crowley drove the angel to your apartment block and the two of them ended up in the stairwell facing off with each other. Too highly strung for their own good.

‘What if this is the one time that I’m right? You’re here getting all… demonic on the stairs and-‘

‘I will get demonic, Aziraphale. I am in fact a demon, plus if this is the one time that you’re right then you’re holding both us back by squabbling. Move out of the way.’

Crowley marched up the stairs stony faced, swooping straight past Aziraphale to your front door.

He did care. He really did. He just didn’t like to show it around Aziraphale because he always felt inferior in they way that he cared compared to the angel. He didn’t have those massively intuitive senses, his baking skills weren’t up to scratch, he felt held back by control. But something in the demonic form burned when he thought of the idea that you were hurting- and that burning was made more painful by Aziraphale’s suggestion that he didn’t care.

He snapped his fingers at your door, and it violently swung open, hitting against the wall of the hallway as it did. He stormed inside, barely letting Aziraphale follow behind before he snapped his fingers again to close it. Darkness and silence fell over the hallway as the angel and the demon stood completely still, their anxious breathing slowly filling the space.

They could both easily sense one important thing- you were present in the apartment, you were safe within the four walls. There was a collective sigh of relief.

‘Told you,’ Crowley sneered under his breath, trying to hide his still present anxiety. As much as he could feel your presence, he was struggling with any of the finer details, your emotional state or your exact whereabouts.

‘Don’t be like that. I was only trying to help,’ Aziraphale whimpered, taking a small step forwards. Unlike Crowley, he could just about tell that you were somewhere in the general direction of your bedroom. The angel clicked his fingers and uttered a small ‘let there be light’, allowing the hallway to be illuminated by a faint white glow. There was no other light coming from anywhere due to a distinct lack of windows in the architecture of this building, the only three were in your living room, your bedroom and your kitchen and even then, you’d shut all of the curtains and all of the doors in the place.

The angel padded further down the hallway, leaving Crowley to look at the prints on your walls like an awkward cousin at a party. By the time Aziraphale had reached your bedroom door, Crowley had moved onto examining the items on the coffee table that was slightly further down the hall. There wasn’t a lot to examine, a couple of books, your keys, an Alexa that you’d turned the microphone off on. The one thing that caught Crowley’s eye was a small painting of a seaside town just laying down on the table. It wasn’t anywhere near being finished and much to Crowley’s dismay, it was crumpled up. He assumed two scenarios from this, either someone had given you an unfinished painting and you felt so strongly about it that you took to crumpling it up, or this was in fact your handy work that had been partially destroyed.

‘Crowley, what now?’ Aziraphale whispered from the end of the corridor, bringing Crowley’s gaze up from the table and back to reality.

‘Uhhh, don’t scare them. Don’t just burst in,’ the demon responded, moving down to meet Aziraphale by the bedroom.

‘I wasn’t planning on doing that! I just mean, do I knock? Just go in? Announce our arrival?’

Crowley rested his hand lightly on your bedroom door, looking quizzically at Aziraphale who was jumping through every possible scenario in his head. The demon sighed.

‘Just, shush. Okay, let’s just be quiet. Follow me, angel.’

Crowley very slowly pushed your bedroom door open, being greeted with yet more darkness from inside as he did so. Aziraphale hung over his shoulder to try and look inside, with Crowley grunting slightly at this. Through the darkness, Crowley made out a shape in the bed.

You, curled into a ball and fast asleep. Your breathing was heavy, but not laboured, and the bedsheets rose and fell accordingly. You were as close to comatose as could possibly be, dead to the world but luckily, very much alive.

‘Aaah. Oh, look,’ whispered Aziraphale. Crowley glared slightly at the angel, but inside, his sentiments were very similar. The pair stared at your form resting in the darkness for a few seconds, relieved with every breath that you took. With anyone else? It would have been creepy.

But not with these two. It was a deep devotion and concern.

Aziraphale went to take a step forwards but Crowley stopped him in his tracks, stopping the angel from getting anywhere near you.

‘Don’t even think about waking them, look. They’re deep in dreamland,’ the demon hissed, meeting Aziraphale’s puppy eyes.

‘Oh please, I just wanted to check that they’re okay.’

‘Aziraphale, they’re very clearly shattered. I think that we’ve discovered that they’re definitely not okay, but interrupting their sleep won’t help anyone. Let’s just, y’know, help where we can.’

‘But their soul-‘

‘I know. We’ll help with that tomorrow. For today, they sleep.’

Aziraphale eventually backed off slightly, looking down while nodding in defeat. While his deep concern could only ever have come from a place of love, he realised that stepping back for a second could be beneficial to everyone. He started to head towards the kitchen to see if there was anything that he could help with in there, turning back round for a second to ask Crowley what he should do. Crowley however was no longer stood in your doorway, and was instead sat on the edge of your bed, resting his hand on your leg.

The angel went to protest in some jealousy for a moment, but the warm glow that filled up his heart because of the sight stopped him. He just smiled, and turned back.

—

Between the pair of them, you were treated to a clean kitchen, a full fridge, a massive fuzzy blanket for the bed and soft, warm light for each room.

But there was one final detail bugging Crowley.

As the pair crept down your hallway back to the front door, Crowley let out a soft whistle to his friend as he stopped beside the coffee table. The angel turned his head, looking at the objects scattered about the surface.

‘What’s this?’ He asked, strangely intrigued by the small speaker- like object.

‘It’s an Alexa, it’s like a - y’know what, doesn’t matter. That’s not what I need you for. Look at this.’ Crowley picked up the ruined painting that he’d spotted earlier, showing it to Aziraphale. The angel scanned over it.

‘Ooh, its Whitby, the place with Dracula!’ He half gasped half squealed, failing to see what his friend was seeing.

‘It’s fucked is what it is, angel. I think they’ve crumpled it up in frustration or something, which I’m not exactly thrilled with. I’m out of niceness for today, can you do something?’ Crowley sighed, thrusting the painting towards his friend slightly.

‘Oh, easily. Your wish is my command, dear.’

Aziraphale swiped his hand across the paper and watched as the creases disappeared and the smudges eased. The colours got just a little brighter, and the beauty of your half- finished painting was restored.

‘We’ll help them finish it tomorrow, yes Crowley?’ The angel continued. Crowley gave a small smile with all the good energy that he had left in his body.

‘Yes angel. That would be nice.’

#good omens #good omens one shot #good omens fanfic #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader

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ushidoux · 4 years

Text

Be My Last - Iwaizumi x Reader

Summary: You have trouble getting over a past relationship and it’s preventing you from moving forward. (~3.5k words)

Warnings: stubborn ass reader, very slight nsfw at the end

A/N: It took me a long time to write this because I have trouble with fluff and also trouble with characterizing Iwa lmfao, I might need a second watch. I hope you enjoy! Happy Thanksgiving!

Part 1|| Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

---

“Are you serious?! Are you really saying no to this face?”

Your best friend was now leaning so far across the fast food dining table that she had practically climbed on top of it, holding up her phone just inches from your face to force you to take a better look at the picture of the blind date she had arranged for you.

Your eyes crossed uncomfortably by reflex and you pulled back sharply to grab the phone from her and take a better look. On second glance, you had to admit that the guy standing next to Oikawa was quite good-looking, a couple inches shorter but with a sturdier build, sharper features and just enough scowl in his facial expression to intrigue you.

In fact, he was exactly your type.

“Just one date,” your friend insisted. “You’ve been pining over your ex for almost a year now! You don’t have to fall in love but maybe a small distraction? Plus, double dates would be so fun, come onnnnn~”

Your friend was only rarely this animated so you knew she really wanted this but the idea of even considering romance again after being dumped so harshly before was so undesirable that you stubbornly shook your head instead and took another bite of your burger.

“___, please?”

You frowned, and your friend’s pout grew deeper once she realized there was a pretty good chance you wouldn’t budge about this. After all, you’d rejected every single person that so much as looked in your direction so effectively these past few months that it had essentially become an afterthought.

She leaned back in her seat, occupying herself now with picking out a particularly long fry off of the platter you were sharing, trying to minimize her disappointment. Despite how much she hoped you would say yes, she could understand why you felt the way you did.

“I’m sorry,” you offered, sipping on your drink. She let out a defeated sigh.

“Well, I’ll try to figure out a compassionate way to let Iwa now that you’re not interested. Honestly, Oikawa will probably be more offended by it than me.”

At this last comment, her eyes twinkled softly with a mild amusement and she started to text her boyfriend. However, knowing that it would possibly be a bigger deal to reject Oikawa’s best friend right off the bat than to just endure a date once, you reconsidered.

“Fine! Stop, I don’t need Tooru yelling in my ears. I’ll go.”

She smiled. You’d fallen right into her trap.

---

Exactly 72 hours later almost to the minute, you found yourself standing before the duo of childhood friends at the entrance of a town fair, your friend by your side.

Oikawa’s partner-in-crime was, to both your surprise and chagrin, even better looking in person. Kinder too, if you discounted the glare he shot at Oikawa when he introduced him mock affectionately as ‘Iwa-chan, his very best friend in the whole wide world’. You stifled a laugh as Iwa released Oikawa from a headlock, and introduced yourself politely to him noticing the very faint pinking of the ears that accompanied the softening of his expression as he shifted his attention to you.

A small fluster you couldn’t help but find cute was evident in his voice as he shared his full name - Iwaizumi Hajime. Strike one.

Strike two was the careful distance he left between you two as you walked through the street fair, just steps behind Oikawa and your friend who trekked confidently and comfortably linked hand in hand. His questions were respectful but pointed, like he truly wanted to get to know you as much as possible, and as he listened he leaned in just so, making sure to hear you clearly over the bustle of the busy crowds.

He helped you with your safety belts as you strapped in together on small thrill rides and you could catch his furtive glances in the corner of your eyes as you laughed and screamed.

A part of you wondered if it was too quick, if it was a bad omen that he already appeared smitten with you despite having just met. However, you had missed the feeling of someone liking you genuinely and explicitly so, dating back from even before you had started having problems in your last relationship, so you appreciated it wholeheartedly.

Strike three was him immediately setting a time and a date to meet again, without the hovering presence of your best friends, which he emphasized loudly to listening ears behind you (Oikawa made his disappointment at being excluded quite apparent by groaning loudly within earshot).

“I really enjoyed spending time with you today, ___.”

It wasn’t too much, wasn’t too little and wasn’t too soon.

“So did I.” You replied with a smile more genuine than you’d had for months.

---

Date two went as smoothly as date one.

Dinner and a movie, a classic. Iwa had chosen a psychological thriller that you had been looking forward to for a couple weeks and prior to meeting you’d started to text back and forth regularly about theories, so thereafter sprang forth endless spirited debates. As the evening progressed, you noticed him yielding earlier and earlier, and you noticed that he got quieter as the night went on, preferring to sit back and watch you talk. You couldn’t tell if it was the few cocktails with dinner but soon you were distracted by eyes that rested on you easily with an accompanied smile. It was enough to make your face grow warm.

“Am I talking too much?” You asked, sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I get like this when I’m excited.”

“I love hearing you talk,” he replied with a small laugh. “No one can talk as much as Oikawa so don’t worry.”

Your smile spread from ear to ear and you could feel your bruised heart grow ever so slightly.

---

Date three, four and five had you swept off your feet and you found yourself falling between hikes, picnics and aquarium trips.

Which was why when your friend called you to gloat about how she was right about you two all along, you realized just how deep you had fallen and almost instantly, that familiar fear that you had been nursing for the past year settled back into your consciousness.

You couldn’t bear another heartbreak. The thought of Iwa’s warm smiles becoming addictive and constantly craving the feel of his hands on your skin only to then be discarded like a participation ribbon hung heavy on you.

“I.. I don’t think I can keep seeing him,” you said, in sudden realization, despite the fact that you had been gushing about your dates just minutes earlier.

You could hear a pause on the other end of the line, and then your friend asked softly, “Is it because you still miss him?”

The other him. Of course you did, you still lived in the apartment the two of you had shared right after college, having given yourself multiple excuses not to move out. You hadn’t even bothered to change the decorations you’d bought together and thus every part of this place reminded you of him.

You even watered the plants he had left behind every morning. You couldn’t tell if it was because you had grown attached to them or worse - because you thought maybe, just maybe, if he ever came back, he’d want to know that you were always nursing your love.

“I’m… not sure,” you replied.

Your friend sighed audibly into the phone.

“You’re missing out on someone great, but I’ll support you regardless.”

---

Your graduate classes ended late the next evening, and you stumbled into your apartment with mild exhaustion, kicking off your shoes and slipping off your jeans before plopping on your bed.

Iwa had said he wanted to come see you, and even though just a few days ago you had been excited at the prospect of spending time with him in your own home, your stomach fluttered with a different type of alarm when you considered the fact that if you were to tell him you were no longer interested in letting whatever was between you bloom, it would have to be now.

Would it be better to tell him over text message or on the phone or in person? You didn’t want to see the look on his face when you hurt him; you knew it would change your resolve.

If you called him on the phone, would you be able to withstand hearing the disappointment in his voice? Would he demand a reason, and would he tell you your weak one wasn’t enough?

If you sent him a simple text and then blocked his number, would you be the awful person too chickenshit to say the words to his face?

Your phone buzzed just as you were paralyzed with your choices.

I’m 20 minutes away. How was your class?

You froze.

20 minutes to make a decision. Would you have him come all this way just to drop him without a very good reason in the comfort of your own home?

You stared at your phone for five minutes longer, perseverating, only to be startled out of your trance when you saw his name flash over the front. You forgot you had read receipts on; it had never been a problem before.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice dripped of concern. “You read but didn’t answer.”

“Y-yeah, of course! Class was good… I’ll see you in a bit.”

---

You soon wished you hadn’t let Iwa into your apartment. Now that he was here snuggled with you on the couch, close enough that you could take in his scent, all you could think of was the thought of his lips on yours.

5 dates and you hadn’t yet kissed. Maybe that was for the best, you were planning to break up with him anyway, weren’t you?

You weren’t exactly sure when you had crept so close to each other, but your head now rested gently on his shoulder and his hand had at some point snaked around your waist to pull you against him. You could feel your heart pound in your chest as you stayed close in the dark, and maybe you could feel his own heart beat, steady as his breathing despite the tension building in the air.

You had lost track of the plot of the movie on your flat screen long ago, too preoccupied with the flurry of potential ensuing scenes between you in your head.

What would stop you from going full speed ahead? The fear that you wouldn’t matter enough to him once months came to pass and he learned just how far short you fell from his perfect perception of you? Or that you would once again find yourself in darkness, wondering how many times you’d open your heart only to wish you had kept it guarded?

Or maybe it was the reality that you weren’t sure that you really wanted to move on?

Iwa was a good person, he didn’t deserve your hesitation.

He shifted ever so slightly beside you and in the backlight of the flashing scenes on the television screen, you could see his eyes settle on your lips.

“Is it okay if we-,” he started, only to be interrupted by the fact that you had already pulled him in by the shirt collar and were lost in the taste of him on your tongue. You could tell he was surprised, but Iwa leaned into your kiss, pulling you now fully onto his lap and holding you steady by the waist as the two of you made out.

Your hands crept up to his face, fingers gently trailing then cupping the curve of his jaw, and the longer you kissed, the more of him you wanted. When his hands started to tug just slightly at the edge of your shirt to warn you he was going underneath, you tensed but nodded to allow him to palm a breast and roll a nipple between two fingers.

A soft moan left you, renewed when Iwa’s lips left your mouth to kiss a spot just before your earlobe, and his other hand pressed firmly into the small of your back to secure you even closer to him, close enough that you could feel his bulge pressing through his jeans and against your body. Knowing that you could feel him, he whispered breathily into your ear:

“I won’t continue if you don’t want me to.”

Did you want him to continue?

You pulled back from him to study his face, glowing with an earnest desire for you and suddenly you felt so guilty.

“I… I think we should stop here,” you choked out, ignoring the warmth in your cheeks and the flicker of disappointment in his face, and you slowly climbed off him, embarrassed as you stood on your feet.

He didn’t ask why and replied with acceptance.

“Okay.”

---

What he didn’t accept was you finally telling him you no longer wanted to see him in a text message hastily conjured in the middle of the night after a particularly hard day.

He called immediately and you let the phone ring, biting your lip the entire six rings it took for him to give up. He didn’t leave a voice message, but sent you a short text.

I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Can we please talk?

You fought back the urge to cry as you turned over to go to sleep.

He called again in the morning, and when you ignored his call for a second time, the unreasonable part of you waited for a follow-up voicemail or text message which never came. Good for you. You couldn’t understand your own feelings right now and you didn’t deserve to have him sort them out for you.

At least if you acted like a bitch, he would drop you before you could change your mind.

---

“A text message? Really?”

Your friend had dropped by the following Saturday morning for brunch and while you had dreaded this conversation, you had expected it to happen and steeled yourself for the admonishment. You shrugged, avoiding looking at her in the eyes and focusing on watering the plants at your windowsill. Your friend watched you carefully, irritation bubbling within her in response to your stubborn silence.

“I wouldn’t be so insistent if I knew you didn’t like him, but you do! Everyone can see it!”

You didn’t reply, opening your blinds instead. Plants needed lots of sun in addition to water.

“___, I didn’t want to be harsh but he’s not coming back. Even if it’s not with Iwa, please… please get over him.”

You finally turned and gave her a meaningful look, tears now coming to your eyes. Your friend’s mouth fell slightly ajar and realizing just how harsh her truth had been, she got up from your kitchen table and walked over to you to envelop you in a hug as you came undone.

---

A total of three weeks passed, and you finally admitted to yourself that you missed Iwa but it was clearly too late to fix anything. Calling him up would just get you ignored (and rightfully so) and you couldn’t bear to send another text message after ghosting him. Instead you watered your ex’s plants and focused on your classes.

Your best friend had forgiven you for your cruelty even though she let you know she was still suffering from Oikawa’s wrath on your behalf, so instead you decided to distract yourself by going out with other friends and picking up new hobbies.

A girl you were getting to know from class was very excited about a new high-end gym that had opened with nice amenities including a pool and a sauna and free physical training sessions with membership so you indulged her by going as a guest on a weekend.

You had to admit that the place was beautiful, and you made a beeline for the elliptical, a tried and true contraption. She had been making a fuss about one of the instructors being attractive which you had in all honesty paid very little attention to, until she dragged you by the arm to hiss into your ear.

“There he is, don’t look too obviously.”

You turned to find yourself staring straight at Iwaizumi Hajime, physical trainer.

“Oh shit, he’s looking at you,” she whispered, but you were already making your way to the exit. “Wait, where are you going?”

Your pace had gone from a walk to almost a run.

“____!” you heard him call behind you as you scurried as fast as you could off of the premises. Embarrassing. So, so embarrassing.

His voice was starting to sound aggravated, and your run stuttered to a standstill. What were you doing? Running from someone because you told them you didn’t want to date them?

He caught up to you in the parking lot and he no longer smiled; there was a tinge of mild irritation that graced his facial expression as he looked at you.

“Please stop running from me. You don’t need to make it awkward… I... I’m not thinking about it.” He glanced away at the last statement, but you knew he was being sincere while you were being ridiculous.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, and you thought maybe you would say more but he cut you off.

“You don’t have to be sorry. Have a good workout. If you need any help, I’m available, as are the other instructors.”

Professional and curt, he bowed before turning, and before you realized what you were doing, you found yourself tugging onto the sleeve of his shirt to hold him back. When he looked back to you again, while he didn’t give you the fierce scowl he reserved for Oikawa, his expression was still harsh as he looked down at you, waiting to see what you had to say.

What did you want to say? You already said you were sorry, there wasn’t much else to add.

Words failed you and you recoiled ever so slightly. He sighed audibly, and turned fully to face you.

“___, please don’t play with my feelings.”

You deflated as he waited just a few more moments for you to come up with the courage to say you still wanted him, and when you were unable to come up with the words, he bowed again, and returned to the building.

Moments later, you texted your friend to tell her you were sorry, but you were going home immediately.

---

It was a few minutes past 9pm and you had all but forgotten the sting of Iwa’s words as you focused on homework, listening to lo-fi music to help you concentrate. Your phone buzzed once, and you expected maybe your classmate to yell at you again for ditching her, but instead you found a message from Iwa.

I’m sorry for speaking to you that way.

Your heart thumped hard once in your chest, and you flipped your phone over to get back to work, but it was too late. Your concentration was shot for the night.

I’m ready to listen to whatever you have to say, a second message read.

What would happen if you wore your heart on your sleeve just one more time?

Iwa called you before you could call him, and this time you picked up, breathing a hesitant “Hello?” into the phone.

“___, I like you. A lot,” he paused, as those words sank into your heart. “I’m sorry, I wanted to get that out of the way.”

“I do, too,” you replied just as quickly.

Another pause. You swallowed hard and continued,

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

His reply was fast. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

You frowned. “You don’t understand… I still think I have some unresolved feelings for someone else, and I just… I don’t want to wrong you in the long run.”

Another pause. You pressed your eyes shut, anticipating the worst, whatever it was. It felt as though you were on the line for ages, until suddenly Iwa finally spoke.

“Try me.”

“What?” Your shock was audible, and he repeated himself.

“Use me if you need to.”

You couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“But-”

“I know we’ve only been seeing each other for a short time, but I can’t explain it… I know I’m willing to risk it.” The confidence in his voice was almost shocking, and it made your heart swell.

“Hajime…”

“May I come over?”

---

The conversation ended with Iwa promising you that he’d make you forget your ex, your faces now just inches from each other, him hovering above you as you laid on your back in the comfort of your bed, eyes feasting on his exemplary physique. Starting up where you left off just three weeks prior, you held onto him for dear life as his hips rolled against you, his body pistoning into you carefully and precisely, his hands gentle and steady, and both of your hearts full.

If you were worried about using him, then don’t. Use him as much as you need to. He was giving you permission, is what he said.

Would you take advantage of him?

Now that you were in his embrace, you found it unlikely: for the very first time in a year, you knew that while you weren’t in love yet, you could feel yourself falling very, very soon.

#iwaizumi x reader #iwa x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime x reader #hajime x reader #hajime iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu x reader #mae.writing #haikyuu!#not sfw #series: be my last

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murderousginger · 4 years

Text

Faded Away

Angel on Fire Chapter 1

John Shelby x reader

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: They're criminals guys, they do bad things.

(gif by @bonniebirddoesgifs)

You giggled as your best friend swung you around on the empty street. Isaiah, Finn and Michael walked behind you both and laughed in various degrees at your foolishness.

"The girls are already mad," Isaiah said as he stepped forward and took your hand. He pulled you close before twirling you away from him. "We're in for a night, lads."

You laughed and spun with your hands outstretched as he did the same to your friend.

"They're always mad," Michael scoffed as he rolled his eyes. "They're fuckin' winding up for the snow."

You stopped spinning and raced toward Finn, a mischievous grin on your face as you crashed into his arms.

"There's no way you're a Shelby, Michael," you laughed as you pressed yourself into Finn. "You're far too dusty. You're a wet blanket."

Finn barked a laugh as he took your wrist and spun you back toward Isaiah.

"You make no sense, (Y/N)," Michael scowled as he lit a cigarette. "Am I dry or am I wet? You can't make up your mind."

Your friend trilled a laugh. You rolled your eyes as she left Isaiah's grasp to cling to Michael.

"You know our girl," she joked as her hand found his chest. "Always too busy with her own thoughts to make much sense. I don't think you're dry at all, Michael."

"That's because you'll wet him right up, won't you?" You said exasperated.

Finn and Isaiah laughed as Michael coughed on his cigarette. Isaiah winked at you and lifted his arm. You ran into his side to claim his warmth as he pulled you close.

"Be nice to little boss," he chastised before his tone lowered as if to tell you a scary story. "Too much longer and he'll be just like Tommy, and you wouldn't dare say such a thing to him."

The night was like most nights. You and your friend went with the Peaky boys to the Garrison under the promise of drinks and snow. You'd been doing it for years, long before Michael joined the little crew, and it was old hat by now. The boys liked the entertainment and needed you to parade their product and make a scene to attract customers. You got your drinks and snow free as long as you attracted attention. Sometimes Isaiah or Finn would give you a cut of their cash on an especially good night. There were worse things to do to get extra coin.

"I don't take anything the bait says to heart," Michael said. "They're not much more than pretty wrapping to attract the men and put the girls at ease."

"But we are pretty," you pouted mockingly as you cocked your head back to see Michael. "You might not have a use for smart girls, but you have use for pretty."

Michael inhaled his cigarette, taking his time, making you wait for his response. Hang on it. He loved to make everyone wait on him like it was a sign that he was in charge of things. If everyone hung on his word, you'd all forget to breathe until he did. He'd become in charge of everything, including the air in your lungs.

The smoke lifted from his mouth and into his nostrils before he exhaled it all away.

"And your mouth is good reason to find better bait," Michael said evenly. His eyes were always so cold. You shuddered involuntarily as you lost eye contact with him and turned back around.

"Oh now, little boss," Isaiah pish-poshed. "You know (Y/N), she means no harm. Besides, these two fillies are the bread and butter of our nights."

Isaiah tucked you into his side with a squeeze, smiling down at you. You wrapped an arm around him inside his coat and squeezed back.

"You watch your hands, now," he joked. "I'm a respectable young man."

You threw your head back against his arm with a loud laugh and met his gaze nose to nose.

"Isaiah Jesus, your name might be holy but you are sinful as they come," you taunted, ghosting your lips across his.

Isaiah mocked shock, good mouth agape as he shot a look to Finn who had sped up to walk beside you two.

"Finn, did you hear what she said?" Isaiah said as his free hand clutched his heart. "She called me sinful. She's yours now, mate. My heart's done broke for the night."

He dropped his arm from your shoulder and playfully pushed you into Finn who caught your arm as you stumbled his way.

"Striking out with everyone already, are ye?" Finn chuckled. "Not a good omen for the night."

"You know why Isaiah calls him 'little boss,' right?" You taunted, loudly whispering so everyone could hear.

"Yeah, why's that, then?" Michael said, mouth tight as your friend hung on him.

"Shhhh," your scowled at him before turning your full attention to Finn. "I'm talking to a real Shelby."

Michael scoffed behind you.

"Yeah, Finn's a real asset to the company," Michael deadpanned.

Finn's face grew tight. You quickly grabbed his chin and made him look at you.

"Hey now, boss," you said lightly. "You pay no attention to Mr. Fancypants over there. You're more man than he'll ever be. He's just acting tough to make up for all those years in his perfect little village."

Finn's lip twitched and his face relaxed into a small smile. You playfully knuckled his chin and kissed his cheek.

"Enough now," Isaiah called as he took the lead of the group. "We're almost to the pub, just stop bickering and have a good time, yeah?"

You all toned in agreement.

You felt a weight in your stomach as you reached the Garrison and saw the people pushing to fit in the pub. You had been going most nights every week for ages, on top of your day job at a desk, and honestly the booze and the drugs had started to lose its appeal.

"Come on," your friend squealed as she dragged you through the doors.

The pub was packed, but the sight of the boys behind you cleared a path to a table. It's occupants stared at your group wide eyed before quickly tipping their hats and leaving their seats. Finn pulled a chair back for you and you playfully patted his cheek as you sat, your friend sitting across the table next to Michael. Finn and Isaiah sat with you in the middle, your back to the busiest part of the pub. The seat made you uneasy, vulnerable.

You jumped as you felt a hand brush your shoulder.

"Here ya'ar," Harry said briskly as he sat whiskey down for everyone and gave the boys beers as well.

The table mumbled their thanks and the boys started a conversation you quickly tuned out. You looked around you to the other patrons, scoping out who could be reeled in for snow or smoke or even the bit of opium in Isaiah's pocket.

Most were men tired from the long day of work, but there were pockets of young people with girls your own age that were out for a raucous night. You always focused on them. They usually had the money and the nights to lose. Asking the working men always felt like taking food out of their family's mouths, and the extra layer of scum from the thought sickened you.

"You don't have to go to scoping right away," Finn yelled down your ear to overcome the boon of voices surrounding you. "Relax. Have your drink. We're all friends here, are we not? No need to rush off right away."

You smiled thinly and nodded, looking back to the table. Michael had his arm swung around your friend's shoulders and she had taken his cigarette to smoke while he continued on some sort about the office. You only heard every other word from the roar of the pub, but he leaned forward to slap the table and the boys erupted with laughter, so you chuckled weakly along.

Isaiah wrapped an arm around you absentmindedly as he went on with his story and you ran your middle finger around the rim of your whiskey glass.

"So Arthur sent me to collect from…"

You toned him out, thoughts swirling your head as you circled your glass. Did you want to drink? Should you? It would surely help with your nerves from the noise. But oh, being drunk had become so dull.

"... And I said 'well we either take your eyes out your coin, you choose!'" Isaiah said as he rocked back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, his smile smug.

"Give 'em protection and they don't even wanna pay for it," Finn scoffed. "Bloody ungrateful."

You gritted your teeth together before you gripped your glass and drank it down in one go. The whiskey coated your throat and burned down your throat to the brick in your stomach. It eased your muscles as you rolled your tongue against your teeth. I guess we're doing this again.

It might have eased your body, but the crowd felt louder, more invasive. Having your back to the door felt like wearing a target. You itched to move. You looked around the pub again, your hand idly on your glass as you skimmed the crowd. A set of eyes locked with yours.

You smiled slowly, raising a brow in challenge. The young man smiled back. He wasn't ugly, nor was he entirely attractive. Just a random face in the pub to pull to the table to sell some tokyo. A little flirting might get you a drink from the deal. You tilted your head slightly, looking over to the bar and back to the man before you twisted back around to the table. You stood up with your glass, bent slightly to Isaiah's ear.

"Got a bite," you said. "I'll be at the bar."

Isaiah nodded.

"Feel him out and bring him 'round then, yeah?"

You stood up and made your way for two seats near the end of the bar, near the private Shelby room. You sat down on the one farther in, giving the man a clean exit if he was uninterested in what you were willing to offer.

You held your breath until you felt someone stand beside you.

"(Y/N)," He nodded as he pulled out the chair and sat.

"John," you replied, mimicking his tone but you couldn't help but lift a brow in surprise of the older Shelby boy joining you at the bar top.

You both were around each other enough to know of each other, but you rarely spoke. You stayed around the younger group and away from Tommy and Arthur. The oldest two were nice enough, but you knew their business and had seen when they decided not to be nice. Better to keep your head down and stick to the younger men who were still enamored with snow and tits.

John lit a cigarette and watched as you ran a finger around the rim of your empty glass, not daring to turn to look him in the eye.

"You're not yourself lately," he said with an easy smile before he inhaled his cigarette.

He pulled it from his lips and let out an exhale as he nudged you with his shoulder and offered it to you.

"How do you know what I'm like?" Your finger froze on the glass before your hand fell to the side.

You picked up your glass to drink, but at it down as you realized it was still empty. You slowly turned your head to look back at him.

"You're grinning gunpowder most nights, ready to blow at a moment's notice," John chuckled as his eyes roamed your face and down your body. "Lately you've been different. Not all checked in."

"That so?" You smirked as you took his cigarette from his hand and took a puff. You sized him up as your hand rested the cigarette on the counter. "Do you usually watch your little brother's pals this closely?"

John gave a short laugh.

"You should see Tommy," he said. "He knows every dirty secret of anyone who so much as spends a night around a Blinder."

"Smokes and mirrors," you said before you brought the cigarette back to your lips and inhaled. "You didn't answer my question."

"No."

"So why'd you sit by me, then?" You exhaled with a curl of smoke. "Tommy making sure one of his brother's bait girls isn't stepping out of line?"

"Is that it?" John said as he took his cigarette back. "You like a boy that's not a Blinder and rather be with him most nights?"

You snorted.

"There's no boy," you said incredulously. "Think me that foolish? Or that shallow?"

"Well if it's not a boy you aren't knocked up," John said as he smoked.

"Not everything is sex and drugs, Shelby," you scoffed. "I know none of you believe that, but it's true."

"Who says we don't believe in more than that?" John said. "Sometimes we believe in guns."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but crack a smile.

"Ehhh, see?" John said as he nudged your shoulder. "There's still a bit of the old girl in there."

"The old girl is just getting sick of the same old thing," you mumbled.

"What's that?" John frowned.

Harry appeared, hastily wiping the bar as he set out a glass for John and refilled yours.

"Sorry, sir," Harry rasped. "Night's a bit crazy. Makes me think we should hire another as help."

"It'sfine," John nodded at Harry as he wrapped his hand around his drink and turned toward you. "Now what're you on about?"

"I asked what you were after," you said louder. "You older ones don't bless us with your presence much."

"Not that much older," John grinned. "You're Isaiah's age, right? Six year age gap is nothin'."

"You know I'm not myself and my age," you said amused as you squeezed your glass, "but you won't tell me what you're after. Mr. Shelby, are you chasing after bait?"

John smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Love," he said as smoke poured through his teeth. "I don't chase no one."

Masterlist

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #john shelby x reader #John Shelby #isaiah jesus #finn shelby #michael gray #storytime with murderousginger

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kyber-crystal · 3 years

Text

steady || obi-wan kenobi

summary: even amidst the chaos of the war, obi-wan is always there to remind you that you don’t have to carry your burdens alone.

words: ~1.8k

warnings: mentions of death, violence, flashbacks to traumatic events (essentially mild PTSD), angst-to-fluff, mutual pining (oops my cliche side has jumped out here)

a/n: requested by the one and only @rentskenobi !! i’m sorry if this was really bad lol this is actually my first time writing for him. the middle-end was really poorly written i’m so sorry fffff

The war was beginning to take a toll on you.

It was affecting everyone to an extent, of course. As you walked around the halls you were met with tired eyes and lowered, worn-out voices telling you that you weren’t the only one who felt completely drained.

You threw yourself into your work—working extra hours with the Council and helping strategize battle plans, organizing committees and having longer meditation sessions with Yoda. If sacrificing a good night’s sleep was what it took to keep all the intrusive thoughts at bay, then you were more than willing to take up on the offer.

You did your best to keep your head held high but as time passed, it grew increasingly difficult. Hope seemed too far away on the horizon for you to reach out to it and actually believe it was in fact, going to get better. You were trying, but it got harder every day.

And Obi-Wan noticed. As a Jedi, you’d trained yourself to show no emotion whatsoever, or very little if you ever did—but being as observant as he was, he was quick to notice. It was all the little things that gave it away—the way you were constantly clearing your throat before speaking because it sounded hoarse and wobbly—as if you were on the verge of tears, the dark circles underneath your red-rimmed eyes, and how your hands always went up to fiddle with the moon-shaped charm he’d given you that hung from your neck.

You hadn’t eaten or slept in a solid six days. The dull migraine at the back of your head and sharp hunger pangs in your stomach told you to rest up and get proper nutrients into your body, but you ignored them. Maybe if you keep yourself on your feet, it’ll be easier to forget, you told yourself.

But no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that you were okay, the guilt still sat heavily upon your shoulders.

You knew you could’ve stopped them; you had all the power to. But you didn’t. You couldn’t, and you failed.

It was only a few weeks into the war when you’d lost your old mentor, your friend, your parental figure whom you stayed close to long after you’d completed your Trials—and, being who you were, you took it upon yourself to put all the blame on your shoulders. Because technically, it was, was it not? You knew if you’d gotten there in time, if you were even just the tiniest bit faster and more observant and paid better attention, she would be alive.

You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the bathroom’s mirror as you entered your quarters, and did a double take.

Gripping the edges of the sink, you stared back at the woman in the mirror. Her hair, normally plaited in elegant braids or pulled back into an updo, tumbled loosely and informally down her shoulders. Were those eye bags always there to begin with? Or had they recently appeared?

It was maybe half an hour or so later that you finally crawled into bed—without bothering to change. Fatigue was pressing down on your body rather heavily, but sleep never came.

You woke up screaming.

There was no way in hell you were going back to sleep—not when the prospect of your premonitions coming true were still fresh in your mind. You weren’t going to lose him the way you lost your master—the thought alone was too much to bear.

Without thinking about what you were doing, you got out of bed and quietly made your way down the hall.

Obi-Wan yawned as he opened the door and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “It’s 2 in the morning, what—Y/N, what are you doing awake?” He immediately paused when he saw the remnants of teartracks on your cheeks, falling silent as he placed a gentle hand on your back and ushered you inside.

Without a word, you climbed into bed, and Obi-Wan didn’t say anything either as he pulled the sheets over you.

You longed to be like him—to spend your nights not worrying about being plagued with terrifyingly realistic nightmares, to fall asleep almost at the very moment your head hit the pillow. The last time you remembered such a thing happening to you had been nearly a full year ago—but with the way time passed you by now, it felt like a lifetime. You wanted to ask Obi how in Force’s name did he sleep so well amongst an intergalactic war with seemingly no end to all its pain and suffering?

"What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” you mumbled as you turned your face more towards the pillow. It smelled just like him—warm coffee and citrus—and for a moment, it seemed to calm you down.

He sighed, and carefully slid in between the sheets right next to you. “Why don’t you try and sleep, alright? You need rest.”

"Mhmm.”

“Now get some rest, my love.”

You woke up sweating bullets, chest rising and falling as you struggled to catch your breath. You initially panicked when you looked around and couldn’t see Obi-Wan, but your shoulders sagged in relief upon seeing he was still there, sleeping peacefully right next to you, his hand brushing against yours ever-so-gently.

He stirred in his sleep slightly as you pushed yourself up into a sitting position.

“Y/N?” he mumbled, still only half-conscious as he turned to face you, immediately sitting up as well as he saw you staring blankly ahead. “Y/N. Are you alright? You’re trembling.”

“I’m fine,” you replied, but the shakiness in your tone gave it away. “Obi-Wan, go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He took your hand in his, gently rubbing patterns into your palm. Force, the way his blue eyes shone brightly even in the dark...the way the seemed to stare straight into your soul...

“I can’t sleep.”

Obi-Wan paused for a moment. He got up out of bed and motioned for you to do the same.

“What are you...”

“Shh. Come with me, there’s something I want to show you.”

His warm hand slipped into yours again as he led you down the hallway and up a long, winding staircase, and kept holding on until you finally reached the top, pushing open the heavy doors together to reveal a sprawling, open balcony.

“What is this place?” You were practically speechless as you stared up at the star-littered sky.

“It’s one of the meditation balconies...I often come here when I find that I can’t fall back asleep. Stargazing is rather helpful in clearing the mind.”

“It’s beautiful,” you exhaled. “It’s so hard for me to find time to come even during the day...”

You sought solace in staring up at the skies. It was rare, being able to gaze upwards into a cloudless, clear abyss when you were so often surrounded by the atrocities of war. So you were grateful for any night in which you were able to see the stars.

“You seem tired,” he noted, gazing worriedly at your appearance.

“Who isn’t at this point?” you exhaled, faking a laugh. “I’d be genuinely surprised to find someone around here who gets adequate rest.”

“Y/N, please tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m fine, Obi-Wan. I keep telling you there’s no need to worry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What?” The sudden sternness in his tone took you by surprise.

“You’re not okay, Y/N. You haven’t slept properly in a week, nor have you had any proper nourishment along with it. You almost passed out in the middle of sparring with Anakin, and Master Windu released you from yesterday morning’s meeting early because you were on the verge of knocking out cold. You don’t think I’ve noticed? I’m worried...if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, how am I supposed to help?”

You bit your lip and anxiously fiddled with your thumbs. “I haven’t slept in six days. Seven...if you count when I fell asleep during that meeting.”

“A week? If you keep it up, you’re going to fall ill. You almost have.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

You shook your head. “I had a bad dream."

“And you didn’t bother to tell me?” Obi looked more concerned rather than upset. “Y/N.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden to you. You have enough on your plate as it is,” you mumbled.

“You’re not a burden. I’d much rather listen and help you than have you go through it alone.”

You let out a long sigh and crossed your arms over your chest, staring blankly out at the darkened horizon. It seemed that everything nowadays served as some sort of bad omen. “I’ve been having these dreams for months on end...but I don’t even know if that’s what you can call them anymore. And I can’t lose you. I can’t let any of this become real.”

“You won’t lose me, Y/N, you have my word.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dreams pass in time.”

Releasing a shaky breath, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead against his broad shoulder, letting him slide his arms around your waist and gently kiss the top of your head. He lets his lips linger there; neither of you say anything about it.

Obi-Wan found himself going down a risky path. He knew better than to grow attached. But now that he was made well aware of your fear over losing him, his equal fear towards having you taken away from him as well had become too prominent for him to to keep brushing off to the side. If he couldn’t do so much as protect himself from imminent danger, he would do everything in his power to keep you safe under his wing for as long as he could.

He glances down at your peacefully dozing figure for several moments. You looked so serene, so young, while you slept all curled up against him and wrapped up in the sheets. And right then and there, the thought of wondering how it’d be to wake up next to you every day for the rest of his life hits him like a truck.

Brushing your hair away from your forehead, he places a hand to your face and skims his thumb across your cheekbone. He wants to stay like this, even if it’s only for a little while longer.

This isn’t right, he tells himself. But he can’t resist; there’s something about you that prevents him from doing so.

“You’re staring,” you mumbled, eyes still closed.

Obi blinked in surprise, slightly taken aback. “You’re awake.”

“...What time is it?”

“Half past nine.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” you muttered, throwing the sheets over your face to cool yourself down. Despite your effort, you could still feel your face burning. “I haven’t rested in six days. Goodnight.”

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Alright. Sleep well, my love.”

tags (including sw mutuals that might be interested): @haydens-moles @thedevilwearsbeskar @propertyofdindjarin @arkofblake @stardust-kenobi @poesflygirl @voguesir @fl0ating @anakinswhore @rynhaswritersblock @dracos-jedi-marvel @marvel-dameron

drop an ask to be added or fill out my taglist form here!

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan imagine #star wars fluff #star wars imagine #obi wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x y/n #obi wan x reader #star wars preferences #star wars fic #i'm sorry this wasn't the best #i feel so bad bc this is long overdue #but i hope you enjoy

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holycatsandrabbits · 3 years

Text

Love’s Endless Light: A Good Omens serial romance

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Chapter 6: Dark Descends

1611, North American Arctic

Crowley was cold. That was not a surprise, given that there was a blizzard going on outside the ship. The walls around him were black with smoke, and the smell of unwashed bodies was overpowering.

Crowley had been ordered to visit Henry Hudson’s ship, the Discovery, on its search for the Northwest Passage. Just stir up some trouble. You’re good at that. And Crowley was. But there were countless ways to injure yourself on a ship in the arctic winter, and Crowley was not a trained sailor. He’d managed to incur serious rope burns on his hands, and they were taking far longer than they should have to heal. Crowley felt weak and dizzy and colder than he’d ever been before.

When Aziraphale appeared, Crowley assumed that he was hallucinating. This hellhole was no place for an angel, and besides, Aziraphale looked ridiculous in his fluffy white furs, moving about a dirty ship. It wasn’t until other people started to interact with Aziraphale that Crowley realized he was really there.

It was hard for Crowley to keep his eyes open, but when they were, he could see Aziraphale talking and laughing with the sailors, passing out medicine and food, giving blessings. He spared not a glance for Crowley, and so Crowley began to wonder in the back of his mind if maybe he was the one who wasn’t there. Perhaps someone on the ship had dreamed up a demon? It didn’t make sense, but then, nothing really did at the moment. It did Crowley some good just to see Aziraphale, though, and that was a sort of happy thought to fall asleep to.

Crowley woke because he was warm. It was such a strange sensation that he wasn’t sure how to process it at first. Then he realized he was glowing, and startled so much that Aziraphale nearly dropped him. Because— because Aziraphale was carrying him through the ship, and up onto the deck. The blizzard was still raging, but Aziraphale seemed not to care. He pulled the confused demon close against his chest and with his next step, they landed in Aziraphale’s quarters in Cairo.

Crowley was not the one glowing, he realized. It was Aziraphale’s aura surrounding him. The angel knelt on the floor with Crowley still in his arms, and Crowley felt warm and more awake than he had for some time.

“Hold still,” Aziraphale scolded. “You’re injured and you’re very ill. You ridiculous serpent. Why didn’t you come to me for help?”

The silver-shivering angelic energy washing over Crowley was both painful and comforting at once, warm and cold, safe and dangerous. “I’m a demon,” he managed to say. “You’re not supposed to—”

“I’ve healed you before.”

“But you’re not supposed to.” Crowley looked at his hands, healthy and whole now. He took in a deep breath, and realized he hadn’t been able to do that for a while.

“I’m not going to let you discorporate,” Aziraphale said, sounding exasperated. “Hell only knows how long it would take for you to get a new body. And don’t be worried about me. I convinced Heaven that the men on the ship needed blessing. No one will know I was there for you.”

Crowley was in far better condition now than he had been for some time, but things still seemed a bit surreal. The main thing was that he was really and truly in Aziraphale’s arms. That hadn’t happened since Gaul in the first century AD. They touched sometimes, by accident or by design or, on Crowley’s part, by design that was meant to look like an accident, but it was rare. Crowley had dreamt of Aziraphale’s embrace while asleep and awake, and to have it outside of a dream was devastating.

It felt right. Which was clearly wrong. They were opposites, hereditary enemies. Angelic healing was not meant for demons. Nor was angelic kindness or friendship or even the bantering back and forth that they did, which was warmer than any argument had the right to be. Aziraphale truly cared about him, Crowley realized. And as for Crowley— it was clear in this moment that he was utterly and uselessly in love.

This thought had been in the back of Crowley’s mind for a while, giving off little warning signals that he’d been able to ignore up to this point. Even when he’d gone so far overboard with Hamlet ten years ago, in response to Aziraphale’s single hopeful glance, he’d been able to keep lying to himself about why. This love was an uninvited feeling, unwise, undemonic, yet completely unstoppable. Crowley wasn’t sure if a demon’s love for an angel might be meant as reward or punishment, or if it was just that things tended to go haywire after God stopped paying attention. Whatever the reason, it was the strongest thing Crowley had ever felt. He had not known he could feel anything so purely.

Aziraphale was not in love, though. Crowley focused on this cold fact to keep himself from putting his own arms around Aziraphale and damaging everything with a kiss or a confession. Aziraphale was an angel, a guard. He shouldn’t have been healing a demon, but that was just Aziraphale’s way. He hated to see any suffering. This impulse didn’t come from love but from misguided duty.

Or it might even have been guilt. Aziraphale hated to talk about the War in Heaven, about what he’d done there, but Crowley had gleaned enough over the years to know that Aziraphale had attacked demons, that he’d probably killed some. And being the ridiculous person that he was, he probably felt terribly guilty about it. This embrace was no more than a confused angel seeking redemption for having done his job.

Crowley carefully slid himself off of Aziraphale’s lap and out of his arms. As soon as he had moved away, Aziraphale’s glow vanished, seeming to collapse in on itself. He looked almost human then, with clumsy fingers unbuttoning a white fur coat, downcast eyes, and a wobbly frown. Crowley wanted to go back to his arms immediately, both for his sake and for Aziraphale’s. He was such a lonely angel.

Crowley smiled reassuringly. “Feeling a bit cold still. Got anything to drink?”

Aziraphale brightened visibly. “How about some tea? I don’t want you drinking alcohol so soon after being ill.”

Crowley gave him an aggrieved look. “What, you can’t drink after angelic healing? Or did you just not heal me well enough?”

“Crowley, honestly,” Aziraphale muttered, but he was fighting a smile. He disappeared into a side room and came out with a dusty bottle and two glasses. “Happy?” he asked.

Crowley flopped down into one of Aziraphale’s chairs. The angel never had a bed in his quarters, but always two chairs. “Perfectly,” Crowley said.

***********

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

NEXT: The Bastille scene!

Read on Ao3

Updates Fridays on Ao3 and Tumblr.

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous Good Omens serial: Mr. Fell’s Bookshop

My Carrd

*********

Image text: Love’s Endless Light by Dannye Chase (HolyCatsAndRabbits) Chapter 6

As Aziraphale and Crowley slowly fall in love over the millennia, Crowley discovers that Aziraphale is keeping a very dangerous secret.

#Dannye writes #good omens #Love's Endless Light #good omens fanfic

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oh-for-fic-sake · 4 years

Text

A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

Masterlist

Chapter Two

Warning: Adult situations +18 SMUT, Breeding Kink, A/B/O

A/n This is the brainchild of me and @havenoffandoms who helped me a lot with suggestions that I hadn't even thought of xx this will be a short chaptered fic hope you enjoy

Geralt finds his omega and Jaskier helps.

A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

You sighed watching the younger children running playing, weaving in and out of the sparse stalls in the village market. You sighed wistfully as they played chase, not a care in to world. You was jealous. You had that at some point, a reason to laugh, smile and play. You hand tightened on the basket as you were spotted by one of the mothers she was glaring at you. A beta. Most people here were betas there was only two alphas in the village. One an old waif of a man long past his prime and the other a young teen who had only just presented now that puberty had hit him and it had hit him like a brick wall, you smirked as you recalled the mouthy little shits wails as his senses were overloaded and had caused him to erupted in the most unsightly of ways.

You smiled as you remember him kicking, screaming and groaning, how he could be an alpha was beyond you ,he was a well known mamas boy even now at eighteen he hid behind her skirts. Your bet was on black magic Alphas presented at puberty he was eighteen summers old. But of course his presentation was a good omen and there was a celebration over it. You sneered 'yes it was fine for them'. You hissed in your mind as you strode across the market picking up vegetables for the week. Quickly taking your share you turned leaving the market without a second glance heading through the gates, the village didn't need a wall but apparently you was a threat. you almost felt honored they had been so wary of you they built a wall to keep you out. How thoughtful. You quickly walked to the old granary shack it was tiny but you'd been condemned to on the outside of the village. We wouldn't want the omega to seduce the villagers with her evil sinful ways now would we?.

You cringed remembering that day. You was eleven. Playing with the other children much like the ones in the market today and you began to feel unwell. The bakers son sven who you was sweet on, walked you home. That night you got the shivers your mother tried to help but the fever persisted and got progressively worse. By dawn you was moved to the healers cottage. You remembered how every breath was agony, the air was freezing in your heated lungs you truly thought you was dying as each breath was a struggle. Sitting by the fire you could still feel the pain, reliving it your bones ached and your head felt fuzzy then it happened it felt like you had been drowning your whole life everything muted and suddenly you was above the water hearing, smelling, seeing for the very first time. Terrified the village was convinced at first it was a curse, or maybe they hoped it was. You never really found out all you knew was that after the awakening came the cramps and your first bleed. The pain that sealed your fate was agonizing and nothing soothed it. You was an omega, it was a daunting realization. Omegas are a commodity around these parts either sold to an alpha to produce more alphas or sent to whore houses, but our village didn't have either and you had presented young a whore house probably wouldn't pay much, you didn't have tits yet.

The next option was killing you, an honor killing they said before you could disgrace your family with your depraved instincts. Your mother was against it, she was torn an omega was a bad omen believed to only present just before a disaster that would kill many the thought being the omega would repopulate and replace those lost and on the other hand you was her little girl, her youngest, miracle child who was born without breath yet somehow managed a cry after being declared dead. So at her insistence you was banished from the village, you could enter for commerce but nothing else, they couldn't risk you tainting them anymore then you had. you cringed as a cold wind swept through the shack planks were missing from the side and your hearth consisted of a small pit in the center of the space with rocks haphazardly strewn in a circle to try and avoid the place burning to the ground, a rug was your bed with a thread bare blanket for comfort. you survived on vegetables and berries, no one in town would sell you weapons for hunting they refused to waste the meat on you that was for there own.

Not you.

Luckily you had managed to dig through the soil with your hands and plant some of the seeds you had carefully picked from the food you was allowed to have. you watched as the sun began to fall below the walls casting a red glow above them. You wanted them to burn. It may be bad but you didnt care. Three days was all it took for you to become an animal to them. A child they had watched grow and flourish, was cast out without a second thought. You sighed poking at the fire adding a some tinder and curled up before the fire trying to preserve as much body heat as you could.

"Geralt are you sure this is the place? it looks to- well its not exactly high brow is it? i though witches like fancy places not back water villages" for once Jaskier wasn't spouting nonsense.

Geralt sighed looking up to the sky. it'd be snowing soon, he really should turn around and make his way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He glanced down from roach at the bard who was still trailing behind him. he found himself doing that more and more recently, checking the beta making sure he was still there. looking forward again as he contemplated what exactly that meant, witchers didn't have packs. Or at least they weren't supposed to but Geralt had found himself classing Jaskier as pack and now couldn't help but look out for the weaker male wanting him to remain close. he shook his head irritated tho he was a witcher he was also an alpha and that was something the mutations couldn't take. But it wasn't all bad he summarized, he didn't endure ruts and didn't fall prey to heats like other alphas that's not to say he didn't find omegas appealing, they were a good fuck responsive and fed his ego, called him alpha and let him do as he pleased well until they realized he couldn't knot them then things changed very quickly. They went from wanton bitches to spitting hellcats so fast that even he couldn't keep up. He glanced forward sitting straighter seeing their destination peak over the long stretch of tundra.

A village that had rumors off a witch casting dark magic across the village or that's what he had been told when he was asked to come, normally witches struck places that held valuable artifacts or rarities. The meager defenses of wooden stake walls and simple slat gate that he could probably scale with roach didn't suggest there was anything here of value.

"I'm sure bard, lets get this over. Its probably just a widow and nasty break out of fever" he grunted already thinking this as a waste. But the coin was good and if it meant he just had to place some protection runes to give them piece of mind he'd be a fool to pass it up. He began feeling funny as he closed in on the village noticing something off as small barely standing shack sat outside of the makeshift walls. A scent it was pleasant, very pleasant it didn't burn his nose like most did now. Rosemary, mint and something else he couldn't put a name to. It wasn't thick like most. Many scents felt thick and muggy to Geralt's witcher senses but this was free and wafting. He took a deep breath enjoying the scent more and more as he approached the shack wary it was different, too different from anything he had ever smelt ,even Jaskier seem to be inhaling deeper.

"What is that? oh it smells divine" he said without thinking the bard followed the scent. Geralt swore getting down from roach following the beta that was probably about to be caught up in some form of trouble. They both followed the scent until arriving at the door to the shack. He peered in. His heart stopped as the scent washed over him making him growl low. he took a dominant pose squaring his shoulders. Omega. But what the fuck was she doing out here?! she should be inside the walls not sleeping out her almost freezing to death!. He wasn't sure just where this immediate protectiveness came from but he was ready to slit the throats of who ever had allowed or forced the young female out here.

"Oh an omega." Jaskier said sadly almost sympathetically, he wasn't angry . Why wasn't he angry?. He should be omegas were rare. Rarer now then ever as attitudes had changed. But that was just it attitudes had changed. Omegas were no longer cherished as they should be, as they had been when Geralt was younger. the reality was that She was most likely abandoned. Geralt felt his rage shaking him to the core as he peered over the tiny malnourished omega she shivered in her sleep pulling her knees to her chest. His gaze took in the room. This was not a nest. No comforts for her, Nothing soft for her to sink into. Nothing to defend herself in her heats. Not even a proper fucking hearth. 'I will make her a nest. She will be safe'. He was disturbed by just how his thoughts turned he had never had this reaction to an omega before even when they were in the depths of heat pining fora male. Jaskier moved to her side about to stroke her face. With no control over it Geralt snarled and snapped at him fangs dropping.

"No!! OFF!MINE!" Jaskier slipped back nearly toppling over unprepared for the out burst as Geralt lunged forward at him. His .His omega. He heaved deep breaths watching Jaskier with predatory eyes. He was challenging him for the female. Jaskier shaking and completely frazzled only just managed to present his throat to the feral witcher, surrendering to his alpha. That seemed to pacify him as Geralt swung his cloak off draping it across the female smiling as she snuggled into it and her shivers ceased. he sat down heavy beside her casting axi on the dying fire bring new life and a burst of heat. after a few moments Jaskier slowly made his way to him and sat cautiously.

"G-Geralt what was that? is- you called her yours... I thought witchers didn't you know?" he was hesitant with his question. Geralt cast him a fleeting glance.

"We don't... Well not normally... Honestly we aren't taught about it just told that we are impotent and wont have ruts... But I suppose it could be like all mutations, they are all expected to do certain things but all mutations have varying results and mine are different anyway." he looked down at the content female by his side. His omega. Thats what his lesser had called her. And it wasn't a lack of judgment either. Once the words left him it had clicked , A soulmate just for him, A scent tailored to for him. That would be why she didn't smell like any other. A mate. A pack. He lifted a finger to her slowly running a knuckle across her slim cheek. She would never go hungry or cold again. Now that he found her he wouldn't let her go.

"Bed down for the night we will talk to the master of the village tomorrow." Jaskier nodded uneasy going to roach to retrieve the bed rolls.

You whimpered coming to you was warm. Oh my god yes. You groaned melting into the warmth that encased you feeling a large heavy fabric like a huge warm hug. And the fire before you was roaring hot on your face and the scent of meat filled the space. You wiggled a little pressing your face into the hot firm cushion below , must be a dream. You flinched as other scents followed two. Male. Both intoxicating one of herbs and something tangy and addictive the other was musky and sandalwood-no oak like an aged whisky barrel deep masculine and alpha. You tensed as you came to then frowned warm? no that's not right and the fire? that dies every night something was seriously wrong, you squeezed your eyes tight whimpering dreading opening your eyes in case you found yourself sold to a whore house. You fears grew when you felt a huge hand scratch your scalp lightly

"sshh its ok don't worry I've got you now" you opened your eyes there was a male in front of you sleeping soundly on a bed roll he was a beta you- you just knew soft kind features he looked healthy and you bet he had a glow when awake he was resting peacefully. So the one stroking your hair must have been the alpha. You gulped taking in your surroundings you was in your home still. They had broke in. You shivered getting hot ,sweat beaded across you as the scents swirled around you in a delicious overwhelming mix. Effecting you like a sorceress potion. You panted panicking lifting your hands to the hand in your hair pulling expecting resistance but instead he let you remove his hand.

He sighed shushing you again a deep voice that vibrated through you. A large warm hand landed on your shoulder rolling you to your back. It was then you realized that he was sitting cross legged you'd been using his thigh as a pillow. You looked up gasping as you met two amber irises long silver hair fell framing his angular face slight stubble donned his face making him even more handsome. You wanted to panic. Should have panicked but you instead had this overwhelming urge to bury yourself into his chest. To drink in as much of his scent as you could. You whined crying softly as the heat that had begun to race through your body became a scorching fire. Torrents of boiling and uncontrollable lust flooded your body leaking onto your skirts. This mus be it. The disgusting shameful desires of omegas you was spat at for. You'd had heats but never this way. It was coming fast and merciless, you watched as the alphas nostrils flared he released a slow breath.

"No wh-what hahahah i cant - What have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didnt understand why. had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. you cried out thrashing hitting him.

"no wh-what hahahah I cant Wha-what have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didn't understand why. Had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. You cried out thrashing hitting him.

He wouldn't allow you of his lap instead lifting you into it. Your bottom on the floor knees bent over one leg back resting on the other.

"Its ok.....Its ok omega... I'm your mate, your true alpha your body is responding it want's to mate... wants to bond" your cries must have woke the other male as you both looked to a new voice.

"Ge-GERALT! What are you doing to the poor thing?!?" he called moving to remove you from him. The alpha, Grealt growled as he went to touch you.

"Fuck off Jaskier I'm trying to help her, I've sent her into a proper heat!" Jaskier stopped scenting the air before going pink embarrassed.

"Well she looks terrified! you should explain to her, i doubt they teach omegas here especially considering she is out here not in there" Jaskier gave a small smile.

"Do you know what you are love? Whats happening?" you nodded then shook your head sobbing yelping as another cramp, worse this time longer tighter and lower.

"I'm a harlot, bad" was all you could get out as you fell into your more basic state not capable of coherent thought. Geralt growled at that then crowded you holding you close wanting to sooth you.

"No...No your not bad.... Your good such a goood girl... It hurts I can make it stop...Please let me make it stop it will keep getting worse until I do please..." he kissed your face cradling you into him his need to help his mate was almost to much but he would not touch you if you refused him. Unlike other males he did not use instincts as an excuse for such things. Jaskier watched unsure of what to do, he didn't doubt his alpha for a second but this female was young uninformed she was fragile and frightened and he suspected that she didn't know much about what she was or what was to come. She cried grasping at Geralt

"H-how?... I-help please make it stop its bad..... Really bad" you pleaded weakly with him. unable to move as your body quivered in pain as it felt like one continuous cramp. The alpha called his beta over ordering him to help rid of her clothes, he would stay and help. Jaskier gaped, alpha's generally didn't let anyone else near omegas in heat but it would seem his alpha was different on many levels. Quickly recovering you felt hands pulling and tugging the sticky dress from your body discarding it quickly you created as your slick made your cooled your heated skin you felt dirty, shameful. Wailing trying to cover yourself from them as Geralt quickly striped himself cock relieved as it sprung up tall and proud. He wont waste time pushing Jaskier before her as he moved her into position she was to far gone to try and protest as she was bent over on hands and knees then GeraLt pressed between her shoulders angling her for him. He wont bite not today. No he would get her threw this and then when she was back down to earth he would talk to her. Or at least that is the plan.

"Jaskier help her stay calm and still." he ground out watching with bright eyes as Jaskier crouched by you head letting you reach out to him clutching as his hands scared not sure what was happening as Geralt poised himself then quickly drove forward sheathing enough to quickly break threw the barrier that he knew was just inside wanting it out of the way as soon as possible.

"AAAHH! NO I-STOP!" you scrambled tying to dislodge him constricting your walls to push him out whimpering as he held firm holding the same position, his hot calloused hands cupped your waist holding you still not allowing you to move an inch from him when you bucked forward and he followed. You leaned so far that your knee slipped and Geralt had to catch it before you fell ripping him out of you. He growled

"Jaskier fucking help her!" he grunted still tucking his chin to his chest trying desperately to refrain from moving for your sake the worst was over. The beta quickly cupped your face wiping the tears away reassuring your quaking form.

"shh shh its ok the worst is over now... good girl I know he's a grump isn't he but its fine...... so good" he winced as you cried pitifully he knew you would be soothed in a moment but it was gut wrenching for him to endure try and temper your cries. Slowly Geralt began pushing forward dragging you back on him impaling you as gently as he could. You keened as you stretched to accommodate his lust, so full and taught almost felt as if you was tearing apart at the seams. Grunting lightly as your passage rippled across him he groaned moving a hand across your back rubbing soothingly.

"Yes that's it relax...... OH FUCK.. Yes that's it so precious..... See it feels better now doesn't it? all that fuss you made" you tried nodding it did feel better almost as if you'd applied a healing balm to your insides. You moaned digging your nails into Jaskier's hands. panting as Geralt's hips finally pressed into yours his balls resting on your little bud making you squeak and try to rub back against him trying to grind up into the light taps they delivered.

"Ha-oh is that it?... You like that?.......All you needed?.... Good girl all there now" his praise made you glow he rocked slowly , just enough to reward you with soft pats from his balls against your clit. You gasped trying to buck against him.

"AH! Please-Alpha PLease I want!" you panted forcing the words

"Oh I know what you want... you want to be bred like the good little bitch you are" his words were filthy derogatory and perfect, Jaskier watched wide eyed as Geralt placed a hand below you rolling the pad his finger against your erect bud . Gulping Jaskeir closed his eyes, face on the rug beside you drinking in your moans and pants that went straight to his own cock, he moaned softly a hand sneaking to his bottoms cupping and rubbing, smoothing his digits around the engorged flesh. His eyes popped open glazed and hazy as you moved a hand to his crotch slim and dainty holding him through the fabric. You cried out as Geralt withdrew and pushed back forcing your body to give way to him.

"Don't you .....omega you want to be bred? full and round..... your so fucking ready for pups aren't you?" he grunted as his pace quickly escalated as he lost himself faster than he ever had. His own words revealing his own darkest desire. A pup of his own. Watching his mate swell with proof of there coupling. Yes. He closed his eyes relishing in the impossible image. You screeched holding Jaskier's thigh moaning and crying your pleasure all the way. Your walls fought him at every plunge of his hard flesh, resisting his punishing deep thrusts as he kissed at your cervix yet at the same time clutching at him trying to take as much as it could, muscles trying to capture him properly as nature intended but at the same time clenching to push him out. It was cruel and delicious Jaskier couldn't help it you look to appetizing he leaned down licking into your open mouth coaxing your hand down into his bottoms you clutched him underneath his palm as he began making you stroke him in fast even strokes he groaned loud a beautiful high sound that, to Geralt was much better then his singing. Grunting, Geralt's fingers pried and pinched your clit and flicked the tip of the swollen bud that peaked from between his tight fingers you screamed squeezing Jaskier he faltered as your hand was ripped off him. Geralt was powerless as his fantasy became to much of a temptation making a snap decision, as he saw Jaskier on the floor beside you crying and panting himself trying to fuck into your hand faster and harder.

"Jaskier here now!" Geralt couldn't stop he needed it. Needed to see it, to feel the kick of pups in the telltale bump of his omega. He longed for the soft heart beat's he had heard enviously in the past. He relished in the glow that all omegas had when full with a litter. He wanted that happiness for his omega. He would give that to her one way or another. Jaskier was confused but obey rounding the rutting couple unsteady. He was caught off guard as Geralt pulled him to rest his forehead to his still pulling and pushing into the small wailing female. The alpha kissed him not deep or lewd a chaste kiss and pulled back holding the smaller male's gaze.

"wh-what? I cant do that?" Geralt growled as he felt his end coming trying to fight it until this was sorted.

"YOU! have a cock don't you?!? do it bard SHE needs it!" you moaned not hearing much of anything as you tucked your hands beneath yourself rocking quicker and quicker chasing something needing more.

"PLEAASE! please pleaspleas I-I dont know wha-I need please alpha!!" you brawled scratching and digging at the rug. Jaskier looked between you and his alpha the desperation that you both leaked was to much, he bit his lip then nodded. Relieved Geralt finally let loose roaring his release spraying his useless load into you the force hitting your cervix grunting low as you came at the sensation, howling into the floor below. panting Geralt sat back on his heels grabbing Jaskier by the scruff sitting his ass on his thighs ignoring the bards protests as he shucked his trousers down and gripped his cock using his scruff to raise him into position

"I-I cant do it-ger-GERALT!" he shouted gasping as geralt lined him up with your entrance the witcher thrust his pelvis forward forcing the beta into your quivering heat. You squealed as your sensitive walls caressed a new cock, although not as large it was still an addictive feeling you lowered back down pressing your chest to your makeshift bed pebbled nipples rubbing skimming the rough fabric as they swayed with each rock of your body.

"AH-OOHH! please yesyesyes... please fill me!" you withered below the new male as Geralt was on his knees behind Jaskier still holding the bard by his neck.

"Don't worry love..... You'll be full soon enough...Well you better be..." Geralt threatened as Jaskier took over holding you and rocked into you grunting quietly trying so hard not to think of the alpha watching as his cock disappeared into you. You cried as you felt a familiar hand return to play with your tender clit your body spasmed violently finding a second release with a loud high pitched cry. Geralt held Jaskier up not allowing him the chance to bite a mark into you at the same time he ground his pelvis to the his ass pining him still and deep as your twitching passage milked him with a loud series of grunts he came into you not as powerfully as Geralt but still spurting pleasantly tickling your insides.

"Jaskier deeper- I want her bred" Geralt stated noticing that as the bard finished he had arched removing an inch of so as he did. Sighing as Jaskier was to lost moaning and rocking he rolled his eyes at the beta. Omegas were the best fucks and this was most likely the last time he would fuck you he would want to make the most on of it. Geralt hooked an arm below your hips tugging you back you cried as you was forced still and tight against them. Jaskier still leaking small streams of cum this time you felt it at your true opening wetting and burning as his seed trickled past it. you cried.

"oh-OH fuck its- done yes fuck I-hot its hot" you babbled trying to raise up stopping as you heard a growl

"No stay there let it keep going... Good girl.... I'm so proud.... Cant wait to see you round with them....Fuck yes you'll be so good" Jaskier stayed still awkwardly clamped between the tow of you. Amazingly enough feeling like the third wheel even if it was him pumping you full. geralt slid back patting jaskiers rump

"Stay... I'll be back" then left Jaskier blinked smoothing his hand across your back.

"you ok down there?" you nodded sleepy folding your hands below your head content and ready for sleep. Geralt returned carrying a pack then dragged the bard off you dropping to the floor legs spread placing you between them his inner thigh against your pussy pressing tight trapping everything inside you leaning you back cradling you he tugged a black shirt of his from the pack sliding it across your arms and buttoning it up. Jaskier sighed pulling up his trousers

"dont bother with them you'll need to give her another load soon." Jaskier sputtered

"I'm sorry? what?"

"Beta or not if your going to breed my omega you'll breed her like an alpha, now drop em" Geralt said seriously as he reached over to the almost forgotton meat tearing small chunks bringing it to your lips. You took the bites happily still lost in your haze.

"I'm sorry Geralt I'm not an alpha I cant just pop one off on demand"

"Not with that attitude you wont, sit eat your going to need it breeding is serious business" the bard was speechless then huffed throwing the trousers to the floor he wasn't going to win so whats the use, taking a seat by you both helping himself to the meat deciding that he should fuel up if this was going to last for a whole heat. Secretly excited about the prospects of the new addition to the small pack and pups.

You sat there thrilled some primal part of you understanding that your alpha was tending to you, Feeding and providing for you and had called the other pack member to eat with you. You took several bites before turning away from his hand. He tutted.

"No you need your strength, come on open up we need you big and strong for the pups." you contemplated the words agreeing as you let him continue to feed you. Jaskier just stared watching Geralt drop all walls for the first time. He looked happy. Truely happy. There was a slight worry for the future but he brushed it away choosing to bask in the glow of the newly formed couple.

#geralt smut #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt x jaskier x reader #witcher fanfiction #witcher smut #geralt x reader

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spxrkplug127 · 3 years

Text

WHUMPTOBER DAY 1

Alt. Prompt - Comfort

content warnings: au for final battle of bnha, description/mentions of injuries, throat injury, somewhat oc insert (reader’s quirk is described, but no features), possibly ooc bakugou, hurt/comfort to the extreme, spoilers(??) for bnha war arc, brief mention of a character death, mentions of blades/knives

your quirk:

banshee: in the simplest terms possible, banshee is essentially banshee physiology. it allows the user to use the abilities of the banshee, an otherworldly creature often seen as an omen of death. they have the ability to use a sonic screech to cause damage to their enemies. in essence, banshee grants access to the abilities the creature possesses. includes audiokinesis, sonic screeching, and audiokinetic combat. prolonged use of audiokinesis at high frequencies or loud volumes may lead to hearing loss in the user. in addition, the user tends to be quite sensitive to noises and is often bothered by loud noises.

story is beneath the cut

it had been a week since the battle ended. seven days. seven days since all might perished in the final struggle against all for one. seven days of recovery, of grieving, of healing.

it had been seven days since the last time class 2-a heard a word come out of y/n’s mouth. a week since they last saw their smile or laugh, a week since the last time anyone had seen them walking around the dorms. they’d sustained quite a few injuries during the battle, among them a concussion, a broken rib, and a very large cut across their throat. the doctors had said it was quite possible y/n would never be able to speak again, let alone use a vast part of their quirk.

it had been seven days since the last time they’'d been awake. a week since their friends had decided to take shifts in sitting in the room, watching carefully in the hopes that the [color] haired hero would soon wake up.

right now, there was one person sitting in the room with them. he'd sent the others out to go get some air, not wanting them to be stuck in the dreary hospital room for any longer than they had to be. besides, he reminded himself, it's my fault they’re like this. if he'd been paying closer attention, he could've stopped that damn blade from hitting them. he could've stopped them from letting out one final, ear-splitting screech as the blade sunk into their neck, cutting deep enough to reach their vocal chords. he could've been there to get them to safety. instead, he was sitting in the hospital room next to his partner, a distant look in his eyes.

"please... please don't leave me..." he mumbled, reaching over to squeeze their hand lightly in the hopes that they could hear him. "you're not allowed to die on me, dumbass." he blinked a few times, trying his hardest to fight off the (extremely rare) tears he felt in the corners of his eyes. he couldn't lose them. not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

after he spoke, he went silent. he closed his eyes, feeling a few drops of water slip down his cheeks. he couldn't hold the tears back any longer. "fucking hell. you can't leave me, [nickname]. you can't. you're not allowed to." he repeated.

he opened his mouth to speak, only to be met with a light squeeze to his hand, followed by what sounded like an attempt to speak and a pained groan. y/n sat up, eyes wide with fear as they blinked, so confused as to where they were and why their throat felt like it was on fire.

"hey hey hey... don't... don't try to talk, alright? lemme explain what happened and then you can ask questions. sound good?" he said. after seeing them nod, he took a moment to compose himself, wiping the tears from his eyes. "you got a nasty cut on your throat during the battle. it uh... it partially hit your vocal chords. doctors said you might not be able to use the screaming part of your quirk ever again." he refrained from adding the part about them possibly never speaking again. it was better that way, for both their sake, that they didn't know that information at the moment.

they blinked a few times, tears streaming freely down their face as he moved to comfort them, wrapping his arms around them gently. their body shook with silent sobs, terrified at the prospect of never using a large part of their quirk again. they pulled away from him for a moment, hands shaking as they signed. are you okay?

"i'm fine, [nickname]. just... just a few minor scrapes. nothing i can't handle."

i meant mentally, idiot. i can tell you're fine physically. they paused for a moment, as if they were unsure how to communicate their thoughts. it isn't your fault.

"but if i-" he began, only to be cut off by y/n pressing a kiss against his lips.

shut up. they signed after pulling away, a smug smile on their face as they saw how flustered he was. i'm the one who got hurt, it's my fault for being dumb. stop blaming yourself.

"fine." he conceded, knowing it wasn't worth it to argue at this point.

will i ever be able to speak again? they asked after a moment. my throat burns. a lot.

"i..."

be honest, kat. i'm a big kid, i can take it.

"the doctors said it's possible you won't be able to talk anymore."

y/n closed their eyes, blinking a few times as they swallowed hard. they opened their mouth, a choked sob coming from their lips. i'm useless. how can i be a hero if i can't speak to people? how can i be a hero if i can't-

"hey... you're gonna be okay. i promise you. i'm not gonna let anything happen to you, dumbass. who cares if you can't talk or sing? there's other things about you that make you a wonderful person to be around." he interrupted, grabbing their hands gently to stop the rapid stream of worry. he removed his hands after a moment

i feel like i'm just gonna be a burden. they signed back to him, a dull look in their eyes.

"you're never a burden."

can you just hold me? i don't wanna think about this right now. just wanna be with you.

"of course." he replied, sitting down next to them. the blond pulled them against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them to prevent from aggravating their mending ribs. they curled into him, eyes closed as they tried to calm themself down. "i'm right here, baby. i'm not going anywhere."

things were quiet for a while other than an occasional sniffle from y/n. after a few minutes, he felt y/n pull away from him a bit. "what's up? are you uncomfortable?"

i love you. they signed, not looking at him. i love you so much.

pressing a kiss against their nose and pulling them back into him, katsuki did the only thing he felt he could in that moment. "i love you too, dumbass."

#whumptober2021 #no.1 #altprompt #my hero academia #fic #injury tw #throat injury tw #knife tw #bnha #bnha spoilers #bnha au #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #sparky speaks #sparky writes #first writing post wooo!!

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nav-arre · 3 years

Text

I Will Fear No Evil

Day 1 of FebuWhump2021, run by @febuwhump! Also can be read on ao3.

For the most part, camping with an army chasing you wasn’t much different than camping without an army chasing you, Jaskier thought. When with Geralt, things were usually barebones anyway. The brief time they’d camped with Yennefer had been luxury but four people were easier to track than two and two, so they’d once again had to split off. And so their camp was as basic as usual, a few more traps set and more care taken to blend in with the forest around them.

But all in all, it felt… normal. It was almost like old times, deliriously far away now, where they would camp in the woods when they found each other again on the Path, would stay up talking late into the night for no particular reason.

Jaskier looked up at the tree beside him, which was losing some of its honey-colored leaves. Nestled in a branch were two turtle doves, cuddled together against the slight morning breeze.

“Geralt!” he whispered loudly. “Geralt! Look!' He pointed up. Across the tiny camp, Geralt looked up from fiddling with his potions and raised an eyebrow. Jaskier pointed excitedly. The witcher looked up, and after a beat, went back to his potions. “Birds,” he said.

“Turtle doves, Geralt, two in one place is lucky. A good omen for love! And friendship!”

“Don’t look like turtles to me,” Geralt said. “And I’ve never heard anything about doves and love."

“That’s… Geralt. I know you’re not one for human mythos, but they’re turtle doves. It’s… its famous, Geralt! It’s a thing!”

“Never heard of it.”

“It is very much a thing!” Jaskier said, a bit louder than he probably should have but they were safe here. He always felt safer with Geralt. But he dropped his voice again, just in case. “It is very much a thing, Geralt. Turtle doves are a pillar of love songs. Even I’ve used them more than once! Don’t you ever listen?”

“No.”

“You!” Jaskier picked up an acorn and threw it at his head, but Geralt caught it easily. “You menace. I try and make a nice point about doves and you…”

Geralt was smirking at him.

“Ohhhh, oh you complete ass! Mr. ‘Oblivious Witcher’ strikes again, well pardon me for wanting to trust you, for wanting to educate you! When will you stop pulling this?”

Geralt chuckled. “When you stop falling for it so easily,” he said, pocketing the acorn.

Jaskier went to look back at the birds but stopped when he saw Geralt’s raised hand and his face-- which went from concentrating, to confused, to panicked, all in a second.

“Jaskier— behind me, now!”

The bard didn’t waste a moment, scrambling desperately over to his friend, whipping a small dagger off of his belt. The woods were silent, and Geralt’s eyes were blown wide. He started to lower himself down slowly, eyes up and sword drawn, in an attempt to grab one of his potions. Jaskier looked around wildly.

And then, the birds flew off in a rush.

It happened at once. Bandits— no, more professional than that, but quite not Nilfgaardian soldiers— seized on them, easily 15, but he didn’t have time to count. He swung wildly, but he was too scared, too wrapped up in protecting himself and trying to watch for signals for Geralt. He landed a lucky punch in some bastard's face and swung to see another figure sneaking up on Geralt. “Look out!”

If Geralt turned, he didn’t see; a bag was thrown over his head, his knees kicked out from under him. Before he could lash out, his arms and legs were being held down and tied up and felt a pit in his stomach as he heard Geralt shout and then fall silent, followed by a dull thud on the ground below.

“GERALT!”

The captors quickly ripped the bag off and stuffed some cloth in his mouth, securing it with a tie around his head, before shoving the bag back down. Fuck.

He tried to listen to them— but all he got was that they didn’t have long to travel before making it to their quarters, and they didn’t have dimeritium, but wouldn’t need it because they’d send word to Nilfgaard immediately. They wouldn’t have long to escape.

“I’m taking the bard,” one said, kicking him in the stomach. “Wanna see him squirm. Then we’ll carve something out of this beast,” and Jaskier saw red behind the bag. He screamed, thrashed, tried desperately to fight off the ropes.

“Gods. Shut up,” said one captor, before he felt a blunt pain on his head and his world went black.

xxx

Jaskier came to slowly and deeply uncomfortably. It was musty, smelled foul, and the air hung in his lungs like molasses. His arms were behind his back, and one of his shoulders— he tried to move it and hissed against the pain— was definitely dislocated. The cold steel of handcuffs cut into his wrists, stiff and uncomfortable, and he was knelt in a liquid he didn’t want to look at, much less under the origins of. His head ached enough as it was.

His knees were also touching something warm, and when he opened his eyes blearily he found that it was Geralt’s own bent legs, slotted between his own. His vision swam, his stomach lurched, and he shut his eyes tightly to stop sickness coming on. Jaskier took a few deep breaths— feeling lucky he had the lungs of a bard— and steeled himself. He looked up.

He could barely see. The cell was… he’d had closets bigger than this. It was clearly a very temporary holding space, the narrow walls definitely designed to make them panic, and Jaskier found it might actually be working. Geralt’s head hung, and he breathed deeply, but his slight snarl against the smell of the room proved him to be awake. Thank the gods, that was something. Geralt’s face was only a few inches from his own, and Jaskier had to restrain himself from burying his face in the Witcher’s shoulder, or bumping their foreheads together.

“Well. Good morning,” he said softly, trying to coax out a reaction. All he got was Geralt’s next intake of breath sounding a bit deeper. This was bad. If Geralt was still waiting, still thinking, this was worse than Jaskier had thought. He looked around— his witcher's wrists were in handcuffs much like his own, but his ankles were cuffed to the floor as well and a heavy chain went around his middle several times. His neck had a thick cuff around it too, and though it was attached to the wall by a chain instead of into the wall itself, it restricted his movements enough to make it an issue. They were keeping him worse than one would keep an animal. It made him sick to see.

These captors were not the most sophisticated, and may not have had dimeritium, but Geralt’s bindings were solid enough that there wouldn’t be much for him to do. But Jaskier could help. He could always help, some way, somehow, even if it was small.

At the top of the wall behind Geralt was the one and only light source for the cell, a long, narrow window only as tall as his fist might be but a foot or two long. In front of it were thick metal bars; likely iron, his mind supplied unhelpfully. Jaskier set to work dreaming up an escape plan. If— if he just stood on Geralt’s shoulders, maybe he could pry the bars apart, and punch the glass out? But what good would that do— it wasn’t like it was tall enough for either of them to squeeze through. He looked to his right, and a dark stone wall greeted him, and to his left, where the door to the cell stood imposing, solid, and very much locked. He hung his head and tried to fight his creeping anxiety. Maybe there wasn’t anything he could do this time.

Okay. They’d been in tough spots before, he’d been in bad spots before but this… this was different. This was Nilfgaard, and this was Geralt. He could take Nilfgaard alone, no amount of torture could bring any answers out of him, but if they used Geralt against him… he felt doubt in himself sneak in. The thought of Geralt, hurt because he wouldn’t release information turned his stomach, and he realized that, much as he wanted to, he couldn’t promise not to say something.

Fear began to rise in him. He rarely was afraid in these situations— he was good at converting feelings into something productive— emotional alchemy, he liked to think of it— but that was because there was always a way out. Every situation had an escape button if only you knew where to look. But he knew they would stop at nothing to know where Yennefer and Ciri were, and that was different. He knew they wanted Geralt dead, and that was different. That was so much different.

“Jaskier.” He looked up. Geralt was looking at him with concern and perhaps frustration. “You need to breathe.” He could only nod.

“Yep.”

Silence again. Something dripped onto the floor beside him.

“How did they…? Fuck, was it me with the birds? Did they hear?”

“No, they had a silencing charm. Should have heard them earlier, though.”

Jaskier looked at him, pained. “It’s not your fault. No point in lingering on it anyhow.” He shifted on his knees, and looked desperately around the cell again. “Well.”

“It's— I’ll get you out.”

“I’m not interested if it’s not both of us, Geralt.”

Blue met gold. They’d had this conversation before. Geralt sighed and looked around their cell.

“I don’t have much.”

“Yeah, well. Not giving us a fair fight, are they?” He hoped some light-heartedness would quell his fears, but it did nothing. Anxiety continued to creep in.

“They’re not.”

“Wouldn’t stand a chance otherwise.”

“No,” Geralt said with a huffed laugh. They both knelt there, breathing, looking at each other.

Jaskier’s resolve broke. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Geralt agreed.

There was nothing they could do. They were stuck. There was nothing. There was nobody coming and no ace up their sleeves. There was nothing. He’d have to suffer this, and die? Watch his friend be tortured? Be tortured himself? Let them take everything from him and give them what they wanted— either tears or information, or both. He should be brave but fuck, he was everything they’d always said he was, wasn’t he? A coward. He strained against his cuffs and they cut into his skin, unyielding. He thrashed about for a moment, and Geralt just looked at him sadly. Oh, fuck. He stopped, his body suddenly feeling like lead.

“I…” and suddenly the panic was overtaking him. Fuck. -Fuck. What if he couldn’t manage it? What if he wasn’t strong enough? He was going to die here, he knew it, that didn’t feel like anxiety, that was just realistic. That wasn’t even his fear, anymore, there was a dim acceptance of it in him.

They’d talked about this situation. They’d planned for it. They all knew each other's last fucking wishes, and gods, Yennefer and Ciri were going to have to deal with all of it alone. And— well, he knew he was a coward, everyone did, but this surprised him— what he was so, so deeply scared of was the pain. Of what they would do to him, of what it would be like to watch Geralt suffer, of all of it. Gods. He was shaking, he knew it, and Geralt was saying something but he couldn’t even hear him.

Oh but— but Geralt. Oh, the cuffs weren’t dimeritium.

Oh, how selfish he was about to be. Oh, how he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I need you to—“ Whatever Geralt was saying, he stopped. Jaskier tried to slow his breathing. “I need you to Axii me.”

Geralt frowned deeply. “What? No.”

“Geralt. I can’t— if they have you, I’m not sure I can do this. Please, gods, I know its selfish, I’ll give you anything in return but—“ Jaskier looked up, met his Witcher’s eyes, and did not look away. “This may be my last request of you Geralt. Please. Axii me.”

“I have no time for this. What would—“

“Just— tell me not to feel pain. Or fear. Make it easier, Geralt, please— I love you, I love you, if I see them hurt you I can’t promise what I’d say to make it stop. If they get bad enough— Geralt. Please. I can’t watch that.” He heard footsteps in the corridor, and though he couldn’t tell where they were going, it made everything more urgent. He realized tears were streaming down his face, cutting tracks through the grime, and he wondered numbly how long they’d been falling. “Geralt. Please. Please, dear heart, let me find some peace, help me protect you, Yennefer, Ciri, for gods sakes Geralt—”

“I can’t—”

“You can, Geralt, you can, I’m asking, I’m begging, my fate will be the same just please, please don’t make it hurt, I can’t—”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Is— so you will—“

“Okay. I…” Geralt shut his eyes tight and took a shuttering breath. “Fine. Close your eyes.”

Jaskier let his lids fall closed and realized the tears were coming in earnest. He was taking in small gasps of air, filled with mucus and completely undignified. He wanted so badly to be brave this time. He wanted it so badly. But he wasn’t strong enough and he knew it. Maybe he never had been. At least it’d all be over soon.

Geralt swallowed and opened his eyes. Jaskier was shaking, trying to breathe deeply but small sobs kept breaking through. Jaskier didn’t cry, he just didn’t; not when they were captured, not when he lost a competition, not when he was rejected. Jaskier was soft but this, this was new, and he’d known the man two decades now. He’d never seen him like this. It hurt. Against his nature, he wanted to reach out and— touch? Hold? Something. Anything but this.

But there wasn’t much else to do. Jaskier wasn’t wrong, was the worst part— if he couldn’t find them a way out, there was a good chance they’d kill the bard to hurt the witcher, torture Jaskier to get information or force him to watch Geralt be tortured. He could take the pain, and he knew Jaskier knew that, but watching it happen was another matter. Just as he was watching Jaskier suffer now.

His best friend was knelt in front of him in a tiny, dim cell, and asking for peace and had said— had said he loved—

Geralt shook off the thought. No. Not now. Couldn’t deal with that now.

He adjusted himself best he could to cast the sign before stopping. Jaskier’s tears and hiccuping breaths were slowing a bit.

Maybe he had to deal with it now.

“You— Jaskier, you know I—“

“Yes of course I do, Geralt.” His heart seized a bit. “All of it. Everything. It's okay. It's okay.” He rested his head against his bard’s soft hair. He didn’t deserve this fate. “Thank you,” he was whispering, “Thank you. You can do it. I’m ready. I love you, Geralt, do it now. You can do this.”

With fingers he could not feel, Geralt made the sign of Axii. “You will not feel pain. You will not feel fear, nor grief. You’ll be at peace.”

“No pain. No fear, no grief. Peace,” the bard replied thickly. Geralt felt the sign take hold and drew back to get a better look at his friend. Jaskier looked up blearily, almost drunkenly, and gave a lopsided smile. “Oh, Geralt. It’s lovely to be so close to you.”

Geralt took a breath. Footsteps drew nearer. Jaskier’s face was tracked with tears, and he still hiccuped a breath occasionally. He smiled still, his body loose of anxiety.

“Have I ever told you how stunning you are up close? It’s really something. Mmm. You seem tense, love. Whatever it is, it’s okay now. Oh Geralt, you really should relax a bit. Things are nice here. Peaceful.”

It occurred to him then how often he had unconsciously been spurred into action by watching Jaskier in pain. Seeing him hurt, or scared, or angry at injustice, or under threat he didn’t deserve, that was always Geralt’s cue to spare no expense; to fix the problem, heal the hurt. Protect his bard. And here his bard was, no fear, no hurt, no anguish. And it kicked up the same feelings in him but with something new as well. He didn’t want to think about it.

Jaskier had said love. And not in his flowery, Jaskier way. Love.

Ah.

He heard keys in the lock. Without a doubt, it was their captors, come to snap dimeritium around him while they had the chance. He strained against his restraints but they wouldn’t budge.

“I do love you, you know,” Jaskier said softly. He rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “You are so easy to love, dear. I wish you’d let yourself be. There’s so much of it waiting for you.”

No, he thought, he wouldn’t let his bard die here.

xxx

The thing about not feeling fear, Geralt thought belatedly, running through the forest with a bleeding bard in his arms, is that it allowed one to do absolutely stupid, reckless, and possibly brilliant things.

A bit like how Jaskier, seeing Geralt being handled roughly, head smashed once, twice, three times against the cold wet stone walls, had broken his own hand to escape his cuffs, stolen a sword off one of the soldiers, and slain three of them off without a thought of his own safety. He hadn’t seemed angry, or vengeful, or scared, just a calm man with a purpose that didn’t phase him. He’d knicked the key off a body, brought Geralt out of his chains, and quickly caught a sword through his side as he straightened up. But then it was Geralt’s turn to swing a sword, and before long they were out.

Keeping the overly calm Jaskier running had been a task in it of itself, but once they made it into the deeper woods, Geralt realized that it wasn’t that Jaskier’s wound was minor, but rather that he just didn’t feel the pain. And in the running he’d torn the wound more— Geralt didn’t want to look at it just yet, but it turned his stomach to see.

So now he was carrying the bag of potions and Jaskier’s small sack he’d rescued, his own swords, Jaskier’s lute that had lain beside it, and the bard himself in his ever-wearying arms. His head ached dully from being slammed repeatedly against the wall, and the few wounds he’s sustained, though healing, ached. When he finally found Roach (the only god he dared pray to at this point in his life) he threw everything on her back with the promise of apples and sugar, and they were off.

xxx

Jaskier’s head throbbed and ached. His side was stiff and there was a shooting pain in his leg. Both knees felt… off. One of his hands was so bandaged up he couldn’t move it at all, and his attempt to wiggle his fingers brought tears to his eyes. He let out a short involuntary cry against the sharp pain. And he was famished.

But there was something soft underneath him, and his clothes felt fresh and new. The air was sweet with… was that one of his oils? The rosemary one.

A moment later he heard footsteps approach and a door swing open carefully. He opened his eyes to see the blurry form of Geralt, who tried wordlessly to give him water, holding the glass to his lips. He sipped, but couldn’t bear to look his friend in the face. Fuck. What a coward he’d been, what an utter fool, what an ass to not believe Geralt would always get them out of trouble— how selfish he’d been. How disgusting Geralt must think him now.

He took a few sips and then turned away, and the glass was set back down. He could feel Geralt stay a moment, hovering over the bed, before crossing the room again quietly. Jaskier looked around as his friend left, took in the small 2 bedroom inn room, and nearly said something before Geralt softly closed the door behind him, not looking back.

Fuck. He wouldn’t even look at Jaskier now. He was doing this because he was a good man, and that was all. Jaskier didn’t deserve this kindness. Tears fell again. He didn’t deserve any of this, he should have— should have let them— should have—

He bit back sobs and tried to think of something else, but all he could imagine was Geralt looking at him, disappointed and ashamed.

xxx

The next few days were just as bad as the first the bard had come awake.

Geralt had wanted to give him time, space, but Jaskier wouldn’t even look at him now. He’d thought he was going to die, after all. He’d said too much. He’d exaggerated. He regretted saying what he did.

Geralt understood that— loving a Witcher would be shameful even to the most accepting humans. He couldn’t fault Jaskier. He wouldn’t. He faulted himself, for believing it was more than the pleading of a man afraid of death.

So he fed him, told him he’d spent a day and half asleep, at an inn that owed him a favor, that they were safe, for a bit. And told him that all of his wounds, (a stab in his side, a sprained ankle, a few broken fingers, a deep bruise on his thigh, and one on his rib,) wouldn’t leave many lasting issues once they were mended. They just needed patience. And the dislocation was healed— Geralt had fixed the shoulder while Jaskier was under the Axii. He was clean, no more matted blood on his hair or filth-ridden clothes. He’d keep the wound clean and then the bard could take over looking after it himself.

Jaskier hadn’t met his eyes.

He knew Jaskier would want to split ways as soon as he could leave, but that was difficult when Nilfgaard was chasing them… so Geralt prepared his arguments to get Jaskier to stay, and resigned himself to a colder winter than usual.

xxx

The two danced around each other for days. Geralt ran his purse dry, and took odd jobs, waiting for a time it was either safe to contact Yennefer and ask for help or safe for Jaskier to start moving again, and helped his friend eat and drink twice a day. Jaskier diligently ate, drank, and slept, and barely spoke a word.

Until the evening of the fifth day. Geralt sat on the second bed, polishing and sharpening his swords methodically, the sweet-sharp sound of the blades giving some life to the otherwise silent room. He was waiting for a bath to be filled and pretended the silence was normal, that he was human, and was waiting to hear when they were done filling the basin. He ran his hands up and down the sword. It didn’t need any more polishing. He rubbed it some more.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, and Geralt’s movements came to a halt. He looked up, but Jaskier wouldn’t meet his eyes. He went back to his swords.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Geralt said after a moment. “It was… you’re human. It was tense. Emotions were high.”

“Doesn’t excuse it,” Jaskier said softly, and a pang shot through his chest.

“It’s okay.”

“I regret it.”

Geralt grit his teeth. “Clearly.”

Jasker’s head spun. “Well then— then why are you still here?”

“You’re my friend, despite it all.”

“How does that not make it worse, Geralt? You were supposed to be able to trust me.”

“Well, then how about this. You’re a human, with human faults. Is that enough for you? Do I need more reasons to care?”

“I don’t need you to pity me, Geralt!” He tried to rise up on an elbow but the pain sent him back down. He finally turned his cold, fiery gaze on Geralt. “Fuck— I don’t want pity! If you’re only going to look at me like the coward I am then turn me loose and I’ll— I’ll go back to Oxenfurt, I’ll start over somewhere, but I won’t, I can’t deal with pity. Even if I am pitiable, even if I am…” he waved his non-bandaged hand, “the way I am.”

Geralt stared back blankly and then frowned. “Why would I think you were a coward?”

Jaskier stared blankly back before squinting. “Because I… the Axii. What the hell were you talking about?”

“The. What you— what you said— about me. Feelings.” He looked down at his swords. Swords didn’t fall in love. Another reason to like swords.

“N—Ger— I— I’m a coward, I’m a fraud and a disaster and I failed you, Geralt, I failed you, and Yennefer, and Ciri, and everyone who’s relying on us to hold things together which at my estimation is at least half the continent, if not more. How is that not what you’re focusing on?!”

“You didn’t fail anyone. You were afraid of giving up information. You asked for help. You were trying to protect us. And yourself. That’s not failure. You fought off three guards. You broke your own hand. On purpose”

“I was supposed to be brave! I didn’t last a minute in there. They hadn’t even done anything to us Geralt, and I folded. I can’t be scared right now, I’m not supposed to be, I could only fight because you used magic, and you only did that because I begged.”

Geralt shifted himself and sat on Jaskier’s bed. “The… fear of facing something is the same pain, twice felt. Anxiety is useless, fear… not entirely helpful. But if you lose your fear, you get… dull. Oblivious. It’s the balance. Of being afraid, but not falling into speculation. It’s not easy.” He waited for Jaskier to meet his eyes. “You’re not trained for this. You can’t expect yourself to not feel this kind of fear the first time you’re really presented with it.”

“It was cowardly.”

“And?”

Jaskier frowned. “And I should— I ought to be better than cowardly. For all of you, at least.”

“‘Cowardly’ has kept you alive, more often than not. You’re brave when you need to be. About… other things. Things I couldn’t be brave about if I wanted to be, and I do. I don’t… I don’t fault you for asking for it, Jaskier. You shouldn’t fault yourself either. It won’t do you much good.”

Jaskier sighed, unconvinced but unwilling to argue more. Someone knocked at the door, to tell them the bath was ready. Silence hung again.

“We… when we get to Kaer Morhen…” Jaskier perked up at this in surprise, “we can work on it. If you want. It could happen again. If you want to prepare for it, feel more ready, we can find a way to get you prepared for it. If that’s what you want.”

“…Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt frowned. “That’s where we’re going.”

“Well that’s where you’re going but I thought— well, you know—”

“That I’d leave you behind,” Geralt finished.

“Again,” they said, together, eyes not meeting.

“Wouldn’t fault you if you did,” Jaskier said with a small smile.

“You’re in this now. They know you, they know we’re connected, it’s already happened once… it’s more of a risk to leave you behind than not.”

“Ah, right. Can’t have me blabbing away.”

“No,” Geralt agreed. “But you’re also… wanted, there.”

Jaskier’s eyes twinkled, dimmer than usual, but there, and that was enough. “Need some entertainment up in that lonely keep? A barker for the winter? A dashing troubadour, a mellifluous bard, a—”

“Don’t push it.” Geralt held his stony expression for a moment before a grin cut across his face, and Jaskier grew one to match.

Their smiles were small, but even that seemed a victory now. Jaskier looked down at Geralt’s hand, which at some point had migrated to rest on his leg. “I… I certainly said some things back there, didn’t I?” he said softly.

“Mmm.”

“And that was what you meant, earlier. Feelings.”

“Yep.”

“Right. Well. I… no sense hiding it now, I suppose. I can’t remember it all, but if it was about you, and about— about love, then I meant it. Have for a while, actually.”

They were both silent again, and— his own feelings weren’t something he’d ever been able to articulate. But things had come close, and he’d lost something he hadn’t even realized he really had. So with small, careful movements, Geralt lifted his own hand and took Jaskier’s non-bandaged one in his own.

“Oh,” Jaskier said blankly. “Oh. Oh, Geralt. Really?”

Geralt nodded.

“Oh. Well. You’ve stolen speech from me. I’m…” he tangled their fingers together, and Geralt gave a light squeeze. “Wow. I knew there was… but I didn’t think… wow.”

“Mmm,” Geralt said, and finally looked back to see Jaskier staring at their intertwined hands, a flush high on his cheeks. Eventually, he looked back up, and something on Geralt’s face made the bard’s expression go from awestruck to… sympathetic, maybe.

“No rush, yeah? We’ve had this long, we can take a little longer.”

Something in his chest loosened. “Thank you.”

“Oh, dear, it’s my pleasure. Can I… would you mind if I said it again, under significantly less duress?”

Geralt nodded, slower this time. Their eyes met firmly, though Jaskier’s gaze was soft. More than anything, he wanted to summon one of the dozens, maybe hundreds of speeches he’d written to Geralt about this subject, but none came to him. So he let the words use him, instead.

“Geralt. I love you. Deeply. I have loved you, in fact, for well over a decade now, and I was infatuated with you years before that. I mean it, really and truly. I’ll take you any way you come. Pun originally unintended there, but extremely intended now that I’ve heard myself say it.”

They looked at each other— it’d been five days without real eye contact, and they soaked each other in greedily, just looking a gift in it of itself. Jaskier ran a thumb across Geralt’s fingers. “And, again, sorry, excitement here, not to rush, genuinely, but if you’ll allow me the indulgence?” Geralt, confused, nodded once more and watched in muted shock as Jaskier brought the Witcher’s hands to his lips and gave them a chaste kiss. He could feel the smile on his face bloom wider against his knuckles, and if this stuttering in his chest is what love was supposed to be, he’d take every ounce. Jaskier lowered their still connected hands, while Geralt used his free one to push at his stomach.

“Butterflies?” Jaskier asked slyly.

“No,” Geralt answered, and looked like he was considering something deeply. “More like… bees.”

“I give you… bees? Or— Oh, like the birds and the bees, alright now we’re—”

“There are no birds in my stomach. They just feel like bees.”

“Okay, well. This is off to a rousing start.”

“Are bees not a normal side effect of… this?”

“No, Geralt, it’s not typically… oh my god, you insolent bastard, you’re doing your oblivious witcher act again, aren’t you! Oh no no no, you won’t fool me.” Jaskier threw his head against his pillow defiantly but squeezed their hands again. Some hair fell in front of his face, greasy and unwashed.

Geralt huffed a laugh, and then gently— “Geralt, what are you— oh—” scooped Jaskier into his arms, careful to mind his healing wounds.

“Let me clean you up.”

“Wow. Okay. A lot of things are changing very suddenly for us. This is fine. It’s really— okay. Why am I… why am I nervous?”

“Don’t know,” Geralt shrugged. “Guess you’ve got to be brave.” He sat Jaskier down, gently undid his bandages, and laid him in the warm water.

“This is usually my job,” Jaskier muttered.

“You’ve been through enough this week. My turn,” Geralt said, and let himself bury his face in Jaskier’s hair for a moment.

Jaskier felt tears welling up again behind his eyes. He wasn’t sure he deserved this, not really, the fear of his own inadequacy building up once more. But as two small tears ran down his cheeks, Geralt smiled down at him, and he started to feel… well, maybe peace a non-Axii’d, real, genuine peace he hadn’t known before. Then again, maybe Geralt was right. Maybe it was bees.

He let the warm sensation of the water soothe his aching joints and sighed deeply in contentment, let his eyes fall shut, and smiled.

Geralt splashed his face with water. He smiled wider.

Definitely bees.

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