#like it works as an abrupt stomach-dropping tone shift very well where it is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mc-lukanette · 3 years

Note

*crawls over completely exhausted* No Canon Lukanette... Need fluff... maybe salt too...

Luka gave Marinette's parents a smile as he waited for Marinette to come downstairs, though to say he was concerned was an understatement. He and Marinette hadn't been dating for long, but he knew something was wrong due to her song singing even more stress-filled notes than usual. He wanted to talk to her about it, but also wanted her to open up to him herself when she was ready.

Wanting to focus on smiling for her when she came down, Luka shook off the thought and stared up at Marinette's trap door. Seeing that she hadn't come down yet - understandable given that she had no idea he was there - he pulled out his phone and navigated to her contact. However, just before he could tap on it, there was an abrupt, loud, and unusual noise coming from Marinette's room, followed by the sound of Marinette yelping and presumably hitting the floor.

Luka gasped. “Marinette!”

Not even thinking, he hurried upstairs, phone clutched tightly in his hand as he pushed the trap door up and let himself in.

Over a dozen tiny kwami were speeding around her room, each with distinct voices and one of whom he recognized as Sass. He'd initially thought that the Liberty was chaos, and it was, but there was something different about fifteen little melodies all moving around simultaneously and wreaking havoc. They hadn't even seemed to notice that he was there.

There was also a ladybug-patterned ellipsoid lying on the table in the middle of it all, though Luka's eyes fixated mostly on Marinette lying there on the floor, now staring at him with wide eyes as he took in the whole situation.

"L-luka!" she greeted, voice forced. "W-what a surprise! I mean, you must be surprised at my toy collection! See, there's—there’s this magnetism thing going on that lets them seem like they're flying and—"

She was cut off as one of the kwami accidentally dropped something to the floor, making her flinch from the loud noise. Even the sound all around the room was overwhelming, the little beings ignoring Marinette’s panic in favor of playing with her things.

That's when the tears started, subtly at first until Marinette let out a whimper.

Ignoring all the revelations he just went through, Luka hurried to Marinette's side, helping her up and checking her for injuries. "Marinette, are you okay—"

"You know!" she cut in, running her fingers anxiously through her hair. "You're not supposed to know!"

He took a breath, recognizing that he was going to have to deal with these revelations now. "It's okay. I promise, I'd never—"

"No, it's not okay!" she argued, throwing her hands out. "I've been guardian for just a few days and this—this isn't—! I already—and now the kwami are out—!" She slumped and dropped her gaze to the floor, ashamed. "I'm a bad guardian. I'm a bad girlfriend. I couldn't protect you from knowing!"

"Marinette, you're not a bad girlfriend. You—" He paused, something occurring to him. "Protect me...?"

He hadn't been Viperion for long, but Luka remembered the importance given to secret identities. He understood that it was a form of protecting oneself and one's loved ones, meaning that a permanent hero like Ladybug needed to keep hers a secret the most.

"Is..." His stomach twisted in knots as he remembered all the dates she'd had to either miss or postpone. He bent down, trying to look at her face, and when he still couldn't, he gently cupped her face and encouraged her to make eye contact with him. "Is that why—"

"Yes! That's why I have to keep cutting our dates short, and not being there for you, and not going on patrols with Chat, and why I haven't had time to take those stupid Adrien pictures down! I can't do anything right!"

At some point, the volume of her voice had finally drawn the attention of the kwami, who all stared at her like children watching their parent having a breakdown and feeling awkward about it. Luka paid them no mind, his heart breaking as he processed all the information Marinette was telling him while all he could do was pull her into a hug and just hold her.

"I'm sorry I found out like this," he admitted, running his hand up and down along her back. "I'm glad that I know but I would've wanted you to share that secret with me instead."

"I-I'm sor—"

"Please don't apologize, Marinette," he gently begged. "I hate hearing songs with meanings I don't agree with. You don't have anything to feel sorry for. If I had the ladybug earrings instead, I would've had to do the same thing as you, and you wouldn't have asked me to apologize, would you?"

She looked up at him, expression pained and full of so many burdens that he couldn't believe he hadn't seen before. He brushed her fringe aside and rested his palm against her forehead, concerned about how pale she seemed and worried that she'd stress herself to a cold.

She leaned into his touch, then further until he was forced to move his hand away. She buried her face in his chest, surprising him as she hugged him tightly. Her song turned from the harsh wail of an electric guitar to the mellow tones of an acoustic, and he sighed in a mixture of relief and happiness.

"...Luka," she murmured, lightly clutching whatever fabric she could reach. "The movie. We'll miss it at this rate."

He hummed, half in response to what she said and half in content. "You're so much more important than the movie."

His heart skipped a beat when she actually giggled, her grip on him loosening and the hug turning to something she did because she wanted to, not for comfort. "More important than Jagged Stone?"

He chuckled, burying his face into her hair as he returned the hug. "Always. Even my idol can't compete with my muse."

She leaned further into him, her melody picking up hints off a bell chiming happily. She almost knocked him over from how much of her weight she was putting on him, but he didn't protest and even enjoyed it; it meant she was trusting him with her secrets instead of shouldering the weight herself.

"I know I couldn't have known," he began, "but I'm sorry that our dates took up your time. I never wanted to cause you any stress."

"But I wanted to!" she insisted, jolting up to look at him. "It's just—it's been a lot, and—"

He placed two fingers against her lips before she could start rambling. "Marinette, I don't need to go on normal dates to have fun with you."

She blinked, waiting for him to move his fingers before asking, "Y-you don't?"

He smiled. "Of course not. I can hang out here while you work, while you do important stuff."

With a small, amused snort, she pulled away from him and wiped any stray tears away. "You're 'important stuff.'"

He grinned like the love-struck fool that he was, then shrugged. "Well, I'll still be here anyway then, right?"

"That's true." She paused, glancing off to the side in consideration, then looked back at him as she asked, "in that case... would you help me with something?"

"Anything," he answered immediately.

She pointed, his gaze drawn to her wall full of Adrien pictures. "Like I said, I haven't had the time, and... I've been wanting to remodel forever."

He was more than happy to help, and there was a selfish part of him that considered it far better than any movie they could've seen.

—————

It took a bit more time than either of them anticipated to take down all of the images, but between the two of them, it wasn't a hard job. The biggest time-waster during the whole thing was Marinette's rambling, but Luka welcomed it wholeheartedly.

Due to not watching much TV, he honestly hadn't heard about what'd happened when Jagged Stone had been at the bakery and the camera crew had invaded Marinette's privacy, and he couldn't believe how much mental stress she must've gone through. After all, even though he and Juleka shared a room, there was still a divider for when they needed their privacy, so he wasn't unaware about how personal it was to have one's room recorded without their consent, even if nothing embarrassing got caught on camera.

It seemed cruel to know that Paris' supposedly lucky superhero was perhaps one of the unluckiest people he'd ever known.

Almost on cue, just when the last picture was down and Marinette was debating on what to do with them, her phone went off with a ringtone that sounded very much like danger. Looking over, there was a butterfly symbol flashing on the screen and Marinette's expression faltered at the sight of it.

"Akuma alert," she said flatly, with a pout that would've been cute had he not known what it meant. She hesitated, eyes flicking from him to her phone. "Um... look, I... I have to—"

"Go," he interrupted with a reassuring smile. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'll be here when you're done."

"But—" She frowned and glared at her phone, clearly knowing that she had to leave but not wanting to.

"I mean it, Marinette. It's okay."

She looked at him like she'd never heard those words from anyone else before, eyes vulnerable but fond. She gave him a nod, a brief smile flickering across her face before she turned away and rushed to the stairs. She shouted for her transformation on the way out and Luka watched as her clothes shifted into her ladybug-patterned bodysuit.

When she was completely gone, Luka felt a sudden unsteadiness and leaned against the table for support. It wasn't that he was shocked exactly to hear that Marinette was Ladybug, but he was still overloaded nonetheless.

As his hand rested on the table, he felt the heel of his palm brush something and looked down to see the pile of Adrien pictures next to him. It sent another rush through his body at the reminder that she'd asked him to help her take them down. He was dating her, sure, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that there were no lingering feelings for Adrien. He knew where she stood and he was okay letting her test the waters with him, as she did have feelings for him and who was he to complain if his crush wanted to date him? Besides, he couldn't help wanting to see if maybe it would truly make their bond stronger.

Looking at the wall now, clear of anything but the pink paint, he knew this was real and ended up wishing he'd brought his guitar.

Then, remembering the akuma alert on Marinette's phone, Luka pulled out his own and began to search, eventually finding what she already had: a direct link to watch streams and updates on whatever akuma or sentimonster shenanigans were going on. He knew well enough that he would only give himself anxiety from it, but he wanted to watch his girlfriend in action as a form of support.

Gosh, Ladybug was his girlfriend.

He took a deep breath to steady himself as he watched the footage, his eyes locked to the screen and only shifting when he felt various figures drawing close. He looked up to see that the kwami had all gathered around him, watching the screen closely.

"So..." the pig-looking kwami began, fiddling with their own paws like they knew they were being awkward. "Have you ever wanted to be a hero?"

There was a hiss off to the side, Sass cutting in with, "He already has me."

Luka wasn't feeling up to smile at that, debating with himself before sighing. "Marinette works really hard, and her song is full of sour notes right now," he said. Stepping away and heading for the chaise lounge, he sat down and added, "I hope you can figure out how to rewrite them."

The kwami all exchanged looks, some confused by the metaphor and others who perhaps understood but didn't know how to follow up on it. Luka didn't give them his attention, focusing on the akuma battle playing on his phone.

As he'd expected, it made him a little nervous actually seeing Ladybug in action due to now knowing it was his girlfriend fighting out there. He believed in her abilities and mentally cheered her on, but he just kept remembering all the akuma he'd known about and how stressful it had to have been.

Off to the side, some of the kwami joined forces to help pick up some of the items they'd previously dropped on the floor. It was only after Marinette's room looked as it did before that they properly joined Luka to watch the battle with him.

It was a start.

—————

The battle between Ladybug and the akuma (and Chat Noir was there he supposed) seemed to be getting into its final verse when Luka heard the sound of the trap door being grabbed and clicked open, making him jump. He was only able to whisper a, "Hide," so the kwami could act before Sabine peered inside the room and took a curious look around.

Apparently, they all thought that huddling against his back was a great hiding spot, and he could only smile sheepishly at Sabine while attempting to ignore the weird feeling.

"You're still here?" Sabine asked. "I thought you were going somewhere, and..." She raised a brow, looking around once more. "Where's Marinette?"

"Ah," Luka began, his mind rushing for an excuse, "we actually decided to have our date here instead. Marinette just went up to her balcony to grab something."

It didn't feel good to lie, though he also felt a sense of accomplishment in protecting Marinette's secret. Was this what Marinette dealt with all the time; having to lie to people even if she didn't want to?

Sabine glanced up briefly to where the balcony was, then back to him, slightly confused but rolling with it. "Alright. Do you two need anything?"

"No, ma'am. Thank you though," he replied, hoping it didn't sound forced.

Thankfully, Sabine nodded and left without asking any further questions, the kwami emerging and clinging to Luka while they peered at the now-closed trap door. Luka breathed a sigh of relief, then went back to watching the akuma battle on his phone.

The rest of the fight took a couple minutes, and all that was left to do afterward was wait for Ladybug to return. Once again, Luka wished he had his guitar, making a mental note to get all of his feelings out when he got home, as typical music apps just didn't do anything for him.

An expected "thump" eventually came from the balcony, and the kwami drifting away from Luka as Ladybug descended and landed on her bed. She saw Luka staring at her and initially flinched, but it was clearly a reflex from people seeing her as Ladybug where she shouldn't be, and she hurried down to meet with him afterward. Luka hopped to his feet, not hesitating to meet her halfway and envelop her in a hug, earning a squeak out of her.

"L-luka?"

"Sorry," he murmured. "Just... I got to think about everything you must've gone through without m—" He choked off, suddenly embarrassed, then corrected, "—someone to help you."

She blinked, then giggled and hugged him back. "You're my boyfriend. You're apologizing for hugging me and being worried about sounding selfish?" She nestled her face against his shoulder and he blushed at how warm she was. "Don't. I like it when you're a little selfish, Luka. It grounds me; makes me feel like you're not totally out of my league."

Luka scoffed, nuzzling his head against hers. "You're in a league all your own. I'm literally dating a superhero."

"Trust me, it's not as cool as it sounds."

"I disagree. I think you're really cool."

She blushed profusely. "H-hey..."

He chuckled. "By the way, your mom came to check up on us."

Ladybug gasped, then pulled back, eyes wide and concerned. She was clearly about to apologize, so he cut her off before she could.

"I told her that we were having our date here and that you were getting something from the balcony. Everything's alright."

Her shoulders eased. She let out a sigh of relief as her head fell back against his shoulder. "Thank you."

He hummed contently, resting his hand along her back and keeping it there. Then, realizing when Sabine came up earlier and might do it again, he reminded her, "You're still Ladybug."

"Huh? ...Oh!" she said, though with less panic than normal and unwilling to recoil from the happy spot she was in.

He heard the whisper of her de-transformation phrase and winced as the light engulfed her, slowly turning her back into Marinette. He felt the spandex under his hand turn into fabric and Marinette's breath against his skin as she exhaled.

A kwami that Luka deduced was Marinette's flew a small distance away, eyeing Luka warily and semi-critically. Luka didn't blame her - he wasn't supposed to know - but he also knew that it was far too late to change anything now, and there was no way he was going to abandon Marinette or pretend he knew nothing. He imagined that the kwami knew that too.

"...I'm Tikki," the kwami greeted finally. "It's nice to meet you officially, Luka."

Luka gave her a nod in return, then stiffened somewhat as Marinette squeezed him tighter, burying her face further against him like she truly cherished him.

"It's still a lot," she whispered. "Is it okay if you hug me a little longer?"

"Of course." Though, he paused for a moment before adding, "Would it be more comfortable for you if we move to your chaise?"

"Hm?" She pulled away just enough to look down and realize that they were still awkwardly standing at the bottom of the steps to her bed. "Oh! Yeah, I mean—I didn't even—"

"Hey." He tenderly cupped her cheek, offering a smile. "I didn't complain, did I?"

She looked briefly surprised, making him wonder just how much she'd had to apologize in the past. They slowly made their way over to the chaise lounge, Luka settling down and opening his arms for her so she could settle onto his lap and snuggle against him. He leaned back against the chaise, throwing his legs across the length of it, then wrapped an arm around Marinette to make her feel secure.

"This is nice. It's... um—" She peeked up at him, then grinned shyly. "—melodic? Is that what you'd call it?"

He couldn't stop himself from snorting.

Marinette blushed in embarrassment. "H-hey! I'm trying, okay?"

"I know." He took a strand of her hair in his hand and stroked it. "You always try, and I love that about you."

She let out a series of whines at that, but doesn't protest the compliment either. She nestled against his chest, keeping her face turned away enough to still talk to him without her voice being muffled.

"I just... want to know more about you, Luka," she told him. "You're so sweet and I felt awful having to ditch you. Didn't it bother you?"

He gave a one-armed shrug. "You were busy. I unders—"

"Luka."

He stopped, meeting her firm gaze and knowing that he wasn't getting out of this easily. He sighed, admitting, "...Yeah, it bothered me, but it wasn't because of you or that I didn't trust you. I... see—my dad..." He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing that he'd never told anyone this story before. "I never knew who he was. I asked my mom so many times, but she never gave me an answer. Whenever you had to leave and lie to me, I..."

"Oh." She raised herself up more to meet him closer to eye level. "I'm so sorry—wait—sorry, you told me not to apologize—Sorry! I did it agai—ACK!"

He laughed, feeling warm and delighted by how much she cared about him and wanted him to feel secure in their relationship. He squeezed her shoulder in reassurance, wanting to nuzzle her for how cute she was being and just barely able to hold himself back.

"Don't worry about it. I'm glad you were looking out for me, but you deserve someone to look out for you too."

She pouted a bit at the heartfelt comment, then smiled and raised her hand to settle on his along her shoulder.

He hummed, pausing purposefully for effect before asking, "...So, what does the great guardian Marinette want to do now?"

"Oh my gosh, Luka."

He grinned, happy to compliment her until she was completely red. "How about the brave and heroic Ladybug then?"

"Luka."

He reached up to caress her cheek with his thumb. "But, if you ask me, I like the kind, sincere civilian Marinette best."

"LUKA!"

—————

The rest of their "date" passed by smoothly, Marinette's parents having left them alone so as to not interrupt anything. Marinette had idly brought up the idea that the movie might still be playing - just at a different time than they planned on going - but Luka brushed off the idea and insisted that he was happy there and didn't need to go on a "real" date with her to have fun, opting to leave it up to her.

And... yeah, neither of them were willing to leave their current position and exchange it for having to sit in different seats at a theater with other people around. They opted to just stare at the ceiling and talk, the kwami having respectfully retreated to Marinette's bed to give them privacy.

Talks of their past meetings and when she left to become Ladybug soon turned into a game of finishing Jagged Stone lyrics. Luka, either by being the bigger fan or just having an easier time remembering them, ended up winning in the end, though he couldn't have expected Marinette to follow up by immediately leaving his lap. He'd held back a whine at the sudden lack of warmth and wondered if maybe she'd been teasing him with some sort of punishment by going away.

But then she'd returned with a tiny pink gift box, and inside was a guitar pick necklace signed by Jagged Stone himself.

"He came into the bakery the other day and I had him sign it for you," she explained. Taking it out to fully present it to him, she asked, "Do...do you like it?"

"I love it, Marinette," he replied immediately, reaching out to feel the guitar pick and properly appreciate it. "I can have this?"

She smiled in response, holding the necklace out in a gesture that made his heart skip a beat, realizing that she was offering to put it on him herself. He leaned close, feeling the light brush of her fingers against his neck as she slipped it onto him. He silently hoped that it was durable because he was absolutely never taking it off.

Marinette's hands lingered on the string even when the necklace was fully on, Luka meeting her gaze to see that she was looking at him with all the love he'd ever dreamed of her offering him. He didn't say a word and neither did she, but with a light tug on his necklace, he was pulled towards her into a kiss. It was definitely too deep for their first but also so nice that neither of them cared, and not even the Ladybug revelation could outmatch his surprise at being so readily smooched.

Luka reached for the hand grabbing his necklace, Marinette letting go of it so they could thread their fingers together. His song was going crazy as she leaned forward, clearly wanting more from him and him being wonderfully helpless to resist her. He breathed her in, his other hand finding its place on her side. Her own hand rose up so her fingers could settle against the back of his neck, and he couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed by the sound he made when she started playing with his hair.

She didn't even pull away when their kiss broke, merely pressing her forehead to his while they each caught their breath. Despite the boldness she'd just displayed, she somehow couldn't maintain eye contact and ended up looking elsewhere while all he could do was stare at her in a daze.

"S-sor—" She paused, remembering again that he told her not to apologize. "I-I mean, I'm... not sorry? I—ah—remembered you saying that music is simpler than words, so I just—I thought that maybe I shouldn't ask you with words and just... play it instead?" Luka could feel the heat radiating from her blush as she hurriedly added, "Um... is that okay?"

He answered her with another kiss.

#type: story #story: oneshot #Flower Arrangement Shipping #episode: Truth #other: ml spoilers #((I may or may not have made that ending scene a little more passionate than it would be otherwise))#((out of pure spite.))#((You're welcome.))#Pro LukaMari #Lukanette

1K notes · View notes

duskamethyst · 3 years

Text

love.

a/n: happy valentines day! have this spicy content for now but if you’re looking for high-cocky bastard-suna, this ain’t it. sorry.

word count: 2.3k

genre: smut, nsfw, fluff

warnings: soft dom, orgasm denial

pairing: pro!suna x f!reader

summary: suna got you a gift for your anniversary. wonder why he likes it so much..

“hm? a bracelet?” you take out the shiny jewelry out from the crimson box, inspecting it in your hands. there’s a letter ‘R’ that gleams with its rhinestones and a bell that chimes as you jiggle it.

“close,” your boyfriend smiles when he catches the fascinated look on your face. “it’s an anklet.”

suna takes the ornament from you and drops down to his knees to fasten it around your ankle. he takes a good look at it, pondering briefly over how he made a good choice to get it for you as an anniversary gift.

you look over your ankle intriguingly, shaking it slightly to hear the bell ring in response.

“it’s so pretty!” you beam excitedly and kiss him in thanks as he raises back up on his feet. “then you have to put on the perfume i gave you too.”

suna raises an eyebrow, “perfume?”

“shit–” your hand flies over to cover your mouth instantly by reflex and you shake your head. “i didn’t say that.”

your boyfriend laughs as he takes the nicely wrapped present and shakes it in a feigned attempt to figure the not-so-mysterious content, “gee, i wonder what it could be.”

“oh, i don’t know. guess you have to find out.” you reply in the same sardonic tone, suppressing giggles as you watch him rip off the paper unceremoniously.

suna blinks once, twice at the box and glances at you before looking back at the box that is engraved with a name that he’s aware to be high end. he’s not very materialistic but he knows for sure that it costs more than you can afford for yourself and the thought of you forking out so much money on it makes his heart swell.

“well?” you grin sheepishly as you wait for him to say something.

“babe, this is..” he sighs, brushing a hand through his brown locks. “how did you even–”

“don’t mind that! put it on!” you chide.

suna shakes his head and chuckles as he opens the packaging to pull out the expensive bottle. he takes off the lid and takes a whiff of the manly scent, yet has no idea what the contents are. he guess he should wear it often if you like the scent so much, especially since you’re the one who chose it for him. he sprays the cologne on his wrist and rubs it with the other before applying it on the back of his ears.

you don’t remember how many bottles it took to find the one that you absolutely would like on him but you know you’ve made the right choice when the aroma has proven to suit his character very well; sexy and alluring.

“you smell so fucking good.” you sigh in content as the scent begins to fill your senses.

“is this your way of saying that i always stink?” he forces an offended frown but the slight upturn at the corner of his lips tells you it's only superficial.

“yeah, you reek. especially after your practice.” you tease before suna envelops you into a warm hug.

“but i won’t wear it to practice.” he mutters as he caresses your hair gently. “it’s a waste if the guys are the only ones who are going to smell it.”

“that’s fine. you can always wear it around me.”

suna pulls away to look at you, blankly staring at you with his dark and narrow eyes. “and, you shouldn’t be giving me expensive stuff. i won’t even mind if you didn’t get me anything. you’re more than enough for me.”

“but–”

“no buts.” he places a small kiss on your lips. “still, thank you for this.”

you smile and counter back with a kiss, “happy anniversary, rin. i love you.”

“i love you, too.” he taps your nose with his finger before picking you up off your feet and cradling you in his arms, making you squeal in surprise. “now that we’re done with that, time to put that to the test.”

“put what to the test?” you look up at him with curiosity as he carries you towards your shared room, leaving the empty plates of your homemade dinner behind.

“why do you think i got you something with a bell on it?” he grins slyly before throwing you on the bed and causing the bell around your ankle to chime from the result of the impact.

warmth creeps up to your cheeks as you put one and one together, “you wouldn’t..”

“oh, yes i will.” suna climbs on top of you, pale yellow irises swirling like flames as he gazes deeply into your eyes before leaning down to slip his tongue past the barrier of your lips in an amorous kiss. your hands find their way to his nape, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss.

suna swallows down your moans as he hastily works on taking off all his lower garments and grinds his erection against your sex, soothing the throb that he has been keeping inside his pants the moment he put on the ornament around your ankle since his mind just kept on wandering at the thought of how he has been wanting to put it on to good use.

he breaks the kiss to plant wet, soft kisses down your throat, suckling and nibbling on the sensitive skin that he knows will have you whining underneath him while his large, calloused hands massages your mounds through the flimsy dress.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers against the crook of your neck as tugs down the straps off your shoulders and lets it fall on your arms. “i love you so much.”

with a little maneuvering of your arms, you manage to slip out from the band and allow suna to pull down the dress completely. your nipples harden from the cold air yet they find heat once he wraps his lips around one, tongue dancing and circling around the erected tit while he tweaks the other between his thumb and index finger that sends jolt of sensations down to your bundle of nerves.

your lips part in soft, heavy pants while your fingers seek refuge in his dark hair by tugging it lightly before he pulls away with an audible pop to suck on the other. his hand trails down on your inner thigh, drawing circles with his fingertips on the erogenous zone and purposely avoiding from tracing closer to your heated core.

“rin.” you whine while the bell resounds from underneath as you part your legs wider and buck your hips reflexively.

“hmm?” narrow, hooded eyes look up at you mischievously from below. suna unlatches his mouth, watching as the nipple perks up harder and becomes more swollen from his ministrations. “you’re ready for me, aren’t you?”

you feel your cheeks warm up, “i don’t know, why don’t you get down and see for yourself?”

“whatever you say, princess.” he chuckles and shifts downwards until his head is settled in the space between your thighs.

“shit, you’re really a mess down here.” he muses, thumb grazing against the dark patch that has formed on the thin fabric. “all from me just sucking your tits?”

suna tugs the sodden garment down, tongue darting out to sweep his bottom lip as his eyes dissolve into red of passion and lust. it’s more intense than you imagined, but an impassioned loop twists in your stomach as you study his next, calculated step.

shivers of pleasure rushes throughout your body the moment you feel his warm tongue flattening against your wet slits. with skills and practiced strokes, his tongue laps off your slick greedily before teasing and sucking on the throbbing clit. your toes curl and the bell rings as you attempt to close your legs together, but suna spreads them apart from crushing his head.

his lustful gaze fixes up at you, observing every twitch of pleasure and the way your lips part in soft, needy whimpers. you gasp at the abrupt intrusion of his long and slender fingers, yet you gladly welcome him as the muscles clench to keep him within.

“does it feel good?” he whispers, kissing the soft skin of your fleshy thigh when he notices your legs tremble.

“s-so good, rin.” you mewl, nails digging into the sheets while the fabric crumples in your fists as you find purchase. his fingers curl and drag against the spongy walls, making you keen in excitement that your hips begin to pump desperately to match his rhythm.

“you’re so needy.” a sense of pride soars in his chest, conscious of how much your pleasure lies in him and only him. he continues rubbing and digging, somewhat in search of something; certainly the spot that he’s aware that’ll make you beg for him hopelessly. and when he finds it, he doesn’t miss the way you tense up and giving him the drive to stroke the same spot mercilessly.

“shit– right there!” you look like you’d almost cry. the way your hips are jerking uncontrollably is telling him that you’re going to break soon and before that happens, suna draws away his fingers and you immediately throw a scowl his way.

“what?” his voice is taunting and he wears a smirk of a victor which makes you all the more frustrated.

you huff, “so mean. on our anniversary night, too.”

suna lifts himself off you to get out of his shirt. no matter how much you’ve seen him bare and naked, your eyes always marvel over his toned chest and chiseled abs; those he gained along by being a professional athlete since a couple of years ago. you lick your lips to return moisture on dry skin as you watch him pump his throbbing cock in front of you while he puts on an expression of bold seduction.

“you don’t have to look so scared. you wanted to cum so bad, didn’t you?” he sneers, obviously confident over how thick his cock is and how it can stretch your tiny little hole so good.

you roll your eyes playfully, retorting in a snarky tone, “oh, i’m so scared. please don’t put that thing inside me!”

his lips curl into an amusing smile, finding it endearing how you played along with his pretense. “don’t worry, i’ll treat my princess very gently.”

suna leans down to lick a fat strip of your essence and mixes with his saliva before propping up on his knees and dragging your body closer to him by the waist. he carefully throws the leg adorned with his gift on his shoulder and kisses on the side of your knee before fixing his dark gaze downwards, where he slowly guides and observes the way his cockhead slowly disappears into your dripping entrance.

a low grunt rumbles in his chest as the walls suck him in deeper, clamping around him like a vice and refusing to let go as he continues to bury his cock deeper inside your pussy. your eyes flutter close, lips part slightly as you revel the way he stretches you while the veins and ridges brush against your muscles deliciously.

“so good for me, princess.” he praises with a sharp breath, having you completely filled to the brim before he finally snaps his hips and making your body jolt in return. his pace is unforgiving and with the angle he has set you in, his tip keeps on pounding against your cervix.

the slapping of your skins fills the cold air, mingling with the sounds of your moans and the erratic chimes from your bell that he was so eager about. an unknowing grin etches on your lover’s lips as every jingle that fills his ear fuels up his ego and he finds himself to pound into you faster while the sounds behind him follow in accordance.

“hah– rin– so deep!” your orgasm is quick to build up from the prior interruption, the muscles in your stomach begins to tighten and your legs quiver.

“you hear that, baby? the bell telling you how hard i’m fucking you right now.“ he rams his cock senselessly to make the bell jingle wilder in a way to prove his point.

“rin– i–”

“baby wanna cum?” he coos, smirking down at you as the image of your writhing body ingrains in his mind.

you nod your head affirmatively, face contorting in one that expresses bliss as your mind swirls with excessive gratification. yet your eyes snap open as soon as you feel a sharp sting on your thigh.

he releases the pliant skin from between his teeth, “use your words, princess.”

“please–” you let out a broken cry. “wanna cum–” your toes curl with anticipation as you will yourself from coming undone before you are granted to do so.

“that’s– fuck– better.” he grunts, thrusts turning sporadic as you begin to squeeze and clamp down on him. “then cum, baby. you deserve it.”

suna brings up his thumb to your aching bud, generously pressing tight circles in order to push you over the edge and a wave of pleasure washes throughout your body as you moan his name in a chant. your pussy gushes around his cock, which makes it all more stimulating for the male and he pounces harder through your high in pursuit of his own orgasm while the noisy rings from the bell soon becomes white noise.

“that’s it– you feel so fucking good.” he feels his balls tightening before his cock twitches and he bites roughly on your leg as he shoots warm load inside your tight cunt. you squeal from the pain, wiggling your leg away and he completely lets go.

he chuckles lightly and gently rubs the dents on your skin, “sorry.”

once he’s sure he has emptied, he pulls out his softening cock and finds his place next to your warm body. you turn to face your lover and he gladly welcomes you into his warm embrace.

“i love you.” he whispers, pushing aside the damp and matted hair from your face to place a soft kiss on your forehead.

you hum in content, vision darkening as he continues to play with your hair soothingly while the sound of his heartbeat sings you a lullaby. “i love you, too.”

#suna #suna rintaro #rintaro suna #suna rintarou #rintarou suna #haikyuu suna #suna smut #suna fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu smut #haikyuu fanfic #suna fanfic #r; writes

809 notes · View notes

dreamerstreamer · 3 years

Text

Noise Complaint

Pairing: Wilbur Soot x gn!neighbour!reader

Summary: The guy living next door to you never seemed to shut up, and one day you decide that you’ve had enough.

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: this work was inspired by wilbur’s recent eviction notice (lol), dodie’s song, absolutely smitten, and my recent pasta addiction! by the way, this may or may not be entirely accurate, but who cares? let me have some fun!

You hummed as you scooped the last of the pasta onto your plate, furrowing your brows. Something’s missing.

It hit you in a flash, your eyes lighting up as you turned on your heel to scramble into your kitchen. You strolled over to the windowsill where a small potted plant sat, basking in the sun’s warm, golden rays. “Hey, basil,” you said quietly, reaching over. “This might hurt a little, but it’ll only be a pinch.”

Tugging gently and carefully, you picked a few leaves off the plant’s branches, wincing a little. “Thank you,” you murmured with an apologetic smile as you turned away, walking over to your sink. You gave the leaves a quick wash before grabbing a knife from its spot in your knife block. With ease, you chopped the leaves into smaller bits, scooping them up with one hand while the other set the knife down on the cutting board. You skipped back over to your dining room with a small skip in your step, grinning as you took the chopped bits of basil in your hand and sprinkled them across the pasta in your plate.

Perfect, you thought to yourself with a small smile, stepping back to admire your work. With a satisfied grin, you slipped into your chair, picking up your fork as you began to dig in.

Today was your first day off in ages, and you couldn’t have been more pleased. It was a beautiful day out, and you had spent the morning out with your friends, catching up on everything over a quaint meal at your favourite restaurant. All the days spent running around for your boss suddenly felt like they were worth it and more as you laughed at your friends’ antics while you ate. While you had to part in the afternoon, you were more than happy to simply complete some household chores that you had missed out on during your usual hectic schedule. As sunset drew closer and closer, you found your stomach grumbling once more in a plea for attention and food. What better way to quench your hunger with some good ol’ pasta?

A muffled shout dragged you out of your thoughts, your shoulders jolting at the sudden noise. You let out a sharp yelp at the abrupt noise, holding a hand over your heart in an effort to calm yourself. After a second of silence passed, a frown etched itself onto your features.

Of course he was being loud, again.

You sighed, stabbing your pasta with a little more vigour. You loved your home, you really did. It was a lovely apartment with more than enough space for you to live comfortably on your own, and you had managed to get it for a criminally cheap price. It was located near your workplace and was even in a safe part of the city. Your neighbours were also wonderful, most of them being polite, friendly, and quiet.

With one particular exception—the guy who lived directly next door to you.

You didn’t really know who he was, per se. You knew that he was your neighbour, that he mostly spent his time at home, and that he was loud. So, so loud. You didn’t think anyone could be this loud when they spent nearly all of their time in an apartment, but he somehow proved you wrong. If it wasn’t the occasional yell, then it was always “chat” this and “chat” that. What the heck was he even talking about? You didn’t know, and you weren’t sure that you cared, either.

Even after having lived here for weeks, you still didn’t have a single clue who this guy was, but you were sure of one thing.

He was absolutely driving you up the wall.

While he wasn’t always super loud—miraculously, there were indeed quiet days—you couldn’t go more than a few days without getting startled awake from sleep or dropping something out of surprise. You were pretty sure you had already broken four dishes just because of him. Despite everything that had happened, you still hadn’t confronted him about it. You liked to believe that hey, this is just a one time thing, or it’s not so bad! You’d been feeding yourself these itty bitty white lies for weeks now, and you were starting to run out of patience.

You shook your head, examining the last piece of pasta on your fork with a roll of your eyes. Well, at least he was being quiet no—

Bang!

You yelped again, your fingers going limp in shock. Before you could even register what happened, your fork slipped from your hand, the pasta smacking landing on your shirt before sliding off you and landing on the floor. With horror, you stared down at the stain on your once pristine white shirt, the mark staring back at you mockingly.

Oh. Oh no.

You clenched your jaw, an incessant irritation clawing at the back of your mind as you stood, stomping over to your front door.

This was the last straw. You’ve had enough of his crap, and you were about to give him a piece of your mind

Pulling open your door, you only had to walk four steps before you stood face to face with your neighbour’s wooden door. Raising your fist, you knocked against the wood with an intensity that you didn’t think you were capable of. A few moments passed with no response, but you were sure you could hear some rustling on the other side of the door. You crossed your arms as you waited, tapping your foot. Just who in the world did this guy think he wa—

Just then, the door swung open to reveal your neighbour.

You blinked tilting your head back as you craned your neck at him. Your eyes widened in surprise.

He was tall, ridiculously so. With brown, fluffy hair that hung a little over his forehead and a dark, expressive gaze that looked down at you in confusion, he was also very, very cute.

Damn him for being attractive. In another world, you might have even liked him. But right now, you had a score to settle. His attractiveness could wait.

“Hi,” you said, plastering a polite smile to your face. “I don’t think we’ve properly met before.” You extended your hand out toward him in a handshake. “My name’s [Y/N]. I live just next door.”

The confusion is his gaze parted slightly to give way to understanding. His lips curled to reveal a blinding white grin as he took your hand in his, shaking it. “Hello,” he said, his low voice practically enveloping itself around you. “I’m Wilbur Soot.”

His hands are so warm, your heart prompted. And soft. His smile is also really pretty. And his voice is so nice!

Shut up, you thought back as you pulled your hand from his. This was unfair. So unfair.

“I moved in a little under a month ago,” you began slowly, doing your best to keep your tone civil and calm, “and I only just realized that I never properly introduced myself to you.”

Wilbur’s grin only seemed to grow wider, and you hated just how sincere it was. “Well, it is certainly a pleasure to meet you.” His eyes darted down to your shirt, and you watched as he shifted awkwardly. “Oh, you, um, have something on your shirt.” He gestured to the bottom of his sweater with a sheepish smile, and you felt yourself losing your grip.

“I know,” you said between clenched teeth. “I spilled some pasta on it. As a matter of fact, I’m actually here to talk to you about that.”

His eyebrows knit together. “About pasta?”

The smile dropped from your face. Oh, that was it.

“Look,” you said sharply, feeling the slightest tinge of delight when you saw him jump a bit at your sudden shift in tone, “if I’m being blatantly honest, you can be really loud at these completely arbitrary times, and I’m just asking you to please, please be at least a little quieter. I startle easily, and your random yelling or wall-smacking or whatever have really been causing problems for me.”

“Like your shirt,” he said quietly.

“Like my shirt,” you confirmed.

The look on his face was genuinely upset, and you almost let yourself feel bad for calling him out. Almost.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had no idea that this was a problem. This is going to sound really weird, but it’s...” He paused. “...kind of my job to occasionally yell?”

Now it was your turn to be confused. “‘It’s kind of your job...’” You shook your head. “Oh, forget it. Just... if you can, I would really appreciate if you could keep it down, even if only a little.” You grimaced. “I don’t think I can handle dropping another bowl.”

He winced, a wave of guilt flashing across his face. “Seriously,” he said, “I’m really, really sorry. The other neighbours said they were fine with me being a bit loud when I first came here, and I hadn’t even realized that you were new.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out a wallet. “If you’d like, I’m more than happy to reimburse you for any inconveniences you ran into because of me.”

Your eyes widened, your jaw falling slack. As much trouble as he had caused you, you didn’t want to just take his money. That would be a whole other level of petty.

Holding your hands up in front of you and waving them frantically. “No, no, no, no, no, that’s too much.” You offered him a smile, a real one this time. “Just a little more quiet is perfect for me.”

The relief on his face was evident, but there was also something else there. It sort of looked like awe. “Thank you,” he said. “I never meant to cause you so much harm. I’ll make it up to you, really! I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” you immediately said, raising your hand with your pinky extended.

A part of you cringed a little at yourself, wondering how childish you must seem right now. Your friends always teased you about making pinky promises even as an adult, years after you had left the playground, but you stood firm in your beliefs—pinky promises were eternal. But for some reason you couldn’t name, you felt almost embarrassed by yourself.

It’s ‘cause you’re into him, your heart chirped, speaking up once more. You want to leave a good impression!

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Shut up, shut up.

However, to your surprise, he nodded, lifting up his own pinky. “Pinky promise.”

You grinned, elation jumping through your veins. He wrapped his pinky around yours and squeezed. You squeezed back, ignoring the tingle that went down your spine as you did so.

Pulling your hand away, you offered him a bashful smile. “Sorry if I came across as really aggressive. I’m not usually like this.”

His lips quirked up at the side. “I don’t blame you, really.” He glanced down at your shirt, again. “If someone made me stain my shirt with pasta, I’d be reasonably upset, too.”

You giggled, waving a hand at him. “Well, you’re a nice guy, so I assure you I’m not that mad.” You stepped back, shooting him a teasing look. “I am going to hold you to that pinky promise, though!”

He laughed and, damnit, even his laugh was cute. “I don’t doubt it.” Stepping back inside his apartment, he raised his hand in a wave. “It was nice meeting you, [Y/N].”

You waved back. “You too, Wilbur.”

As his door fell shut, you sighed to yourself, a sense of satisfaction fell over you. Well, that went much better than I expected, you thought as you walked back to your apartment. You strode over to your kitchen table, picking up your empty plate and fallen fork, wiping off the small mark left by the pasta on the floor. He’s nicer than I thought.

You walked over to your sink, your mind swirling with the interaction you just had as you turned on the tap. Wilbur’s face flashed across your mind, and a familiar, warm buzz ran up your skin, something sweet and soft latching onto your insides like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

Oh. Oh no.

You recognized that feeling. You knew what that fluttering in your stomach was.

You like him! your heart sang, dancing around in your chest and waving a neon sign with Wilbur’s name on it. You tooootally like him!

With a groan, you frowned as you picked up a sponge. Shut up, shut up, shut uuup!

Wilbur Soot may be kind, polite, well-mannered, pretty, cute, and tall, but there was no way you were about to let him off the hook that easily. He ruined your one good white shirt! He just happened to be... less sucky than you thought.

“Wilbur Soot is just my next-door neighbour,” you said quietly aloud to yourself, scrubbing angrily at your dishes, “and I definitely don’t like him.”

But deep down, you knew that it was no use.

You were smitten.

633 notes · View notes

blitzturtles · 3 years

Text

Title: Freezing

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: DCU / DC Comics

Pairing(s): JayTim w/ Batfam

Summary: “He’s in DKA.”

“He’s what?”

“Diabetic ketoacidosis. It’s-”

“I know what it is,” Jason says a little too quickly, but he doesn’t understand. Can’t wrap his head around what it means in this particular situation. “He has a pump. You got him a pump.”

Notes: For my 100th fic on Ao3, I thought I'd go back to the beginning. What got me back into writing: DC Comics and the Batfam.

Also, full credit to my wife (@sexyvanillatiger) for not only beta reading this thing, but also helping me with the information on DKA and rewriting several bits of the story to make it work.

For the record, this is an extremely unlikely scenario that most people with an insulin pump won't have to worry about. It has more to do with Tim's particular style of pump originally being one with an external catheter, as well as his being a) underdressed for the weather and b) out for far too long in said weather.

I will say that, though it is unlikely, pump failure due to freezing temperatures has happened, so please be mindful when you're out and about!

It’s three in the morning and freezing, and the last thing Jason expects is to hear Dick’s voice ring through the comm in his ear while he’s midair, between the end of one building and the beginning of the next. He’s busy, very nearly disconnects on the spot given the mood he’s in, but Dick seems to sense the impending end of the conversation.

“Wait!”

“What do you want, Nightwing?” He grinds the name out with far too much disdain. It’s not Dick’s fault that he’s in a bad mood.

“It’s Tim. He’s-”

Truth be told, Jason hears nothing after that. After ‘Tim’. Not Red Robin, not Red, not even Babybird. No, just Tim.

“Shit!” He very nearly goes careening off the side of the next building with the abrupt shift in his momentum and the loss of focus. There’s ice clinging to every other surface, which wouldn’t be a problem if he weren’t distracted. He can hear Dick’s frantic voice on the other end of the comm, but he can’t bring himself to care enough to explain.

“Where is he?” Jason demands once he’s regained his footing and has a moment to school his tone into something near neutral.

“That’s the thing. We don’t know. He-”

“What do you mean, ‘We don’t know’? What the fuc-”

“He missed his last check-in,” Dick finishes, unphased by the interruption.

“How long?” Jason asks, barely noticing how his voice shakes.

“Only twenty minutes, but-”

“But he’s working on a goddamn human trafficking ring, and it’s fucking freezing,” Jason finishes. He doesn’t need Dick to explain to him why twenty minutes is suddenly a big deal and not Tim losing track of time. “What about his tracker?”

“He turned it off after his last contact. We’re not sure why, but Oracle is working on pinning down possible locations based on his last. Look, B’s- Anyway, he doesn’t know I’m getting you involved, but you know that side of Gotham better than any of us,” at least on practical experience. Jason has spent months blending into the crowds in the past, as much as he hated every second of it.

“That’s just great, Dickie,” to hell with codenames. And to hell with his helmet. He tugs it off his head and tosses it at the nearest surface. The damn thing doesn’t so much as crack from the impact, but he can breathe again.

For a moment, he forgets that he has a secondary comm in his ear, which is why he flinches when Dick speaks again, “You also know Babybird better than any of us. I was just- hoping, I guess, that you would have a better idea once Oracle came up with her list.”

“Yeah, yeah, send it my way, will you? And his last location. Whatever files the computer has. I want all of it.”

“Done.”

Jason scoops his helmet off the ground and secures it in place again. No time to waste now. He starts shifting through the information the moment Dick sends it over. There are names that he recognizes. Places that he’s been too. Clubs that he’s spent the wee hours of the morning pretending to get plastered in, while flirting with the sort of men he’d happily put a bullet in any other time (for several of them, he had). But none of it tells him where Tim might be now, or why he thought going AWOL was some brilliant idea.

And here’s the thing, Jason’s in the mood he’s in because of this whole human trafficking bullshit. He knows Tim’s been working on it for the last few weeks, though Jason only found out about it in the last couple of days. Probably because Tim’s smart enough to know that Jason doesn’t want any of them so directly involved in that shit, least of all Tim. But there’s no stopping his-- he still doesn’t know when Tim went from ‘the’ to ‘his’-- Replacement when he gets an idea in his head.

It brings Jason no comfort to know that the temperature outside is frigid. He can feel it sink into his bones, despite the warmth of his suit. Technology can only get them so far without impacting agility, and Tim is a lot like Dick in that he likes to fly through the air, unhindered.

Dick passes Oracle’s findings over a few minutes later, when Jason’s already halfway to Tim’s last location. He’s on his bike. Going on foot would take too long, and they’ve already lost-- fuck-shit, thirty-two minutes now.

He tears through all the clubs in the area. Takes out more kneecaps than he has in months, but it doesn’t get him anywhere. The rooftops don’t help either. The advantage is lost when tracking a fellow Bat. Tim moves with purpose, and he does it without leaving a trace.

At least until Jason stumbles into an alley by sheer luck. One that could be in disarray for any reason, but he catches sight of a Batarang. It’s surface glints off the streetlight behind him. There’s no blood. No fibers stuck to it. It looks like it’s been dropped more than thrown, and he doesn’t know what to make of that, but his stomach is turning painfully.

Something is definitely wrong; he just doesn’t know what.

Dick chirps updates in his ear. Brief lines of information; none of it useful. The rest of them are having as much (or less) luck as he is, though he doesn’t immediately report his findings. It could be something; then again, it could be nothing, and they don’t need to all bunge together just to step on each others’ toes with no chance of finding Tim before someone or something gets to him.

The next three alleys look similar to the first in that they could all but in the state that they are because they’re part of the seedier night scene of Gotham, but something about them rings wrong in Jason’s head. There’s a garbage bag that’s strewn across the asphalt, like someone knocked it over rather than it having been pushed or thrown, and eerie signs of a scuffle that don’t look right either. There’s no blood and no sign of reciprocation. Only the snowy remains of a chaotic waltz littered throughout.

And that’s when he all but stumbles into a body. Curled and small with lips that are too close to blue and a face that’s ashen white.

Jason’s on his knees in an instant, calling Tim’s name-- Red? Robin? Drake, he hisses the last one in barely a whisper, but none of them yield results. Tim stays there, unmoving. His chest barely moves, but the bizarre part is how there doesn’t seem to be any injuries besides a trickle of blood that might be coming from Tim’s temple. His suit is otherwise intact, and who would leave a Bat incapacitated without finishing the job? Around here, not a single bastard.

He’s lifting Tim up before he can think to call for help. He carries him back to his bike and manages to maneuver them both onto the seat. He keeps Tim in front of him, awkward as it is, with one arm hooked around the limp body. The only saving grace in the moment is how goddamn small Tim is.

“Nightwing,” he calls as he starts the bike. “Cave, now.” He severs the connection before Dick has a chance to respond.

By the time he gets to the Cave, his heart is pounding away in his chest. Tim still hasn’t woken up. Still hasn’t so much as shifted in his unconscious state, and Jason is getting frantic. More and more terrified with each passing second, and it’s all he can do to keep one foot in front of the other when he pulls to a stop and gets Tim in his arms once again.

The face that greets him isn’t Dick’s, but Bruce’s, and Jason’s too afraid to give a shit. Too out of his depth. He can stitch wounds and even remove bullets, but he doesn’t know what’s wrong with Tim or how to fix it. He’s completely at Bruce’s mercy, and that would ordinarily piss him off, but, right now? He can feel wetness build in his eyes and his voice shakes as he looks at Bruce with desperation.

“Please,” he begs, knowing that he doesn’t have to, but unable to stop himself anyways.

Bruce doesn’t miss a beat. He’s already reaching for Tim, and it feels like someone pulling the rug from underneath Jason’s feet the moment his arms are empty again. There’s nothing keeping him steady, keeping him moving forward. At least not until Bruce glances back over his shoulder and calls,

“Jason.”

Jason scrambles forward, falling in after Bruce, and he feels all of about twelve years old again, following behind the Bat’s massive silhouette without question.

Alfred meets him in the infirmary, and the two make quick work of stripping Tim out of his suit. It would be impressive, considering the security measures, if Jason were able to take the time to appreciate anything, but he’s too wrapped up in his ever growing anxiety. The more skin that becomes visible, the more alarmed they all become. There’s no bruising, no blood. No explanation.

They start him on fluids for lack of anything else to do, and there is a minor contusion on the side of Tim’s head that indicates that he must have hit it at some point, but it's apparent to Jason-- the way it is to Bruce and Alfred-- that the trauma happened as Tim hit the ground and not as the result of someone getting the better of him.

“Oh,” Alfred breathes, and two pairs of blue eyes snap in his direction. He’s holding a strip of paper-- the results of his blood test-- with a frown etched into his features.

Bruce reaches out, and Alfred passes them over wordlessly. He moves around the infirmary in a flurry, gathering supplies with renewed purpose. For some reason, it only makes Jason’s heart beat that much harder in his chest.

“What is it?”

“He’s in DKA.”

“He’s what?”

“Diabetic ketoacidosis. It’s-”

“He does, and I did,” Bruce agrees with a grunt. It’s clear that he’s just as lost as Jason, but he doesn’t have the chance to say anything else before Alfred is calling him over, leaving Jason to stew on the information and watch from the sidelines because diabetic complications are definitely outside of his scope of practice.

He feels useless. Beyond, even, and he can’t stop looping back to the pump. That’s the whole reason Tim has it. So he can patrol without complications. He remembers the excitement when Tim first got it. All the information he had to absorb as part of being approved in the first place. He’s been stable on the damn thing for months. So why is his blood sugar through the roof?

It feels like hours until Alfred lets them know that Tim’s responding to treatment-- which includes a complicated setup of three different bags of fluids that Jason couldn’t identify for the life of him-- and beginning to improve. Jason doesn’t know how much time has actually passed, but he’s been in his head the whole of it, replaying the same questions and spiralling down the same, horrific scenarios. His cheeks itch with the feeling of dried tears, though he doesn’t know when he started crying (or when he stopped, for that matter).

He sits beside Tim diligently, despite his exhaustion, and holds his smaller hand in both of his own. It’s the only thing keeping him grounded, especially as everyone else comes and goes. Alfred never goes far, though Bruce disappears entirely to do god knows what. Dick hugs him, but he’s smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself. Damian’s about as comforting as he never is, but the worry is apparent in his eyes, even as he insists that Tim’s situation is more of a nuisance than anything else.

Cass stops by before Stephanie. A quiet presence that actually soothes Jason’s nerves, only to be followed by a quiet that sets them alight. Stephanie is rarely so subdued, but she disappears quickly, evidently unable to handle just standing there. She mutters something about finishing the job. It would concern Jason more if he weren’t already certain that none of them were going to be able to fly under Bruce’s radar for a bit.

Speaking of, Bruce announces his return by not-so-gently placing something on the little metal cart by Tim’s bed. It takes Jason a moment to recognize it as Tim’s pump, though it’s been pulled apart and now sits in multiple pieces.

“What-”

“It froze,” Bruce says before Jason can continue.

“What?” Jason repeats.

They can freeze? Is that something they knew? Why the hell hadn’t Tim taken precautions going out into sub-zero temperatures?

“Not the whole pump. This,” Bruce traces the remains of the clear tubing that typically goes from the pump to the injection point that sits under Tim’s skin. The line, itself, usually sits on Tim’s hip. “The catheter. The vial has enough insulin in it that it would have been fine, if not for this and the weather.”

“Why-?” Jason can’t finish the question. Doesn’t know what he means to ask in the first place, but Bruce doesn’t hesitate to answer,

“He didn’t know. Neither did I, for that matter. It never occurred to any of us.”

Oh.

Jesus.

Tim could have died, and not one of them would have realized why until it was too late.

“From what I can find, it’s not typically a concern,” Bruce goes on, though Jason’s only half listening. He supposes that makes sense, though, considering most people aren’t spending hours in the cold. He wonders how long Tim had been struggling. Alone and dazed and stumbling over his feet. That explains the condition of the alley. There really hadn’t been any fights. Just Tim, grabbing at anything and everything.

“If I had to guess,” and Bruce doesn’t look happy with the idea of not knowing, “He turned his tracker off in confusion.” Possibly while trying to call for help, he doesn’t say, and it makes Jason sick to think about.

“That shouldn’t fucking happen,” Jason snaps, less at Bruce and more at the universe.

“I know,” Bruce answers when the universe remains as silent as ever, “Lucius is working on it now. We’ve already discussed the possibility of adding a second, remotely activated tracker.” All of their trackers can be remotely activated, unless they’re turned off. Having a second just means that they would have a backup should anything happen to the original.

“Good,” Jason says, for lack of anything else to say. He finds some comfort in the idea, but it doesn’t exactly make him feel better now. Particularly not when Tim is without a pump entirely, which means they’re back to constant checks and needle drawn injections, both of which he knows Tim hates. Both of which interfere with Tim’s ability to patrol for any extended period of time.

“Tim will be alright,” Bruce tells him in a tone that’s entirely too gentle to be coming out of his mouth, “Alfred says his numbers are looking better.”

“Yeah,” Jason’s mouth feels dry, and he feels his eyes burning. He works his jaw a few times to try to regain control. He doesn’t need to cry a second time, not when everything’s fine now. Tim will wake up in a bit, probably feeling like shit, but he’ll be alive.

“He’s alright,” Bruce reiterates as he crouches in front of Jason and tugs him forward. Jason doesn’t resist, allows himself to be maneuvered until his head is pressed into Bruce’s shoulder.

Neither move for what seems like an eternity, but Jason finally breaks the contact and wipes as subtly as he can at his eyes while looking Tim over. “He’s going to hate using needles again.”

“He should have a new pump before the end of the day tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Jason breathes, “He’ll- thanks.”

It doesn’t fix the current problem with the cold, but there are measures they can take against that. Measures that Tim won’t like, but it will be better for him to have his pump so that he doesn’t have to draw up his insulin, which, from what Jason understands, is less accurate than the pump anyways.

Bruce hums his response before opening his mouth to add, “You should go get washed up. Or changed, at least.”

Says the man still wearing his giant Bat suit, but Jason doesn’t feel like starting an argument for no reason when he’s still on edge. “You gonna stay here?”

“Of course. I’ll be here until you get back.”

“Okay,” thank you.

“Take your time,” you’re welcome.

______

By the time Jason showers, changes into some of the clothes kept in the dresser of his old room, and makes it back down to the Cave, Tim is still out, though there’s finally some color in his cheeks. A nice little dusting of pink that makes him look alive, and his lips are slowly beginning to regain some color, too.

“Alfred just came by,” Bruce says when he sees Jason, “He says that Tim should wake up soon.”

“Good,” Jason says, voicing the most subdued version of what’s going on in his head.

After too long, or maybe too short of a pause, Bruce says, “I need to get to work on a few things. Will you be alright?”

Jason has to brush away his immediate irritation (of course Bruce needs to do shit while another one of his kids is recovering from a near death experience; what else would he be doing?) and remind himself that Bruce has spent the better part of the last forty minutes sitting with Tim. That might as well be a lifetime in Bat years. Jason rarely sees Bruce sit still that long without a computer screen reflecting in his eyes.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Call me if you need me.”

“Will do, B,” he probably wouldn’t, but word would get to Bruce eventually.

______

The first time Tim opens his eyes, Jason’s excitement and relief are crushed almost immediately. Tim’s far from his usual self. He’s more out of it than Jason’s ever seen him, with his head lolling back and eyes flickering. What comes out of his mouth is mostly babbled nonsense in between groans.

Jason calls for Alfred immediately, and he’s just this side of his anxiety getting the better of him when Alfred reassures him that the state that Tim is in is to be expected after what his body went through. Besides, his carbon dioxide levels are still low and his blood sugar hasn’t come down very far yet. It’s going to take time for Tim to fully recover, but it’s a lot for Jason to take in all at once.

“Turn ‘ff the lights,” Tim grumbles, startling Jason from his thoughts.

“What?”

“Fuckin’ lights, turn ‘em off.”

Under any other circumstances, the uncharacteristically grumpy demand would have Jason laughing. Right now, it just makes his chest ache.

Alfred dims the lights before speaking, “He may be a bit grouchy.”

Jason lets out a small snort, “Thanks, Alf.”

Alfred offers him a small smile. Evidently pleased that he’s managed to lighten Jason’s mood, even if only a little bit.

“Stop,” Tim groans, causing the two to turn back toward him.

“Sorry,” Jason mutters at the same time that Alfred says, “Apologies, Master Tim.”

Tim huffs at both of them before seemingly drifting off once more.

______

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you next time,” Jason grumbles at Bruce’s retreating back. The man is being even more stoic over not being told about Tim’s wake-up, which, to be fair, hadn’t been that remarkable, beyond the amount of stress that it had caused Jason. Besides, if Bruce weren’t so damned busy with whatever it is he’s doing, he might have known that Tim had woken up briefly.

Bruce says nothing as the door closes behind him, apparently aware that Jason is more irritable than usual and unwilling to get into a fight over it.

Jason huffs and sits back in his seat. Part of him wishes Bruce would start something. He’s getting antsy sitting in the Cave this long. Hell, he’s just tired of sitting, but there’s only so much pacing he can do.

“You should be nice,” Tim croaks from his spot in bed, effectively startling the shit out of Jason in the process.

“That was nice, and fuck you,” Jason answers easily, but his heart is bounding away in his chest.

“For which part?”

“All of it, Replacement,” the part where Tim scared the shit out of him and the part where he has the audacity to comment on Jason’s shitty people skills first upon waking up after nearly dying.

“Ouch, I’m back to the Replacement, huh?”

Jason snorts, “You’re damn right. Only a Replacement would pull something like that.”

Tim winces, “Sorry.”

Oh. That’s not fair. The sad look in Tim’s eyes and the pained expression. That’s just plain cheating. “It’s okay,” Jason sighs, “I’m just glad we found you in time.” He doesn’t mention the part where he had been the one to find Tim. Unresponsive and blue in the face. Looking more dead than alive.

“Who?”

“Dickiebird, obviously.” Blue enough.

Tim huffs a small, would-be laugh. It quickly turns into a cough and a groan. “Feels like I got hit by a train.”

“You kinda look like it, too, but I hear that’s just your face.”

Tim blinks at him, slow and owlish, but the joke seems to register after a moment and he shoots Jason a nasty look. “You can leave whenever you want.”

“You’d like that.”

“I really would.”

“Too bad.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“Something fucking stellar: me.”

Tim snorts, but his expression sobers after a moment, “I’m sorry. Really. I- I didn’t know what was happening. I still- did my blood sugar drop?”

“No, the opposite actually.”

“Wait, what?” Tim’s frown deepens and his brows come together, “But-”

“The insulin in the outside part of your pump froze.”

Tim’s hand suddenly reaches for where the pump typically sits. A frantic effort in a tangle of IV tubing that comes up empty. “Where-?”

“Bruce took it. He says you’ll have another one by tomorrow, but I think that one’s pretty shot. He took it apart.”

“Oh,” Tim deflates slightly.

“It almost killed you, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim breathes out. “I know, it’s stupid. Just… Sucks, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Jason answers, for lack of anything else to say. He reaches for one of Tim’s hands and squeezes scarred fingers with his own, calloused pads. “No more patrolling when it’s this cold, I guess.”

“I guess,” Tim echoes, a sign that he doesn’t actually want to agree, but knows that Jason’s right.

Jason squeezes his hand again. This time he gets a gentle squeeze back, which is something of a reassurance. “At least not alone,” he offers after a moment of hesitation. He’s not sure he should give Tim that hope, but he wouldn’t mind company every so often, and the human trafficking shit is something Jason works with on the regular. He can always put aside his more… lethal habits for a bit. There’s nothing stopping him from hunting down names in the future and taking care of business when Tim’s not looking. It’s not as if Tim doesn’t already know what Jason gets up to in his spare time.

“You- really?”

“Really. I’ve worked with a team before.”

“Doesn’t mean that you’d want to now,” Tim points out with a frown.

“It’s you,” it’s different. Maybe Jason will learn how to say half the things he means aloud, but he finds he doesn’t usually have to. Not with Tim, the little deductive prodigy that he is.

“Okay,” Tim smiles at him. A weak, shaky thing, but it’s there, and Jason smiles back.

______

Bruce steps into the infirmary with that usual, severe expression on his face that doesn’t give much away. He’s holding a small box with absolutely no markings on it, and he passes it to Tim wordlessly.

“What’s this?” Tim asks with his brows knitted together, but he doesn’t actually expect an answer. Instead, he opens the box up carefully and finds a new pump sitting inside.

“Freezing won’t be an issue,” Bruce explains before Tim can ask about the lack of a visible catheter. “It’s a single unit. No external catheter, and there’s a warming component that automatically runs under certain conditions to keep the insulin at the ideal temperature.”

“Oh,” Tim breathes, eyes widening as he processes the words. “You-”

“Lucius helped,” Bruce answers with a half shrug and eyes that stay focused on the thing in Tim’s hands rather than the wonder in his son’s eyes.

“Thank you.”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth tug upward before he can stop them, “We just want you safe.”

“Still, thank you.”

Bruce is quiet for a moment, before he says, “Anytime, Tim.”

#dc comics #jaytim #jason todd #tim drake #dick grayson #batfam #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #batfamily #dcu #blitzwrites #blitz

41 notes · View notes

writinglizards · 3 years

Text

Make me Happy

Summary: "I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous." - Mary Shelley's Frankenstein He is created. He is abandoned. He is found.

Read on Ao3

The first thing he knows is agony.

He feels set on fire from the inside, bright white pain arcing through his veins. He cries out, voice hoarse. The sharpness of it ceases as quickly as it came, but the ache persists.

A clatter to his left draws his attention. He shifts. Distantly, he’s aware of the scratch and shift of the rough-hewn shirt and trousers he’s dressed in, but there are larger concerns, at the moment. His limbs feel awkward but otherwise cooperative, so sits up.

There is a man across the room with his back pressed against the counter. White hair, a beard. The man’s face is drawn in an expression he can’t parse. Beneath the man’s feet are shards of glass.

He doesn't understand where he is or what's going on. He opens his mouth to speak--and finds he doesn't know the words to communicate this. He makes a quiet, wordless sound, questioning. He hopes it's enough for the man to understand. He so wants answers.

In response, the man jolts for the door.

He starts at the abrupt movement, makes another quiet noise of surprise, reaches out a hand toward him, wait, please--

The man makes a shrill noise, "Stay away, you, you--" he flings the door open after a brief scrabbling with the lock and bolts, a high pitched terrified noise leaving his throat. He throws the door closed behind him, but it hits the doorframe and bounces back, hard.

He follows because he doesn't know what else to do. The other man is scared. Should he be scared?

He lets the smell of terror, sickly and awful, lead him down a spiral staircase and out a partly concealed door onto the street where he's abruptly hit with an overwhelming wave of scents and sounds. It's too much for him to understand; all he knows is he needs to find the man again. He hopes he can help.

He sees someone, not the man from the room, on the street a few feet away. He approaches, timid. He's trying to work out how to ask what he wants to know--where did the man from the room go?--when he catches the other's attention.

"What the--what the fuck?" He doesn't understand the words, but the tone--the man spins on his heel and sprints away, terrified. It catches the attention of several people up the street. The first man was scared, but these men--help, maybe?

He takes a few slow steps in their direction, still trying to figure out how to ask what he wants to know when he catches the glint of steel. He freezes. He takes quick stock of their expressions, the naked weapons in their grips, and hesitates.

"You'll get the fuck out of here if you know what's good for you, monster." He doesn't understand, doesn't know how to respond in a way that will ease the aggression of their posture. He just wants help.

"Well? Get," one of the men shouts, rapping the flat of his blades together. It makes a harsh sound, makes him whine with how the sharp noise hurts. He ducks his head, cups his hands over his ears to try and make the hurt stop. "I said get," the man shouts again, repeats the movement of his weapons. He keens, a low, quiet sound full of pain. He doesn't understand--

"You got to the count of fucking three," another says, and he doesn't wait for them to make the noise again. He runs.

Every person he sees in his mad dash down the street and away from the pain reacts similarly. Either they flee or they bare steel and make threats, loud and angry. The mixing scents, the noises, his own fear, it's all too much. He doesn't know where he is or where he's going. He just runs.

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

By the time the sun is beginning to rise, he's finally broken out of the rows and rows of buildings and into the trees, where he runs until his lungs burn and his feet hurt before he collapses in the shade at the base of a tree. He doesn't know where he is or what's going on, doesn't understand the fear and hostility of the people he'd seen. He sits there, somewhere in the middle of the forest, and finally feels it hit him. He doesn't know, he doesn't understand. He sits and he cries, deep chest wracking sobs, until he's too tired to keep his eyes open. He curls himself up small and tight in the roots of the tree, and sleeps.

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

He's woken some indeterminate time later, to the sound of footsteps. Lots of them. The sky is going grey at the edges, so he knows he must have slept a while. There's shouting coming from the direction he came from yesterday, words he can't understand in a tone he can--they sound like the men who made the awful noise.

"If you see that fuckin beast, just kill 'em. No need to leave him loose to terrorize the city again."

“Nah, the mage wants ‘em. Said--”

“I know what he said and I’m saying just kill ‘em.”

They're not that far. He knows enough now that he doesn't want to run into these people, doesn't want a repeat of last night. He rises very quietly, and treks farther into the forest, away from the sounds of the approaching men. He'll walk all night if he has to.

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

He walks until he can't hear them any longer, and then he keeps walking, for good measure. He walks until he stumbles across another group of buildings, much smaller than the one he'd fled last night. He lingers at the edge of the trees, watching a trio of young women leaning against a wooden fence not far, talking. One of the women has something she appears to be eating in her hand, and his own stomach growls loudly in reminder that he has eaten nothing since...he doesn't know when.

These women look nothing like the men with their weapons, which is the only reason he steps out of his hiding spot in the trees, starts towards them.

"Sara, look--" one of the women catches sight of him and goes pale. She steps backward, hands shaking, and he freezes. He doesn't want them to be afraid. He only wants--

The one eating turns to look back over her shoulder and their eyes meet. She drops the thing she'd been eating. There's a shriek--the third woman--and then all three of them are running pell-mell back towards the rest of the buildings.

He tamps down on his hurt and darts forward to scoop the food off the ground--an...apple?--and then he's running again, farther into the forest. He knows better than to stick around for the angry men and their weapons.

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

He doesn't pause until he feels he's far enough away he'll be able to hear anyone coming with enough warning to escape. He settles at the base of a tree and gnaws on the apple slowly, trying to savor the small thing. It's a little better than nothing, but it reminds him he's hungry, sets his stomach to rolling uncomfortably. When he's gnawed the thing down to its core he finally sets it aside, disappointed.

He’ll have to see if he can find more food, or venture back towards the buildings to see if there’s anything he might be able to take that won’t be missed. But not tonight.

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

In the end, he ends up doing quite a bit of stealing from the village at night while he hides in the trees during the day, watching the way the people interact with one another. He feels bad about just taking, but there’s nothing much that can be done for it--there’s no easily accessible food in the forest and the people still spook and run at the sight of him.

So that’s the way he survives, for a bit. It's not a comfortable existence and he knows the people of the little town both know he's there and are upset by it. He tries not to scare them, only slips down into their fields at night, when most are asleep, only takes as much food as he needs to quell the emptiness in his stomach.

Watching the people interact with one another is helpful, though, even if he can’t approach them. The field workers do a lot of talking to one another as they work, and over time he starts to pick up what the words mean, in a roundabout kind of way. So he lingers and he watches and he hopes for...something he can't put a name to.

He's finally forced to move on when he tries to slip down into the town about three weeks later and there are men with swords again, lining the outskirts of the village. He knows enough about people at this point from what he's observed and he doesn't want problems. He moves on, just picks a direction and starts walking.

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

When he stumbles across a tiny cottage out in the woods all on its own, he assumes it must be abandoned--people don't live alone, after all. He would investigate further, but the sun is already peeking over the horizon, sky dusting pink, and he knows he needs to find somewhere to settle before daybreak.

There are several little shacks sprinkled around the clearing that he doesn’t know the purpose of so he picks one--the shack behind the cottage--to test the door and finds it unlocked. It's a storage shed and moderately well-stocked, despite how the little room seems to be on the verge of collapse. He settles to the ground on the far side of a crate and tucks himself into a tight little ball. He'll stay here today and investigate more closely tonight.

Shortly, he dozes.

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

He wakes much too soon to the sound of...something. He's never heard it before, this softly twanging noise. It's good. Nice.

He knows it must be well past mid-day from the way the light slants in through the chinks in the walls. He's just thinking it's too early to try venturing out when the singing starts, soft and lovely and he thinks, oh, It's a person.

He rises very slowly and quietly and crosses the tiny storeroom to the wall that's shared with the cottage. The music is a little louder here, and he can make out the words, a story of a knight saving a fair maiden and true love's kiss. He can understand what those words mean a bit now--language has come slowly, but he's getting better at piecing together bits and pieces from the things he's heard, although not all of it makes sense all the time. And well, some things just feel right, like he's known them all his life. Language has been a little like that, even if speaking is a challenge.

So he can follow the story, vaguely, even as the song ends and another quickly takes its place. He hears no other voices or movement in the adjoining room, just that smooth tenor singing of heroics and heartbreak. He settles down beside the wall, rests his temple against the rough wood grain, and listens.

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

He wakes again an indeterminate time later. It's late, the sun is down and the man in the cottage sounds as if he's retired for the night. It's quiet. He...probably shouldn't stay here, but it's warm and quiet and the man sings so beautifully. He borrows a small meal of hard bread from the stores and tells himself he won't be back when he slips out of the storeroom to stretch his legs.

By the time the sun rises, he's tucked back into the storeroom anyway, curled up against the wall that joins the cottage. What's one more day?

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

One day becomes two days becomes a whole week. He's reluctant to leave the security of the little storeroom, the pleasant singing. A few days in, he finds a chink in the wall that lets him see into the cottage room and he now spends his daylight hours pressed to that wall, watching, listening. The man is...beautiful. He looks like they would be of a height, even if the man is a little leaner than he himself is. Despite that, the man is still broad-shouldered and strong looking, with brilliant blue eyes and a sweep of brown hair he can only think of as pretty. And he can tell the man is not just beautiful; he’s also intelligent, witty. He talks to himself constantly, sings, reads, dances his way around the room. The man moves through life as if he has not a care in the world. He wants so badly to be a part of that.

Despite how much he yearns to join the man, he still won't reveal himself, too afraid of the potential reaction to him. He finds himself growing attached, despite how much he shouldn’t. If this soft and delightful man is as afraid as the village people were, it will break him.

So he watches and he dreams and he tries to help around the cottage, at night. It starts with some chopped wood when the woodpile gets a little too low, which the man reacts to with delighted confusion. Then it's a few rabbits and other small animals, here and there, to replenish some of the food stores he's been dipping into to feed himself.

"Well, looks like we've got ourselves an admirer," the man says softly the morning he finds the first rabbit. He'd been...nervous about leaving the little thing. Nervous it might upset or scare the man. Instead, he looks...pleased. He smiles all day, even when he comes back in from caring for the chickens, which he knows the man dislikes. It's nice, kindles a warm feeling in his chest.

He wants to be the cause of that smile more often.

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

A few days later, he wakes to the sound of more than just the man in the yard out front. There are several people he can't see but he can hear them, carrying things to and fro.

"Jaskier, where do you want this?" one of them asks.

"Oh, that's fine there," the man says. Something flutters in his chest. Jaskier.

There's a few more crates the other men bring into the cottage that he can see through his chink in the wall. The man, Jaskier, watches the stacking of these crates on the far side of the cottage along with another man who stands at his elbow. Compared to Jaskier, the man is very broad and well built with short cropped dark hair. He carries a sword on his hip and stands like he'd be ready to draw it at a moment's notice. He reminds him of the men who'd threatened him the first night.

"I should also warn you there's been sightings of some kind of monster lately." Jaskier turns to the man with the sword, effectively presenting his back to the chink in the wall. He wishes he could see his face.

"What kind of monster? Monsters have been gone for almost a hundred years."

The other man is already shaking his head, "not a monster, monster, no. This is some kind of abomination. Looks like a man but...not. Wrong. He's been spotted at one of the nearby villages as little as a few weeks ago."

"And? How do they know he's a monster then?"

The man puffs out a tired sounding breath, "I'm just relating what I heard, Jaskier. I don't know."

"Of course not," he says, tetchy. There's something beyond the words that have upset him.

"Look, I--"

Jaskier pulls away from the hand hovering over his shoulder. "I don't care, Vincent."

"Jask, you know I didn't--"

"We're not talking about us," Jaskier says, tone sharp in a way he's never heard, "just...let the men finish and then you can run on home to father and tell him what a good little disowned son I've been, hm?"

Jaskier doesn't give him a chance to respond, just steps over to watch the men bringing in the crates more closely, steps just a little too heavy.

When they're gone, he watches Jaskier cry, head in his hands. It makes his chest uncomfortably tight but there's nothing he can do.

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

When night falls and he's sure Jaskier is asleep (and he feels a little flutter of delight in his gut when he thinks the man's name, elated that he knows it after all this time), he slips out of the storeroom and into the pooling moonlight of the little clearing, stretching his legs. His goal tonight is to chop some more wood so Jaskier will have enough to stay warm tomorrow. Then...maybe a walk. He'd seen some blackberry bushes a few nights ago. Maybe he'd pick some, leave them for him in the morning.

The wood chopping goes quickly and he stacks the split logs nicely with the other chopped wood against the wall by the front door. He does so quietly, not wanting to rouse his sleeping friend. Not that he thinks it likely the man will rouse tonight. He'd been somber the rest of the day and he'd cried again, curled in his bed when he should have been sleeping. He finds he wants to do something to ease the unhappiness that's settled over him since the men had come by.

It's with that thought he wanders off in search of those blackberries. He takes one of the wooden buckets Jaskier usually uses for gathering eggs and sets off to find the blackberry bushes.

They're right where he remembered them, just a short walk from the little pond where the ducks gather from time to time. He goes about picking them to fill the bucket, careful of their little thorns. He gets the bucket three-fourths or so full before he calls it good. By then, he's covered in sticky juice and the sun should be up soon. He's got just enough time to visit the pond, wash off his hands and leave the bucket out front before he’ll settle back in the storage room.

The pond is silent and still when he wanders up, the bucket dangling from one hand. He sets it aside on the shore and kneels at the edge of the pond. He tries not to peer into his reflection in the water, even as the moonlight reflects back off its surface.

Unbidden, then man's words resurface in his mind. Like a man but not. Wrong. He knows he looks...different. There are harsh scars scattering his face, his temples, his arms, his torso. His eyes are wrong, too bright, too strange a color. His hair is unnatural, too pale, too wild. He understands why the villagers are startled by him, understands why they react with fear. He's...wrong. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

He pushes the thoughts from his mind and doesn't let himself linger. Instead, he washes up quickly and treks back over to the cottage. He leaves the bucket of berries on the doorstep and retreats to the storeroom.

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

He rouses just a little when Jaskier rises. He listens to him sing and go about his morning routine with half an ear, still mostly asleep. The sound of his friend awake and back to normal is a comfort, so it's disturbing the way he abruptly goes silent when the door creaks open.

"Oh--" he's obviously found the berries. The quiet stretches out for a beat too long and then there's a sniffling noise. "Shit," Jaskier mutters. The door clunks back shut. He hears the noise of the bucket being sat down somewhere in the cottage. "'s stupid to fucking cry over berries, Jask, pull it together," he tells himself, voice thick with tears.

He can't help the surge of alarm that rolls through him--he didn't mean to make Jaskier cry. He presses his face to the wood, eye at the chink in the wall, and is surprised to find him smiling despite the tears, gazing down into the bucket of berries as if they are something far more precious as he wipes aggressively at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Blackberries," he repeats, once his breathing is a little more under control, "I'll have to make a pie." He's still smiling. Maybe they weren't such a bad idea, after all.

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

Jaskier continues with his daily routine after that, and he lets himself sleep again, after a time. He's fairly attuned with the noises of Jaskier going about his day, so he doesn't startle when Jaskier begins going through the crates of supplies the men brought yesterday. By the time he realizes what that means, Jaskier's already at the door of the storage shed, dried goods tucked under his arm.

He lays very, very still where he's curled in the corner, pressed against the wall of the cottage, eyes squeezed shut, and waits for the inevitable.

The gasp is expected. The sound of the bundle Jaskier is carrying hitting the ground is as well. What is not expected is the hands that land on his shoulder, tug him over gently. He blinks up at the face of the man he's only watched from a distance, startled. He expected revulsion, fear, the sound of footsteps fleeing. Instead, he's peering down at him with concern.

"Oh, thank the gods you're alive," he sighs out on a breath, patting reassuringly at his shoulder where his hands still rest. "What are you doing in my storage shed, darling?"

And oh, this is...not something he'd been prepared for. He swallows hard and can't seem to force words out.

"You don't have to tell me," Jaskier says softly, "but let's get you inside, alright? It can't be comfortable out here."

He follows in a daze when Jaskier tugs him gently upright and leads him into the cottage. This doesn't feel real. He must be dreaming. Why else would Jaskier be looking at him like that?

"Have you had anything to eat? Are you hungry?" Jaskier asks once he's settled at the table. He at least can follow that much so he shakes his head, still afraid to speak. Jaskier jumps to preparing him a small meal of hard cheese and fresh bread. “Sorry, I haven’t had the chance to make that pie yet,” he says as he sets the little plate before him and settles across the table from him, smiling. "Go on, eat," he says, and he doesn't have to be told twice.

The food is the best thing he's ever tasted. The pleased look never falls off Jaskier's face. "Thank you," he whispers once the plate is empty, wincing when the words fall rough like gravel from his disused throat.

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, freezing with his hand outstretched to take the empty plate. He thinks maybe he's made a mistake, but Jaskier's smile stretches impossibly wider, eyes sparkling, "you're very welcome, dear heart." The look on Jaskier’s face, that tone, settles something warm in his chest.

Jaskier puts the plate on the counter and resumes his seat. He doesn't know what to do with himself in the face of Jaskier's kindness and keeps his eyes averted. Jaskier doesn't give him time to start feeling self-conscious, though.

"I'm Jaskier. Do you have a name, darling? Something I can call you?" And he knows Jaskier’s asking a question but--

Jaskier can tell his mistake almost immediately. “Oh! Um,” he fumbles to press his hand to his chest, “Jaskier,” he repeats, and he nods. Then, tentatively, Jaskier holds out his hand to him. He doesn’t move, not quite sure what Jaskier means until his palm makes careful contact with his chest. His breath catches. “You?”

He shakes his head, understanding that Jaskier is asking for his name. He feels a bubble of shame rise in him. It's not his fault he doesn't have something to go by like everyone else, he knows, but that doesn't lessen the feeling he's let his friend down.

"Oh, sweetheart," Jaskier breathes, and he doesn't sound upset. Or at least, not at him. "What should we call you then?” He looks thoughtful for a minute before, “Hold on, I’ve an idea.”

Jaskier rises and crosses the room, bringing back something from one of the shelves. “I’ve got a book here,” Jaskier says, settling it on the table in front of him, “It’s a storybook, but I could read you the names of the characters here until you find one you like?” and that was a lot of words but…“Just nod if you hear one you like, yes?” He can do that.

So Jaskier flips through the book, stopping periodically to read out the names as he finds them. And they’re...fine. But none of the names sound right to him.

“Hm, Eric?” He shakes his head, “No, I agree, too bland. Jakob? No? Alright then, Alice? That’s typically a lady’s name but--nope okay, um, Geralt?”

And that’s--“Yes,” he says softly. Something about that feels right.

The smile on Jaskier's face is small and delighted. "You want to be called Geralt?"

"Mm." And something about choosing the name makes his face hot. He ducks his head.

The grin that stretches Jaskier’s face looks like it hurts it's so wide. "A good name. Heroic. Kind." His gaze softens as he reaches across the table to rest his palm on Geralt's forearm. The touch is reassuring, even as he burns hot under Jaskier's fingertips. "It suits you."

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

He doesn't pressure Geralt for an explanation of anything, but he reassures him several times that he can stay, that it's no trouble. He even sets him up with new clothes, soft cotton that isn’t as scratchy as what he’d been wearing.

"Really Geralt, I have to insist. I won't be able to rest knowing you're out there somewhere with nowhere to stay. And," he continues, “if you stay long enough, I’ll even send for some clothes of your own, if you’d like.” And well. He can't let Jaskier worry (and the new clothes would be nice, too).

He sleeps on the little divan and marvels at how quickly Jaskier drifts off, breaths evening into sleep. The trust inherent in the action shakes him to his core. He follows a while later, chest overly tight.

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

They settle into a habit surprisingly quickly in the weeks that follow. Geralt picks up many of the tasks he'd already been performing for Jaskier in the twilight hours and Jaskier provides excellent company. He still sings and plays his lute in the evenings, preening to have an audience that Geralt is happy to provide.

He's thankful Jaskier asks no questions, although it's obvious Jaskier would like to know more about him, about what happened. He catches him staring at the scars when he thinks Geralt isn't looking, but it's not with revulsion. Geralt can't name the emotion on his face, but it's not a bad one necessarily.

There's only one question he does ask.

"So, do you know who my admirer is?" he says finally. Geralt’s just starting to feel truly comfortable here with Jaskier and is less worried about Jaskier changing his mind about keeping Geralt around. He’s proven he’s helpful and he’s trying very, very hard not to scare him (he’s beginning to think Jaskier can’t be scared, actually).

Geralt's in the middle of chopping wood when he asks. "Because you know, it was really very sweet of them." He's grinning.

"Uh," is the very elegant response Geralt comes up with, cheeks hot. He’s not sure why he’s embarrassed. Jaskier obviously knows it was him. He chops the next piece of wood with a singular focus, doesn't shift his gaze back over to Jaskier.

"He must have very fine arms. He chopped all my wood for weeks, you know," Jaskier says offhand, and oh. He's teasing. His tone is friendly. Geralt only flushes harder. He’s not sure why Jaskier can fluster him so quickly. "Not as good as yours, I'm sure," he continues, and Geralt nearly jumps when Jaskier's hand settles on his bicep, squeezing. "Mm, not sure anyone's as deliciously built as you are, darling."

"Jaskier," he finally bites out, mortified. He feels--he feels--he doesn’t know the word for it, but he’s pretty sure it’s not appropriate. Jaskier laughs.

"It's alright sweetheart," he grins and shoots him a wink, "your secret's safe with me." And Geralt doesn't know what to do with himself, but he likes the way his stomach clenches when Jaskier touches him, the soft way he speaks. And he does trust that he's safe with him. It's...reassuring.

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

Despite how safe Geralt feels, he still can't bring himself to tell Jaskier how he ended up hiding in his storeroom. He's fairly certain Jaskier won't care at this point, but every time he tries to say something, he finds the words have abandoned him. Unlike Jaskier, he struggles to voice his thoughts, even when he has the words neatly arranged in his head. Jaskier reassures him that it's fine, not everyone is gifted with their speech and it's normal for words not to work the way you'd like, but it frustrates him anyway. He...cares...about Jaskier. He’s…different. He wants to share this part of himself with him. He just doesn't know how.

His efforts are further complicated by the way his stomach flips uncomfortably every time Jaskier is close. He's not an idiot, he knows what it means (Jaskier is a big fan of love ballads, the raunchier the better, he says and it’s…that) but it feels...dishonest to entertain Jaskier's subtle flirting, especially when Jaskier knows nothing about who he really is, how he came to be. After all, who could love a monster?

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

"Geralt," Jaskier calls from his mound of blankets as Geralt stokes the fire for the last time that night, "come to bed with me, darling."

Geralt can feel himself flush. "Jaskier," he admonishes, but Jaskier only laughs, lifts the corner of the blanket invitingly.

"It's been cold at night and it will only get colder. Come on, Geralt." He bats his eyes enticingly, pats the corner of the mattress again.

"I can't," he says, quiet, and something in Jaskier's expression softens.

"Alright, darling," he says, letting the blankets fall closed around him, "but that's a standing invitation."

"Hm."

Jaskier doesn't press further, but Geralt lays awake thinking about it for far longer than he should.

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

"I'm a viscount," Jaskier says apropos of nothing a few days later. It's early morning and they're outside, returning from the chicken coop. Geralt turns to where Jaskier's stopped in the middle of the yard, bucket of chicken eggs forgotten on the ground beside him. "Or at least, I used to be. My father disowned me about a year ago now."

"Why?" Geralt asks, because Jaskier seems to need the encouragement. He wouldn't have brought it up if he hadn't wanted Geralt to know.

"I...embarrassed him. With who I chose to take to my bed." He's staring hard at the tree line opposite the cottage. He's not even facing Geralt. "My father's head of the guard. Vincent."

The name brings to mind the day the crates were delivered. The man with the sword who stood too close.

"I was disowned either way and I knew that, but Vincent..." he trails off.

"Thank you, Jaskier. You don't have to tell me." His eyes meet Geralt's finally and he smiles. It's a tiny, watery thing.

"No I--he chose to stay. With my father. And I'm...here. It bothered me. For a long time." He's quiet so long Geralt thinks maybe that's the end of it, but when he steps forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jaskier, he keeps talking. "I thought...who would want a disowned viscount? Vincent certainly didn't. I'm damaged goods."

"Jaskier, you're not damaged," Geralt says, horrified at the prospect. Jaskier is...wonderful (even if he talks a little too much for Geralt's taste, sometimes). How could anyone think him lesser for loving who he loved?

Jaskier extends his hand to catch Geralt's and squeezes tightly. Geralt squeezes back, stomach fluttering when Jaskier smiles at him. "I know," he says softly, "and I know you’re not ready to talk about yourself yet, but whatever it is, it’s okay, okay?" And when Jaskier says that, looking at him the way he is, Geralt can almost believe him.

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

They settle deeper into their routine, something Jaskier calls "disgustingly domestic" with a smile that nearly splits his face, so Geralt's pretty sure he doesn't think it's a bad thing, actually. Geralt certainly enjoys it.

Jaskier talks incessantly about anything and everything and Geralt likes listening.

“You know,” Jaskier says one night, after he’s wound down his playing and put the lute away, “I haven’t had many guests out here since I was disowned. It’s been...nice.”

“Why not?” Geralt asks, stoking the fire before settling back on the fur rug. Geralt can’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to spend time with Jaskier.

“Being disowned is…” he pauses, obviously searching for the right words, “it’s not something that’s done lightly. It means the people I grew up with, the people who were close to me, they can’t see me anymore, or risk having their own reputation tarnished.”

Geralt feels his lips twitch in a frown. Jaskier laughs.

“Oh, don’t make that face, I know. But that’s how it is. I’ve spent some time with the village locals, but it’s...not the same. I’m still nobility to them and I’m no longer nobility to the actual nobles.” He shrugs, but Geralt can see the thought still bothers him.

“You were lonely,” Geralt says. He’s not sure he should have pointed it out, but Jaskier doesn’t seem angry.

“I was,” he agrees softly. Something in his eyes pins Geralt to the spot, “until you.”

And that’s...too much to think about. “Hm.”

The smile that creeps over Jaskier’s face is blinding. “Yes,” he agrees, “hm, indeed.”

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

"My father's men should be stopping by in the next few weeks," Jaskier says on a morning like any other.

"Did you want me--"

"No," Jaskier corrects hastily before Geralt can offer to hide, "No, I want you here. I just--wanted to give you a heads up."

"Oh."

They don't talk about it again. They probably should have.

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

"Jaskier?" Geralt calls across the small space of the cottage, sitting up.

There's banging outside. People. Jaskier shifts in his cocoon of blankets that is his bed, only the top of his head visible. "No," he mumbles fuzzily, "don't wanna." He's...not really awake.

"Jaskier," Geralt rumbles, voice still thick with sleep himself, "we should--"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before the door is swinging open and a man is striding through. When he sees Geralt, his hand lands on his sword.

"Jaskier, what the fuck--"

"Vincent," Jaskier gasps, nearly tripping in his haste to extract himself from the blankets. He’s eyeing the space between Vincent and Geralt with panic, "ever heard of fucking knocking?" he bites out, shifting to put himself between them as much as possible.

"Jaskier, you've got a--"

"Don't finish that sentence," he says, tone flat and threatening, "and I'd appreciate it if you'd give my companion and I some fucking privacy. I'll meet you in the yard in a moment."

Vincent's hand tightens around the pommel of his sword, "I don't think--" he starts, but the look Jaskier pins him with is cutting. He hesitates, but he leaves without another word, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Fucking prick," Jaskier growls, stalking over to his wardrobe to put on some clothes before facing their company.

"I should--" Geralt starts, but Jaskier cuts him off.

"You should get dressed and let me drag you around the yard to hang off of while I make sure my father hasn't fucking shorted me on supplies. I'm already disowned, what more can he do to me?" The grin on Jaskier's face is brittle.

When they exit the cottage, Vincent is hovering by the door, obviously nervous. He's still got his hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword like a lifeline. Jaskier scoffs at it, but Geralt stays carefully back and works to make his posture non-threatening.

"Jaskier," Vincent says the minute he's out the door, "what is--"

"This is Geralt," Jaskier cuts in smoothly, "my companion." Vincent winces.

"He's--"

"My companion," Jaskier reinforces.

"The mage in Novigrad is looking for him." Geralt stiffens.

"I assure you we have no idea what you mean," Jaskier bites out, even as Geralt feels his stomach drop uncomfortably. The mage. The man from the room. He no longer cares one way or the other who the man is or what he wanted from Geralt. He’s happy here, he doesn’t want to leave. Vincent opens his mouth to respond, but he snaps his jaw shut a moment later with no protest.

"Okay," he sighs. Then-- "Where do you want the supplies?"

The men don't stay any longer than they need to, but it's a tense affair for everyone involved. Jaskier takes Geralt's hand in his and doesn't let go until long after Vincent and his underlings have left.

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

The rest of the day, Jaskier’s filled with a frantic sort of energy. He breezes through chores, drags Geralt on a walk with him out to the pond where he paces the water’s edge for near an hour before they head back. And it doesn’t dissipate even after they’ve returned to the cottage and had dinner.

The fire’s lit and Geralt is settled on the fur rug before it the way he normally does. Usually, this is about the time Jaskier would fetch his lute, or perhaps a book to read from. Instead, he’s still pacing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt finally says, breaking his focus as he comes up short in another circuit of the room, “come sit. Your pacing makes my head hurt.”

“Sorry,” he huffs, flopping down beside him with a heavy sigh. He leans against Geralt’s side for a bit, but he’s still restless, still shifting.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again and Jaskier sighs hard. He pulls away only to lay beside him, pillowing his head on Geralt’s thigh. Immediately, Geralt slips his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, soothing.

"So that was awful," Jaskier mutters.

"Mm."

He rolls so his face is pressed to Geralt's stomach. Geralt's fingers stay tangled in his hair, gently petting.

"I don’t want you to go," Jaskier says into the silence, muffled against Geralt's bulk.

Geralt’s chest siezes.

“I know you aren’t ready to tell me anything and that’s okay, but I--” his breath is warm against the thin cloth of Geralt’s shirt, “If that mage really is looking for you, I don’t want you to go,” he repeats, voice small.

Geralt feels as if his throat has closed. "I'm--I want to stay here,” he forces out, swallowing roughly. He should explain because Jaskier doesn’t know, but Jaskier sags with relief, presses his face closer to Geralt's stomach, fingers digging into his side and Geralt doesn’t want to take that relief from him, not now.

"That's--I'm glad." They don't say anything else for a long time as the fire burns down.

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

Geralt can’t stop thinking about the fact Jaskier doesn’t know, though. He needs to tell him. So that he’ll understand. Geralt owes it to him to tell him, whether he wants to or not. And if Jaskier wants him gone after? It will hurt, but he’ll go.

"Jaskier, do you have a minute?" he asks while Jaskier's tuning his lute that evening. He'd been getting ready to play, as he usually does.

"Of course, sweetheart. What is it?" he asks, strumming through a simple, uncomplicated tune. He meets Geralt's eyes with a playful smile, but his expression sobers when he sees the seriousness in Geralt's gaze.

"You asked me," he says carefully, "about before."

"Only if you're comfortable, dear. You don't have to--"

"No," he says, "I do." He needs to understand. He drops his gaze to his lap where he's wringing his hands together nervously. He stills them with effort, but that only makes the scars there stand out more starkly. He startles when Jaskier catches his hands in his own, traces those scars tenderly with lute-calloused fingertips.

"Well then, I'm listening," he says and smiles, small and encouraging when Geralt's gaze flickers back up to his face. It makes his chest tight. He doesn't deserve this. Jaskier. He tries to take in his face now, that tender care, that concern. Just in case it’s gone, after. So he knows. So he can remember.

Despite the fear churning in his gut, he takes a deep breath and starts talking, gaze glued to their still joined hands.

"My earliest memory is--uh. I. I woke up in a...room. I didn't know where I was. There was...a man. The mage, I guess." Jaskier is very, very still but his thumbs rub soothing circles against the back of his hands, a grounding point of contact.

"I tried to ask him what was going on, but I--" he trails off, unsure how to phrase what he means. He shakes his head. "--I didn't know how. I didn't have the words. And I--scared him. I think. He ran."

Jaskier sucks in a noisy breath and squeezes his hands briefly. "Go on," he encourages when Geralt glances back up.

"I followed him. I didn't know what else to do. I was in a town, I think."

"Novigrad," Jaskier interrupts before wincing. "Sorry, go on."

"The people there--I tried to ask for help but they--" he can feel the tears burning in his throat and tries to breathe through it, keep going, "they either ran or they threatened me. I didn't know what was going on." He feels the tears spill and ducks his head. If he stops now, he won't be able to continue. "I ran."

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier whispers. He lets go of one hand to bring his palm up to Geralt's face. His fingertips brush the corner of his eye, wipe the tears away gently.

"I ended up in the forest. There's a village not too far from here," Jaskier makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment. It’s the village Jaskier goes to sometimes when he needs things his father won’t or doesn’t send. "I stayed around there for a few weeks. Until the men with the swords showed up." Jaskier makes another small noise, rubbing his thumb along Geralt's cheekbone. Geralt closes his eyes. "So I picked a direction and started walking. And I found you."

"And I'm glad you found me, love. Sounds like you've had quite the rough go of it."

The calm acceptance is...too much. Does he not understand? He's a monster. Not natural. The mage wants back his creature. "Jaskier, I'm--"

"Shh," he cuts him off, grip still tight on his hand as he caresses his face, slips his fingers back into his hair, "I'm glad you told me, darling, but it doesn't change how I feel about you. You're a good person." He tugs him into his arms, gentle. Geralt goes, feeling like he did when he woke--unmoored, lost. He feels the tears slip down his cheeks, feels the way his breath catches on a sob. "I love you."

"Jask--" he can't get the words out past the lump in his throat so he just tucks himself a little closer, presses his face into Jaskier's neck. His lute sits forgotten beside them.

"You don't have to say it back, sweetling. It's okay," he says, stroking his free hand through Geralt's hair, the other tucked around his waist.

"I do, though," he whispers, lips brushing his throat, "I do." Jaskier sucks in a shuddering breath and holds him tighter, presses his lips to Geralt's temple, right over the mass of scars there. It's gentle, reverent.

That night, Geralt sleeps in Jaskier's bed, curled against his chest. He’s nearly asleep when the gentle tenor of Jaskier’s voice cuts through the soft haze of near-sleep. “--don’t know where I’d be,” Jaskier is saying softly, lips pressing intermittently to the top of his head, “gets hard being alone out here. And you’re so--” he cuts off, presses a kiss to Geralt’s hair again. He obviously thinks he’s already asleep. “You keep me grounded,” he says. “This is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.” He breathes it like a secret.

As Geralt lets sleep finally pull him under, swimming in Jaskier’s quiet confession, it's the most cared for he's ever felt.

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

And that’s how things continue, for a long time. Jaskier frets over who may or may not be looking for Geralt and vacillates wildly between stressing himself out about it and pretending it’s not a problem. Vincent and his men show up about every eight or so weeks with supplies from Jaskier’s father and Jaskier drags Geralt out with him to watch every time. Vincent eyes Geralt skeptically still, but he no longer comments or reaches for his sword. And as Geralt begins to experience what contact with other people is like when they’re not running from him or threatening him, he’s further convinced that Jaskier is special. He doesn’t feel this way about Vincent or the other men who deliver their supplies, or the people in the village who Jaskier’s taken him down to meet a few times now (they still won’t come anywhere near him without Jaskier around, but Jaskier is insistent they treat him like anyone else and it’s...it helps).

But Geralt doesn’t know how to make it clear to Jaskier that he’s interested in more. They share Jaskier’s bed, they touch frequently, but things are...remarkably tame. They already say “I love you.” At some point, Jaskier’s flirting had tapered off and now he’s just...sweet. And Geralt loves it, but he also wants...that. The raunchy flirting and the...the things that come after. And the happy ending, like the ones from the fairytales Jaskier readers, sometimes. He just doesn’t know how to let Jaskier know that he wants everything.

It turns out he doesn’t have to ask at all.

"So I know this is a dumb question but," Jaskier's paused over making their eggs one morning, gaze downturned and intense, "I'm--uh. I mean, you--fuck. I have no idea how to say this," he huffs, taking the pan off the open flame and tipping the egg onto a plate. "You want to stay. Here. With me." It's obviously supposed to be a statement, but it sounds like a question.

They’ve already talked about this, haven’t they? "Yes, Jaskier," he says softly, "as long as you'll have me."

Jaskier lets out of a gust of breath, "Fuck okay, so--" he turns to face Geralt, egg abandoned, to take his hands in his, crouching at Geralt’s knees, "I want you here with me, too. More than I, uh, probably should."

Geralt makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. This sounds like--

"And I know there's no real practical purpose for it since I have nothing but this--" he gestures around them at the cottage, "--to give, but, um. I'd--If you'd be so inclined I'd like to marry you, Geralt." He pauses, eyes downcast and face flushed. Geralt for his part can't seem to put words in any order that might allow them to come out of his mouth and communicate just how much Jaskier's offer means to him.

"It's, uh, a little bit of protection. If the mage does come back for you, or something. But," he's rambling now, words falling from his lips so quickly his tongue is almost tripping over them in an effort to get them out faster, "but it's not like I don't want to marry you, or anything like that. I've been thinking about it quite extensively and I--"

"Jaskier," he cuts in, and he shuts up immediately, wide eyes focused on Geralt's face, nerves pouring off him. "Yes," Geralt says simply, and Jaskier gives a giddy little laugh, tips forward to hide his face in Geralt's lap.

"That's--yes. That's good. I'm glad." When he pulls back to look up into Geralt's face again, his eyes are shining. "Thank you, Geralt."

Geralt's not sure why Jaskier is the one thanking him when Geralt's the one who will most benefit from the arrangement, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

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

Jaskier makes a special trip to the village to bring the priest of Melitele back to their cottage to officiate the hand fastening less than a week later. Geralt's nervous the man will balk when he sees him, but other than going a little pale at the sight, he stands fast. Even the temple boy that he brought with him doesn't do more than flinch when Jaskier levels him with a look.

"Are you sure--" the priest begins, but Jaskier cuts him off quickly.

"We are. And we want a small, private affair. No fanfare. I'm disowned, remember?" he says sardonically, and Geralt knows it's a tactic to keep the man from asking too many questions, they'd talked about it beforehand, but it still makes his chest ache. Jaskier is so good, he doesn't understand why everyone isn't as drawn to him as Geralt is.

"Now?" The priest asks, fiddling with the cord he's brought with him.

"Geralt?" and Jaskier's expression is so cautiously guarded--

"Yes," he agrees, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in their little clearing, just outside the door of the home they've already shared for months. The priest heaves a gust of breath.

"You'll need to kneel," he says, "Jaskier, give him your right hand. Uh--"

"Geralt," Jaskier supplies, eyes hard.

"--Geralt, give Jaskier your left." They kneel before the priest, hands clasped and held up in offering. The priest slips the cord around their joined hands, talking all the while. "Now, you don't untie this once it's done. Bad luck and all that. Ready?"

"Yes," Jaskier says, and Geralt nods.

"Alright." The priest waves the boy over to watch and serve as witness, and then he begins.

"As this knot is tied," he says, twisting the cording together in the first of several knots, "so are your lives now bound."

Jaskier squeezes Geralt's hand so tightly he can feel how he trembles.

"Woven into this cord, imbued into its very fibers, are all your hopes for your new life together." Another knot.

"With the fashioning of this knot do I tie all the desires, dreams, love, and happiness wished here in this place to your lives for as long as love shall last." He ties off the third and final knot and leans backward.

"Hold tight to one another through both good times and bad, and watch as your strength grows." The silence that rings out after the priest ceases speaking is deafening. Geralt can hear the blood rushing in his veins. "It is done."

"Geralt," Jaskier whispers as their joined hands fall to rest on Geralt’s thigh. He can't help but follow the movement of those lips with his eyes. "Kiss me, Geralt." And who is he to deny Jaskier anything?

He squeezes their joined hands, free hand rising to cup Jaskier's cheek. The look in Jaskier's eyes, the tenderness, the love, the thinly veiled excitement, twists his chest. How could he have ever feared this man would reject him?

"Geralt," Jaskier says again, and Geralt doesn't make him ask twice. He leans forward and presses their lips together in a tiny, chaste kiss, hardly more than a brushing of lips. It's still electric, especially when Jaskier makes a tiny, wounded noise and presses in closer, nearly in Geralt's lap.

Somewhere behind Jaskier, the priest clears his throat and Jaskier draws away reluctantly.

"You'll make it official in the books?" Jaskier asks without actually moving from where he’s perched on Geralt's knees.

"Of course. Should I send word to your father?"

"No," Jaskier scoffs, "don't bother." Geralt sees the priest nod behind Jaskier's shoulder. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome, son. May Melitele bless your binding. Come, boy." Before Jaskier or Geralt can say more, the man is hurrying away with the temple boy who's eyes are still wide and fixed on Geralt.

"I'd like to see them take you from me now," Jaskier says once the man's footsteps have faded from hearing, "husband." Something in Geralt trembles at the word.

"Husband," he repeats slowly, testing out the word on his tongue and finding it to his liking. Jaskier grins, wide and bright.

"Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" He leans forward to kiss Geralt again, as if some dam has broken and he can't help himself. "My beautiful husband," Jaskier breathes against Geralt's lips.

When he pulls back, breathing hard, Geralt brings their still bound hands up to his lips to kiss Jaskier's knuckles, tender and reverent.

"How could anyone not look at you and see how sweet you are," Jaskier breathes, pulling his knuckles away from Geralt's mouth to give Geralt's scarred fingers the same treatment. "So beautiful, so full of love, my husband is."

"Jaskier--"

"Shush, I'm basking," he teases, giving another deliberate kiss to the back of his hand.

"I'm not--"

"No," Jaskier corrects immediately, "you just don't see yourself the way I see you. You're beautiful, Geralt and I love you very, very much."

He feels his face heat, ducks his head so his hair falls in the way, hiding his eyes.

"And I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. I love you and I'm not going anywhere. And--" he continues, slipping the fingers of his free hand under Geralt's chin and tilting his head up until their eyes meet, "--I'm not letting anyone else have you. You're mine, husband dearest."

"Yours," Geralt agrees easily. The mage may or may not be looking for him, but it doesn't matter. Geralt wants nothing to do with him anyway.

"And I'm yours, darling. As long as you want me."

"Mine," Geralt echos, "Always."

And that's enough.

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #lizard writes #my baby! she lives!#a love letter both to geralt as a character and frankensteins creature

181 notes · View notes

ab1tofsp1ce · 3 years

Text

A Warmer Refuge

CHAPTER 3: Exactly Like Mine

Masterlist HERE

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Words: 3K

Warnings: Bit of angst and fluff, mentions of blood, wounds and old scars (not SH)

Description: If you’re going to repair this ship and get off this planet, you’ll need to find new parts. And that means a long hike...

I’d never stared at something as intensely as I had that fire, a desperate bid to keep my eyes open. The Mandalorian had disappeared, breaching the edge of the forest behind us to collect firewood. Behind the fire, I watched the sunset in my peripheral vision. This planet was gorgeous. Although, in all honesty, it was the first new planet I’d ever visited, and I’m sure I would’ve found it beautiful no matter what it looked like. The spot where we had landed was at a higher altitude than we had initially noticed, and that gave a perfect view of the land around us. Rugged and mountainous bathed in an orange glow, with tall dark trees and a soft, cool breeze that smelt clearer and sweeter than anything I had ever inhaled. We were lucky to have found the place we had; fortunate not to have had to crash-land into an area less forgiving. The sound of heavy footsteps approaching from behind snapped me out of my thoughts. The Mandalorian threw down the pile of logs he had been carrying to my left, picking up a couple and adding them to the fire. Since the central temperature regulator and the lights were no longer working inside the ship, we were far better off out here. He settled down on a log to my left that I had shifted over for a makeshift seat. His helmet flickered, reflecting the warmth of the fire on the cold beskar metal. He simply stared into it, just as I had been doing moments before. I wondered if he knew I was staring at him right now because surely the field of vision in that helmet was sub-par at best. “Tomorrow,” he said suddenly, “we’ll leave at daybreak. I managed to find out a little more about this planet from what worked of the navcom. It’s called Utaran. Sparsely inhabited on this side of the planet, but there is some civilization about a day’s walk from here, fortunately.” “Is it – but we’re not too far from Kistern, are we?” He scoffed, his shoulders moving slightly. “If only.” Fantastic, I thought. As if I hadn’t had enough troubles in my life, now I’m trapped on a foreign planet with a bounty hunter. I felt my stomach rumble in protest, reminding me not to forget about it. In my rucksack at my feet, I rummaged around until I brought out a small bread roll, which was fortunately only partially stale. As I began to rip pieces off and eat them, I became acutely aware of the sensation I was being watched. But as quickly as I threw a glance up at him under my eyebrows, he was staring back down at the fire. “Do you not have any food?” I extended my hand that held a piece of the roll. “I’m not hungry. But… thank you.” I frowned. “You haven’t eaten in…”. I realized in that moment that, in fact, I hadn’t seen him eat at all. “Seriously, take some.” “I have my own, and I’m fine.” He didn’t return my gaze. I hesitantly retreated my arm, pondering as a stared down at the piece of bread. How could he not be hungry? It was almost… inhuman. “Are you human?” I blurted out. Fantastic, I thought, as his head snapped around to face me in what I imagine was a surprise. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I felt pinned to the spot by his stare. “Well… you don’t eat, or drink… you sleep with all that armor on… if you even do sleep.” I could’ve sworn I heard a chuckle, barely audible through the modulator of his helmet. Surely not. A Mandalorian laughing? He shook his head gently, clearly at least somewhat amused, and turned his head back to the fire, apparently not seeing my question as worthy of indulging. Embarrassed and mildly disheartened, I focused my attention back on my stale bread. A few moments went by in this relative silence, and it was just as the sun had dipped below the distant mountains when he replied so softly it took me a second to recognize his voice. “I was human. Once. Many years ago, before I swore the Creed. Sometimes I forget what it was like.” Something fluttered in my heart. If I wasn’t so moved by his tone, I would’ve been taken aback by his abrupt vulnerability. I paused. “So, what are you now?” He was staring down at his leather gloves, fondling his hands slightly as he thought. “A Mandalorian.” “Surely a human still,” I said softly. “With a heart, and a voice…”, I paused, wondering if it would be too much. But curiosity was getting the better of me. “…and a name.” A moment of silence lingered in the air. “Not anymore.” He didn’t look up at me. I thought I heard a crack in his solid voice. “You… you don’t have any name? Why?” I hoped my tone didn’t sound too pitiful. But maybe it did, because he seemed to straighten up at these words, staring at the ship that sat not far from us. “This is the Way,” was all he said, before standing up. I felt my chest grow tight, guilty that I may have driven him off suddenly through my prying. I watched him walk over to the ship and up the ramp, the sound of those last words echoing in my head.

At dawn, we began our trudge to civilization. The Mandalorian gave me a choice as to the way we got there; quick or easy. Well, technically, he didn’t actually offer the choice. It was only when he mentioned that we would be going around the mountain and not over it that I questioned him. “It’s too hard of a hike,” was all he said, rather curtly too, not looking up from the navcom in the ship’s cabin. I felt myself go a little stiff at the underlying patronization of his tone. “For your information,” I said, firmly, “a mountain here is still a mountain, and I’ve climbed plenty in my life.” He didn’t look up at me, and only muttered, “fine.” For some reason, the way he said it ruffled my feathers. Last night was the most human he had been, and now it was back to how it was – like that conversation had never happened. Actually, no. It was worse. For whatever reason, his coldness stung more now than it did before. In fact, three days ago I almost welcomed it, coupled with the chance to stay as far removed from him as possible. But now, as quickly as he had seemed to be shedding a small piece of that impenetrable armor, he’d put it right back on this morning.

The mood didn’t improve as we began our journey. The more aloof he behaved, the more I noticed myself returning the favor. Once again, I walked ten feet behind him, my eyes trained to the ground in determined reserve. What was his deal? Why was he suddenly so distant towards me? What had I done to deserve this? But, then again, what else had I expected? He is a Mandalorian, after all. A murderous, lone bounty hunter. And, more to the point, why did I care? Why was I so bothered by this treatment? I didn’t know him; we only had an alliance thinly veiled through an acquaintanceship. A contract. I meant nothing to him beyond that, and he meant nothing… he… I stewed away in my thoughts like this for some time, and the more I did so the increasingly more frustrated and agitated I became. It was only so long before I would burst. “How much further?” It had sounded more like a demand than a question, which I had not intended despite my tone being laced with annoyance. We had been walking for hours now, and although I assumed it was still the middle of the day, the sky had clouded over since our departure and, between that and the trees, very little light was filtering down to us. “Further,” was all he said, not indulging in my pushing and prodding. This only annoyed me more. I wanted a reaction out of him. No, that wasn’t the truth. I wanted an explanation. I wanted… I let out an audible groan. Truthfully, it hadn’t been my intention, but I could feel it all pressing on the sides of my brain. The Mandalorian abruptly stopped, although did not turn to face me. Not fully, at least. He only looked down to his right, possibly side-eyeing me under that helmet. “If you’ve got a problem, you're more than welcome to wait at the ship.” There it was again. I could feel my blood boil at that tone. Patronizing. Like I was a child. “Oh, so suddenly you don’t need my help?” He turned around and put his hands on his hips to regard me. If I wasn’t so furious I would’ve been a bit embarrassed. I’m sure, in all honesty, that I did look like a child – my arms crossed on my chest, my weight shifted to one leg and an eyebrow raised. “Enlighten me on what help you are to me right now.” “Well, answer me this,” I snapped. “Do you know what parts you need to get? Or what parts to get if those aren’t available? And will you be able to fix that ship on your own? Because as I remember you were the one who asked me to fix it.” “If you’re going to be a child, I’ll treat you like a child and escort you back to the ship.” His voice had a snarl to it through the modulator. “I’m not a child!” I yelled. I couldn’t stay here. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be at home, with my grandparents and my brother in my carousel on my own planet. I would’ve even taken the sandy tent on the outskirts of Yemi’natar over this. Why did I agree to this? I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ll never return home, and I’ll have to live my life on a foreign planet as a straggler. Or worse, I’ll be stuck in this stupid, endless forest with this cruel bounty hunter for the rest of my existence. We must have stood there for a few seconds just glaring at each other, drops of rain beginning to fall from the sky. As I stared at the small slit of a visor in his helmet, I couldn’t even imagine what he looked like under it. I couldn’t imagine a person under there, only the cold, shiny, lifeless hunk of metal that stood in front of me. The Mandalorian from last night felt like a million miles away. Before I could even think, I found myself spinning on my heel and marching back down the mountain. Screw this and screw him. I didn’t want to be near him, I just wanted – Suddenly, I felt my legs give way underneath me. Blinded by anger, I had misplaced my step and fallen, and I yelped as my leg scrapped against a jagged rock on my right. My hands cushioned the fall at their expense, stinging as they came into contact with the ground. I just sat there pitifully, rain beginning to ring down around my ears, soaking my hair. My eyes welled up, but not from the pain. I stared at the scar on my left hand, that snaked from the knuckle of my middle finger to my wrist. I had been cooking with my grandmother many years ago and had cut my hand stupidly with the knife – I had been waving it threateningly at my brother. My grandmother sat me down at the table, slowly bandaging the cut as I sniffled and sobbed quietly. “There there, musqarza,” she had murmured softly. “It will be a scar, nothing more.” “A scar?” I had protested. “But my beautiful hand…” “Think of it as your first tattoo,” she said, fastening the bandage and collecting my face with her hand to gently look me in the eyes. “It is a reminder of your family. And a reminder not to chase your brother with a knife.” I had giggled slightly through my tears, which she wiped away with a kind smile. Drops of water, and possibly my tears, now drenched that hand and the scar. I let out a sob, shivering from the cold. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a pair of boots stand next to me, and a hand gently grabbed my arm, shooting a bolt of electricity through it. “Don’t touch me!” I hissed through gritted teeth, and the Mandalorian conceded. He didn’t say anything, just crouched next to me in silence as a sobbed. And we stayed like that for a few moments. “We should get out of the rain,” he whispered cautiously. It sounded so tentative and gentle, and I felt all the anger melt away instantly, washing off with the rain. I could only nod limply, not shifting my gaze from my hand. “There’s some shelter over there, under the side of that rock.” The Mandalorian placed his hand back on my arm, holding it slightly with leather-clad hands. He paused for a moment, then slowly pulled me up and, supporting my arm, helped me shuffle up the hill over to the undercover area of the rock.

I couldn’t even look at him. I felt so ashamed and flustered that I only sat curled up at the far end of the small cave, whilst he sat near the entrance, leaning against its wall and staring out at the rain pounding down outside. Rain trickled down towards me along the ground, making little rivers in the dusty ground. I distracted myself with this simple visual, using my bulky rucksack as a cushion. My hands still stung, but it was my leg that ached the most. I threw a glance at it and saw the red that was seeping slightly through the torn fabric. But I didn’t have the heart to dress it, and the pain distracted me from my thoughts. Eventually, I could stand it no longer. I let go of my tongue and muttered “I’m sorry,” under my breath. It was so quiet; I was almost certain he hadn’t heard it – particularly because he didn’t respond. Until… “So am I,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to…,” but his sentence trailed off, and he didn’t seem to have the heart to finish it. Then, in my peripheral vision, I saw him stand up and make is way over to me. My heart thumped in my chest. I knelt down in front of me, and held out his hand, gesturing with the other to my leg. “We can’t have that falling off, can we?” I couldn’t help but smile shyly as I shuffled to let him assess the damage. Gently, with gloved hands, he rolled up my pant leg. He was so slow, so careful, that I felt something stir in the pit of my stomach and the air catch in my throat. “Do you have a med-pack?” He looked up at me from where he knelt. I swallowed, and nodded, awkwardly shuffling of my bag so I could pull it out. The gash traveled down from my knee almost as low as my ankle, gleaming in the dim cave and stinging slightly in the cold air. His hand hovered just above it, and when I looked up at him, I saw he was staring at it, as if in deep thought. Then, slowly, he reached up with his other hand and… pulled off his glove, dropping it to the ground in front of us. I bit my tongue to stop myself from gasping slightly. Although at what, I wasn’t sure. It was just a hand… calloused, cracked slightly, and olive in tone. The Mandalorian pulled a sanitizing cloth out from the pack, peeling it open and slowly wiping down the cut. I grimaced, trying not to make a sound. With the ungloved hand he worked so cautiously it almost didn’t hurt, and with the other he held my leg from the back to support it. I was transfixed. I began to picture what he looked like, right now, under that helmet. I could imagine his expression; a slight frown of focus, eyes pin-pointed on his work. But what did he look like? I glanced at his hand again to remind myself. It wasn’t much to go off, but my mind began spinning as my attention turned back to the helmet. I pictured warm eyes, full lips, brown hair. His hands stayed rested on my leg, even though the bandage had been applied. I hadn’t even noticed he’d done it. There we sat, my eyes on his face, his staring at the ground. I wanted… I reached out, my hand resting on the cold metal of his cheek. Slowly, the Mandalorian looked up at me and we stayed there, eyes locked together and hands on each other. I didn’t know what to do, but there was something sad in his gaze, even though I couldn’t see it. And then I realized something. “You’ve never taken this off, have you?” “I did,” he said. “And because of that, I never should have put it back on. But I… I don’t know how to live any other way. I can’t remember who I used to be, or who I would be now if I never put it on.” I listened, studying him. His face was downturned slightly, as if ashamed; like he couldn’t look at me. I sighed, trying to find a way to phrase the thoughts in my racing mind. “You’re more than metal, that much I know.” “Don’t know if I believe that,” he said, hesitantly. Almost fearfully. “Well, hey,” I said, reaching down to his hand. “I do.” I paused, my hand hovering above his. When he didn’t pull back, I rested mine on his. His skin was warm, like mine. Exactly like mine.

#the mandalorian #star wars #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fic #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fic #din djarin reader insert #din djarin x ofc #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin imagine

29 notes · View notes

hyuckssunchip · 3 years

Text

Shakespeare Sucks Pt. 1

Pairings: Jaemin x Reader, ft. Jaehyun, Renjun, Mark, Jeno, Taeyong

Words: 1.9K

Warnings: Language (there is almost always language in my writings), angst, mentions of violence/death

Synopsis:

Like Romeo and Juliet... less death though. You and Jaemin are blissfully unaware of the fate the lies ahead of your relationship. That is until Fate unveils the cruel plans that She has for you.

“You know, if you weren’t so pretty I could actually focus on lecture.”

You blushed, glancing at the light haired boy next to you. But he looked so focused on the lecture you wouldn’t believe that he had just spoken to you.

Shaking your head you turned back to your notes, scribbling along with the professor.

“If I could stare at you for two hours I wouldn’t have this problem.”

You couldn’t stop your face from heating up, this time elbowing him slightly in his side.

“Jaemin, focus.”

“I am.” He whispered back, staring at you.

You smiled, lifting your hand and turning his face back to face the professor. You didn’t have to look to know that he too had a smile adorning his face.

You felt his hand creep onto your thigh, squeezing slightly making your breath hitch. You tried to slap his hand away, an attempt to focus back on your professor.

The rest of the lecture you were distracted by his overwhelming presence and before you knew it, everyone around you was packing up.

“Jaemin! I didn’t catch anything he said.” You pouted at him, “How are you going to make it up to me?”

You teased him, knowing that your best friend Mark always took meticulous notes and you that he would give it to you in a heartbeat.

“Oh that’s a shame. I’ll make it up to you at my place.” He grinned, wagging his eyebrows while you giggled, packing your own stuff up. You looked over at his seat, he hadn’t even taken out notes for this class and you rolled your eyes knowing that he wouldn’t need them anyways.

“You know date night is coming up.” He said as the two of you walked out the lecture hall side by side.

“Date night?” You asked.

“Yeah, Friday.” He wrapped his arm around your shoulder pulling you closer to him.

“Since when is Friday date night?” You asked, smiling at your fingers.

“Since Monday through Thursday don’t work.” He grinned turning to face you.

“Right. What are we doing?”

“I was thinking that cute little diner next to the mall and then we go back and have a cuddle sesh with a movie.”

You blushed, “Why do you always call it that?”

“What? A cuddle sesh?”

You nodded.

“Because we’re going to cuddle? Isn’t it just logical to name it that?” He nudged your side, poking fun at you.

“Right.” You giggled, “You didn’t have to name it anything, like we’ll just cuddle.”

He laughed, “But it’s cuter if I tell my friends I can’t hang out with them cause I have a cuddle sesh.”

Your eyes widened, “You tell your friends that you’re going to have a cuddle sesh?”

“No, but I can imagine it would be cuter.”

You smacked his chest and continued towards his car. “What do you tell your friends?”

You were curious, Jaemin wasn’t very open about many things. For one you had no idea who the majority of his friends were. You simply knew that he tended to hang out around you and Jeno, but other than that he was very mysterious. Not that it really mattered to you, he was a sweetheart and nothing could change your mind.

He shrugged, not offering much, “They don’t really ask much.”

Nodding, you expected that much. It’s not that you felt that he was trying to hide anything from you, he just wasn’t volunteering information.

The ringing of his phone interrupted the comfortable silence that washed over the two of you in his car.

He frowned at the screen, however, as you looked over you cocked your head in confusion. There wasn’t a contact, simply a number, obviously one that he had recognized.

He looked up, meeting your eyes with a tight smile, “Let me take this real quick and then we’ll head to my place, okay?”

You nodded into the chaste kiss that he left on your forehead and you watched him leave the car.

Was it that serious? That he couldn’t talk with you in the car?

Watching his stressed back as you gazed out the window, you had an unsettling feeling rise in your stomach.

He kept running his hands through his hair, the faint whisper of his hushed words could be heard through the cracks of the car door. Although you couldn’t make out any words, you could tell that he was distressed.

The slamming of the car door startled you, too caught up in your own thoughts. You sent a small smile, an attempt to ease him as you could tell he had become tense.

“Everything good?” You asked timidly, not an attempt to pry, but to console.

“Yeah.” He sent back a smile, one that you could tell wasn’t genuine. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The mood shifted quickly as he pulled out of the lot. “Ready? Time to get our cuddle sesh on.”

He grinned and you relaxed a bit, he was less tense, or showed that he was and you felt more at ease.

You laughed, shaking your head, “Whatever you want to call it.”

However, he wasn’t comfortable and you could tell.

As you leaned into his side, you could feel his muscles tense in anxiety and he was obviously distracted. The movie was the last thing on either of your minds. But you both sat through it anyways, not wanting to break whatever tension there was.

The movie had ended a while ago, the both of you staring at the ‘Are you still there?’ font that had now taken over the screen.

You felt your stomach flop at the sudden movement of Jaemin nustling his head into your neck, taking a deep breath.

“Hmmm.” The deep vibrations rumbled through your body.

“Did you get a new shampoo?” The sudden question would normally leave you giggling but you couldn’t bring yourself to at the moment, it almost felt wrong.

You lifted your hand to the back of his head and you ran your fingers through his hair, sighing in response.

“It smells like peaches.”

You nodded slightly, continuing the rhythm of your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Baby?”

“Hmmm?” You hummed in response, knowing you couldn’t quite trust your voice at the moment.

“Let’s just stay here forever.” He lifted his feet off the ground and threw his legs over yours, cuddling you closer.

Again, you just hummed, wrapping your arms tighter around his body.

The odd feeling had slowly faded, but was quickly brought back at the familiar sound of his ringtone.

He groaned, pushing deeper into your frame, shaking his head slightly, planning on ignoring the call.

When it rang again he let out a sigh, reaching blindly for the phone, leaving you with a clear view of the screen.

It was the same number.

“What do you want now?” He snapped into the phone, nothing like you had ever heard him sound before.

Your fingers, still wrapped in his hair, froze.

He slowly got up, pulling away from you and leaning onto his knees, head hanging low.

There was a sharp sound from the other side that could clearly be heard by you and he stood up jerkily, sparing you a glance before leaving the room.

You curled up, the emptiness of his leaving made you suddenly cold. You involuntarily shivered, looking at the reflection of yourself in the blank TV. Your heart dropped, the reflection of a certain object caught your eye, sending shivers down your spine.

You urged yourself not to look at the object, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You stood up, as if in a trance and walked towards the key tray that sat on the table behind the couch.

How have you never looked at his keys? How could you have never noticed?

Your fingers stretched out, as if attempting to grip the keychain, but the abrupt entrance of Jaemin had you pulling your arm back, as if suddenly burnt.

“You good?” He asked, hand scratching the back of his neck, looking at your surprised expression.

“Yeah.”

He gave you a wary look, you had made it too obvious that you were startled.

“How about I take you home now? Before it gets too late. You have an early lecture tomorrow.” You nodded, eyes not focused on anything in particular because your mind was running a mile a minute.

He gave a small smile, the clinking of his keys catching your attention. You couldn’t take your eyes off of it.

“I didn't scare you too much did I?” He laughed softly, noting your expression.

You snapped out of it, “No, I think I was just tired, I didn't realize how late it got.” You looked out the window for the first time, the streetlights already lit and shining on the sidewalk.

“Right, well… you ready?” You nodded quickly, shuffling your shoes on and turning around only to find that Jaemin already had your backpack resting on his back.

The drive home was unnecessarily tense, despite your attempt at appearing indifferent to what you had seen before.

Jaemin could sense the weird air, but chose not to say anything. Simply looking over at you every couple of minutes.

You had arrived at your apartment, normally you would invite him in, or beg him to stay a little longer, but today you had no intention of doing so.

“Hey Y/N?” You turned back one last time.

“Yeah?”

“I-uh… I’m going to a friend’s lake house this weekend. You want to be my date?” There was a slight hesitation that you caught, but he managed to lose it at the end of the sentence, a hint of humor seeping through.

You returned the tone, “You need a date?” You laughed slightly, “Of course I’ll come.”

“Great.” There was an elongated pause. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nodded waving him off, “Drive safe.”

You watched the small car disappear down the street and your hand dropped to your side, the smile on your face fading.

Upon entering your apartment the first thing you did was rush to the kitchen drawer. A drawer where lost things were often found, a drawer where you shoved things to be out of sight out of mind, a drawer where you hid things you didn’t want to be seen.

The drawer was emptied to a mess on the floor as you scrambled through the junk, hands flailing in desperate search for what you were looking for.

The glint of the item made you freeze and your eyes locked onto the emblem that you wished didn’t exist. You picked up the charm holding it at arm's length as if it would attack you at any moment.

You were right. You wished you weren’t. You wished your eyes were playing tricks on you, but it was uncanny.

The emblem was the very same that you had seen on Jaemin’s keys. You fumbled with your necklace that hung around your neck for the last twenty one years of your life. With shaking hands you put the two charms together and held your breath as they clicked into place, becoming one.

You dropped the charms, watching them break apart to their respective forms again, and you felt your stomach lurch.

You felt if for the first time in a long time.

Absolute fear, absolute utter fear. And you felt it in your bones, blood running cold.

masterlist | next

42 notes · View notes

seancekitsch · 4 years

Text

Venus

A/N: warning for alc mentions, unprotected sex, some kinky slapping dom/sub stuff, my normal freak ass shit

Loving Klaus was easy, you found. Easy to have it open and known and free than to feel yourself wrestling with the feelings the way you had been a month prior. A month of ‘I love you’ and a month of really feeling like the two of you were a proper couple, at the very least like the two of you were real people. His siblings noticed it too, the shift. Like you were finally one of them, and it felt nice to belong. You really hadn’t ever felt that way before, not without drugs, and that was only belonging through wanting to get something out of someone else and not just the people themselves. Last week the holidays had come and gone, and you were honestly surprised his family had included you in the celebrations, despite the fact that you and Klaus had thrown them all a birthday party two months prior. Their holiday traditions were weird, donuts and eighties music and bickering, but it was nice. The week spanned on and turned to the final night, new years, finally the family happy to be seeing a year that isn’t some fucked up version of 2019 (one that Klaus has told you over and over his brother Ben was alive and absolutely cruel and you were married to your ex and clearly using) and finally ready to move on from it all. This timeline wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but it was the one you both had together and it was the one his family fixed. Tonight was for celebrating, for dancing and drinking and forgetting your worries. It's fun, but it's only a matter of time before Klaus takes you home or to a forgotten spare room. Allison opens up her house in the city to her family and their guests. The night starts with dinner, which is a big potluck of foods that don't go together but all of the Hargreeves favorite foods. You can tell exactly who brought what, and no one is surprised by the insane amount of take out you and Klaus brought. There's cocktails which are actually made with care instead of mixed up sloppily like a child making potions out of shampoo in the tub.

It's around 11:25 when Klaus pulls you down the hall towards the guest room, shouting, “I am but a weary traveler! My Panacea and I need a respite before we keep entertaining you all!” which was met with rolling eyes and a few flinches at the abruptness of it all, but a steady fondness as the backdrop of it all.

Klaus drops to his knee the second the door is locked, and grabs your leg to hike it up. Your back comes to rest against the wall, jamming coats out of your way to get comfortable as he presses his plump lips to the shiny toe of your boot. His breath fans out, almost fogging the shiny fake leather of your boot before he starts kissing. He presses kisses from the tip of your toe up to where the arch of the side of your foot would be, then licks the rest of the way up to the ankle, moaning as he does so. A prayer, a promise, his devotion on display. This is Klaus wanting to be used, wanting to be objectified and made yours.

“I’m going to get famous again, baby.” He kisses the toe of your boot one more time before moving up and resting your foot on his bended knee. He pushes your skirt up, all the way to where your thigh meets your hip, and his hands are all over your leg as he speaks.

“Prophets gonna rise from the ashes, and this time I’m gonna build it all in your image,” his teeth rake the sheer tights at your calf, ripping at least one hole in them. They were new. “The whole worlds gonna worship you just like I do, fraulein.”

You’re halfway between a chuckle and a moan as one of his thumbs slides up into the back of your knee and the other presses a harsh circle to your inner thigh, right below where the panties of your lingerie begins, if you could even call them panties. They were a mess of mesh and lace that you saw in the mall and you just had to get them and their matching bra, even if now they seem a little gaudy. Klaus likes them, though, and got excited when you got dressed for tonight when he saw them laid out on the bed. He wanted to tear them off of you the moment he saw them, and he would do just that. His hand snakes its way up over your clothed cunt, making you groan at the contact, before he reaches the waistband of your tights and yanks them down with your panties as far as he can, pulling them to where your boots prevent them from coming off, essentially giving Klaus control of how much you can move during this tryst. Its now that he puts your leg down, letting you stand up straight again in front of his bent figure.

“Hit me,” he begs. Klaus’ eyes are blown wide with lust, even in the dark.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hit me, slap me across the face,” he begs again, “Make me hurt, tell me ‘Klaus I want you to bleed for me’ I’ll do it.”

He gets this way sometimes. Arousal floods your system in the same vein as concern. If Klaus wants to be hurt, he’s usually already hurting.

“No, Klaus we don’t have time, let's talk about it,” You say, already sinking down onto your knees to join him, to cradle his face in your hands and to make him feel better.

“Doc, Doc there’s nothing wrong. I need relief. It's like, like a cure.Yeah. I’m hard as a rock, love, I need relief.”

Purely kinky. Consensual. If it's what Klaus wants, who are you to deny him of it? You rise up onto your feet again, preparing yourself to hit him. To Klaus, even in the darkness, he can make out that you look like something otherworldly, bigger and greater than human. You wind back, apprehensive but willing to do anything for him, something he recognizes not casually. As your open palm makes contact with his left cheek, a shuddering moan makes its way up from deep inside his stomach, out through his throat and past his lips orgasmic in execution.

“Again, please.”

And you indulge him twice more, until you're sure the hot skin on his face is reddened. There's a certain kind of thrill in knowing that your hands will leave a mark on him, that he’ll enter a new decade with your hands printed on his visage. Those three slaps are good enough to sate him for now, as he rises back to his feet, pressing his lips to yours as his hands go straight to your hair, any semblance of style you had put to it would be out the window in seconds. He backs you against the door until you hit it, then you both start to slide to the floor. He guides you down gently, taking extra care to remember the tights holding your ankles hostage, and lays you down against the hardwood, the warmth of his old faux fur trim jacket like a blanket to cushion you as he pushes your skirt back up to your waist.

He bends you in half, pulling your legs up to meet your chest; your boots clanking together on his shoulder as he pushes into you, immediately filling you to the hilt. This angle is nothing short of divine for you both, your legs pressed together making you feel just that much tighter wrapped around Klaus’ cock, and the angle leaving you mercilessly open to his thrusting.

“This is the tightest, wettest little cunt I've ever had the pleasure of serving,” Klaus whispers as he pulls out and slams back into you before setting his pace.

He's fast, working against the clock, and against every nerve ending in your body. You don't try to stifle the moans as his thrusts rock your entire body along the floor. He fucks like a man with a gun to his head, hitting you deep each time, a staccato of his name falling from your lips as he pants and growls in your ear. You feel your orgasm coming before you can warn him, and the spasming of your body surprises you both earth shattering, convulsing waves of pleasure hit you, and all you can do is cling to each other as it ruins you. The spasming of your muscles triggers him as well, and you can feel every drop of hot white cum that he shoots into you, filling you deep.

He kisses you, muttering little ‘I love you’s as he pulls out, gently pulling your thighs off his shoulder and pulling your panties up; rolling your ripped tights up with the utmost care and dedication before you reach for him again to help you stand, shaky knees and dizzy from his affections. Love drunk as well as martini drunk, ready to face midnight.

“Klaus, Klaus I need to find a restroom before we go back out there. I need to clean myself up.” You can already feel his sticky white dripping out of you, no doubt making an irreversible mess of those panties he liked so much. It would be uncomfortable to sit, to move unless you got to the bathroom and got yourself fixed up. Klaus whips back around to look at you as his hand grasps the doorknob.

“Don’t you dare, you venus in furs, let it be a reminder of what's going to happen when we get home.” there's pure evil in his tone and in his smile, “Plus, you'll miss midnight if you run off on me.”

He pulls the door open and leads you back out into the festivities.

#klaus hargreeves x reader #klaus hargreeves smut #klaus hargreeves fanfic #klaus hargreeves imagine

146 notes · View notes

realisaonum · 3 years

Text

book meme

thank you, jen @det395 !! i feel like this meme got away from me a bit, but no shame! i love talking about books and writing so onward ~under the cut~

1- how many books are too many books in a series?

mhmmmmm i guess it depends on the objective of the series, right? is the plan to have x number of books in the series and if so, when we finally get to the end will it be satisfying considering all the books we’ve read leading up to it? OR is the objective of the premise / characters just to exist doing whatever? both can be done well. i would say a lot rides on how much i trust the author.

2- what do you think about cliffhangers?

so this is meant for cliffhangers in a series like between books? i don’t really care if there’s a cliffhanger as long as i have the next book sitting right next to me. otherwise uh, only if the wait between books is tolerable, because at that point you need to know that the author can clear this mess up, right? there’s this other thing, like you know how if the entire series was already written, then they might release the books a month apart or a quarter apart - that could be alright too. but years in between? not especially a fan. is anyone a fan?

3- hardback or paperback?

jen, you and me are complete opposites here. paperbacks stress me out. i will go out of my way to buy a used hardcover if given the choice. of course, there are some publications i don’t mind in paperback —thinking poetry and super indie books that don’t have a hardcover release OR books where the spines are thin enough they won’t break and i won’t be holding them long enough for them to wear. hardcovers are sturdy and i don’t have to worry i’ll accidentally bend the cover in some damaging way. I am invested in keeping my books nice to the point that i create covers for my books out of kraft paper or brown grocery bags while i am reading them. this is something i started when i was in college and didn’t want these books i was hoping to probably resell get thrashed coming in and out of my bag for all these classes. My home library is probs more half and half paperback/hardcover but if given a choice usually it’s hardcover.

4- least favourite book?

i think it’s good to at least attempt to meet a book on its level. there are lots of books i didn’t like, but i wasn’t meeting them on their level and i know that so we’re ignoring those. i do however have a shelf on my goodreads dedicated to books that i have beef with so i’ll just go off on two of them.....

tana french’s the likeness for being plagiaristic shit. it is essentially poorly concealed alternate universe OC insert fic of the secret history. you’ve got french’s dublin murder squad folks and then this group they are investigating who bear a STRIKING resemblance to the greek students in tsh 🤔. this would be one thing. it is pretty well acknowledged that nothing is original and there are enough changes to The Likeness that MAYBE i could let it slide if not for this other thing: french’s book, the likeness, has lines that are just basically reworded quotes from the secret history and french positions these lines so they are said by the counterpart (essentially same!) character that gave them original life in tsh. i cannot stress this enough: you can HEAR how similar the sentences are and their core intent is always the same. it’s thinly veiled theft! it astounds me that French hasn’t been sued frankly. it is one thing to want to capture some of the genius that tartt’s debut novel holds, but it is completely lazy and disgusting theft to go about it in the way French did with this book. and YES the secret history was published before french’s book. if i could stomach how fucking goddamn boring the likeness was to read it a second time and cite every one of these offenses i would, but that’s yet a third strike against it—it’s too boring to be worth it.

T. Kingfisher’s second book of the Clocktuar War duology : The Wonder Engine. this is a book that i feel violated the contract between writer and reader. the first book feels almost like a YA book. the stakes while described as very high are treated, as actions unfold, as very low. nothing truly irreparable happens until the climax of the second book and the fallout of that action is so off-tone of everything that came before i felt deeply betrayed. no, like, completely betrayed as in it ruined the rest of my afternoon, i am still viscerally angry eight months later, and i will never trust this author again. sure, maybe none of those actions that led to the climax were out-of-character, but there was nothing NOTHING in the proceeding action that even came close to that level of consequence. it’s a pity because right up till that point i was having a really good time. the entire vibe of the rising action to the climax of book one all the way through the rising action of book two was just a quippy fun version of roadtrip/quest - it felt like a comfort read. the abrupt tone shift had all the subtlety of dropping a graphically, brutal murder into Blue’s Clues. you don’t do that - this is a basic tenet of a writer / reader relationship. i’m not touching this bitch’s shit again.

5- Love Triangle, yes or no?

not so much. i like jen before me will scream ‘just be poly.’ love triangles that lead into poly relationships? yes, awesome will be glad i read. but i am at a stage in my life where your standard will-they-won’t-they-love-triangle is just fucking pointlessly frustrating to me. an example: i read a Nic Stone’s book Odd One Out a couple years ago and something about the synopsis or the hype made me think that it would resolve the love triangle that way, so when that did not happen i was incredibly frustrated and immediately wanted to resell the book. it’s the potential of the thing. stone’s book could have been the perfect vehicle for opening up the concept of polyamory to a ya audience but instead just really squandered that potential with weak floundering — in my opinion!

6- the most recent book you just couldn’t finish

uhhhhh i’ve got two and i’m not sure i’ve entirely given up quite yet buuuuuuuut

fucking dune. i got really pissed off with this book. So just…setting aside the whole vaguing at a pedophilically inclined queer coded villain - it’s done so poorly, that it's almost funny? like it doesn’t (as of half way through) actually have any consequence on…anything at all and is tacked on like an afterthought to the end of his scenes. honestly it all could just be cut out entirely with no recourse to the larger story. So my actual beef with this book is the pacing is ATROCIOUS. like yo, not only do you expect me to give a shit about these Atreides cunts, when we just met them and we spend the same amount of time with them IF NOT MORE with the antagonist? but you also expect me to believe Paul was able to just convince the leader of the Arrakis people —the leader of an entire planet!!— with a single fucking sentence??? yeah, not so much. it was not set up for me to believe that Paul could do that! maybe if Kynes hadn’t died immediately after—or at least not died at that moment? baring the fact I thought he was by far the most interesting character, IF he had been convinced by Paul in that scene, it would have been great to see some actual work done around that - with a transfer or a liaise of power between Kynes and Paul and the Fremen. By not having any substantive scene that does it - it begs the question of what the fuck was the point of the character in the first place? unplumbed potential!!! over all there seem to be some key scenes missing to get the reader to where the narrative expects us to be? but the choices made of the characters we spend time with and the moments we see with them, the benefit to the larger story…is not always there. hey herbert, these words you have written aren’t doing what you want them to?? i feel like i should finish it but i reaaaaallly don’t want to :) the only thing i can say is it looks like from the trailer, villeneueve is giving space to these moments so that the viewer can foster a genuine connection with the characters? radical concept.

our lady of perpetual hunger - i started this one optimistically bc i like chef memoirs, but i am at the point where she has just given birth to her son and honestly DON’T CARE. i still haven’t officially given up on it yet since i actually fucking bought it like a dope. i certainly would not have if i knew how much NOT about working the line this was gonna be

7- book you are currently reading

Aside from the failures mentioned above, I am working on the second book in B. Catling’s Vorrh trilogy, The Erstwhile. Also very close to finally finishing Iain Sinclair’s The Last London - there’s a review of his work from the LA Times that goes “One of Sinclair’s greatest skills has always been his ability to take diverse if not chaotic source material and refashion it in a way that sometimes seems downright alchemical” which captures some of the wonder I experience when reading his work. His style and how he creates atmosphere and setting is just unique and astounding.

8- last book you recommended to someone

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. Before that I told my brother to read Eat a Peach, as we both love Anthony Bourdain and David Chang talks about him a bit here, plus it’s just a fucking great book. any book that gives insight into Chang’s methodology and paradigm is worth a shot.

9- oldest book you read

I think it might have to be Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night (which apparently according to wiki premiered on the stage a whole four months before Hamlet so that’s what we’re going with) and if plays don’t count, I don’t care. I think they count and that’s what we’re going with.

10- the most recent book you read ?

Given the previous question, the most recently published book, right? It’s gotta be the one I just finished: The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic - Revised and Expanded edt., which like just came out this summer. I watched Jessica Hopper’s promo zoom, curtesy of my local indie bookstore, and went ahead and bought it. This was a great decision! It was just what I needed to read these last couple of weeks. i love there’s lots of short pieces that made the read quick and the fact that it’s non-fiction so there was no pressure of a plot or the emotional weight of character investment when I had a lot of big stressors dragging me down irl -it was such a relief. Hopper’s criticism is fun to read and there’s some real art in her appreciation of music here.

11- favourite author?

These are the top in a kind of order but not really: Donna Tartt, Jeff VanderMeer, Megan Whalen Turner, Flannery O’Conner, Chuck Palahniuk, Anthony Bourdain

Other faves very much worth mentioning: Emily O’Neill, Richard Siken, Brandon Sanderson, Warren Ellis, Nathan Englander, Stephen King, Eddie Huang, Carl Hiaassen, Anne Carson, and Iain Sinclair.

12- buying books or borrowing books?

Depends on if my library has it, of course! I nearly always see if my library has a copy first if i have never read it or the author before. If i’ve read the book before or trust the author, I’ll buy it. Like I’ll straight out buy new stuff from Jeff VanderMeer even though with him it’s either this-hits-exactly-and-is-my-new-fave or i-really-disliked-this-but-admire-the-boundaries-you’re-pushing-my-dude - so it’s always a gamble but a worthy one.

12- a book you dislike that everyone else seems to love

a little life (just bc it's torture porn elevated to art doesn’t negate the fact that it’s torture porn. Yanagihara’s project here is repugnant and the fact that this book is lauded as moving lgbt fiction makes my skin crawl)

sharp objects (good writing, compelling story, BUT typographical scarification doesn't work like that - i am not going to get into it but i know from first hand experience how Flynn described it is not accurate)

nesbø’s the snowman (what kinda dumbass detective would think THAT when a woman finds her missing father’s corpse? absolute idiocy - so obviously reverse engineered with that end in mind)

the raven cycle (fuck ronan lynch to start and then fuck him to end as well - there’s some other stuff but mostly he’s a total CUNT and if i don’t say that once a day i have probably died)

14 - bookmarks or dogears?

Bookmarks and sticky notes. Then I can place it pointing directly to the paragraph I last stopped on.

15- The book you can always reread?

This is my question because I reread all the time. ALL THE TIME. Books I reread often: The Secret History, Medium Raw (especially chapter 17 The Fury), Crooked Kingdom, The Violent Bear It Away, and The Goldfinch. Every year like clockwork (since it came out apparently) I will reread Stephen King’s The Outsider.

Other books I feel the urge to reread: VanderMeer’s Acceptance, Englander’s Dinner at the Center of the Earth, Frazier’s Nightwoods, Fresh Off the Boat, the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, the Peter Grant Series (which is queued up for another go here soon I think), any of the stories from A Good Man is Hard to Find, Sanderson’s Wax and Wayne Mistborn books, simon vs the homosapiens’ agenda, and there are two of Alan Morinis’ books on Mussar that I am technically always revisiting—when i need a reminder, i’ll jump around and read specific sections to get centered again.

16- can you read while listening to music?

Yes, but only ambient or near ambient (only usually one track on repeat) or a soundtrack I am extremely familiar with. No new music. I do usually need some audio stimulation or my mind will wander terribly.

17- one POV or multi POV?

Multi pov can certainly be done well (looking at the soc duaology and VanderMeer’s Acceptance) but working a multi-pov means there are more plates spinning, it’s more of a challenge, and some authors pull it off better than others.

18- do you read book in one sitting or in multiple days?

I don’t really do this anymore. that might have something to do with me picking up thicker books? but also i have a full time job now and let’s be real the book has to be hella good if i don’t want to put it down. the last book i attempted to shotgun was the final installment of my favorite series and it still took me two days so....i can get through a lot of books but none of them are ever in one sitting anymore.

19- who to tag:

@sybilius @mouth-rainboy @iwonderifthatisart @phereinnike @magnificentmoose @wambsgangs @moriarteaparty and anyone else if you feel so inclined!

Bonus Question: What’s on your to-read shelf?

As for me, I am excited about one i just picked up, Danforth’s Plain Bad Heroines, which i might start tomorrow and I will be taking Paul Madonna’s Come to Light on my trip to see my brother this coming weekend.

#this took a while but was fun #thanks again jen #very excited to read other folks responses #also like a general content warning? i mention/refer to things in the books but nothing's unpacked here #still to be cautious reference to mature themes #the narrator feeling posthumous

5 notes · View notes

whump-town · 4 years

Text

Family Fic

Kind of? I can’t seem to finish this and that kinda sucks so the ending is very abrupt but I just can’t with this fic for some reason. I don’t know where to end it. I can’t envision an ending. It kinda sucks but I do like certain parts so I don’t want it to just sit in my drafts so here you go:

“No.” Emily Prentiss and Aaron Hotchner are standing in front of a house that is very on fire. The house their UNSUB was supposed to be in. “Aaron,” her tone is a mix of a whine and an exhausted plea to leave this one stone unturned. “Please--” her shoulders drop as his eyes move away from hers and she knows what he’s going to do. “I hate this fucking--” the heat is like a punch to the face.

She loses him to the smoke the second she enters the house. Her lungs crack and burn, she can’t hear him bent over exhaling the smoke in thick coughs, but she can hear her own wheezing coughs. The smoke stings her eyes, and every instinct she possesses screams for her to get out.

“Hotch!” Despite her training-- everything she’s learned as a profiler and a spy--, she’s panicking. She can’t hear anything over the roaring flames around her, and while she is no immediate danger while she stands, it worries her more not to know what kind of situation Hotch has put himself into as well.

God Garcia is going to kill them.

She hears something hit a wall, it’s a very distinct noise.

A Hotch noise.

She shouts his name but her voice is lost to her own ears. Pushing past the fear weighing down her chest, she steps closer to the sound. It takes a moment to work through the smoke but she finds the door to the other room and makes out two figures. One of the figures, long and slimmer than the other, falls and hits the ground. The bigger one, wide shoulders and biceps the size of her head, leans down over the other, and starts hitting it.

It takes her a moment to realize Hotch is a pretty big guy but he’s got a runner’s thin frame. There’s no way he’s the man on the top doing the punching.

“Hey!” She raises her gun, the metal burning her palms. Her brain is going a mile a minute. Will her gun blow up in her hands? Is it too hot? “Hey--” she realizes it’s either she stands and watches as Hotch is beaten to death or she risks whatever the heat has down to her gun.

Well… the good news, the gun doesn’t blow up in her face.

The bad news?

Hotch is a heavy son of a bitch.

With her fingers hooked underneath his vest, she pulls with all her might. The air is thin and each breath she pulls in is exhaled in quick, wheezing coughs. Hotch owes her so badly. They’re past a coffee or a breakfast muffin. The man owes her his firstborn child. Actually, she does love Jack. Right now, she loves Jack way more than she loves this limp pretty eyed, high cheekbone having--

Get a grip, Emily.

Right.

When she hits the door, she pulls with all her might and collapses onto the porch. On her back, wheezing as she looks up at the sky she really hopes Hotch made a call to the others. She has a faint memory of him radioing in to inform Dave and the others that the entire house was on fire but she also thought she saw her dad standing at the door a moment ago so she’s not sure she can trust her brain at the moment.

“Hotch?” She doesn’t get up, just vaguely kicks at where she’d dropped him. She connects with his chest, she can feel his vest take the brunt of her kick. “Hotch, next time you run into a burning building… I promise you, I’m leaving you in there.”

Her reply is a pained grunt as he sits up and vomits on the porch.

She remains on her back, eyes closed, and shakes her head. Reaching up, blindly, she pats his back. “Let it out, big guy.” She grimaces as he gags more, swaying as he empties his stomach. After a minute, she starts to get a little worried. He just keeps puking.

She sits up, fighting a hitch in her own stomach at the sudden movement. “Are you still--” aside from the queasy feeling that settles over her, she’s filled with immediate unease. “That’s not good.”

Hotch looks over at her, on his hands and knees and sweat dripping down his brow and rolls his eyes. “You don’t say,” he grumbles, coughing into his elbow. “Did you call the others?”

She shakes her head, “you didn’t call them before?”

Hotch spits, trying and failing to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. With a grunt, he lays down beside her. Sighing, he closes his eyes. “They’re on their way,” he says, “I called them before I-- Well before I ran into the house.” Admittedly, that was a bad call on his part.

Emily shakes her head, “I can’t believe you did that. Did you at least warn them about your bad idea or are they going to be as surprised as I was?”

Hotch grimaces. World Worst Boss. “If it makes you feel any better,” he turns to look at her, “my right shoulder is out of the socket and I can’t feel my fingers.”

She scowls at him, “no.” She sits up, “no, of course, that doesn’t make me feel better!” From her new vantage point, she can now see the storm of cars making their steady advancement towards them. “Shit,” she mumbles. “You have to get up. We have to get off this porch before Dave sees us.”

Dave.

Damn, he’d forgotten about Dave.

They get up-- he staggers and Emily catches him against her body. It takes all of her strength to keep them both on their feet but with a moment’s time, he rights himself once again. Entangled, both leaning heavily into the other, they face David Rossi Italian wrath.

“I-I don’t--” Hotch doesn’t dare raise his voice above a whisper as Dave gets closer.

He’s laying into them, that much is clear. However, Hotch knows a handful of Italian phrases, and besides the obvious “stupid” and what Hotch thinks is the Italian equivalent of a jackass he’s completely lost.

They stand and wait out the anger knowing that he’ll be quick to forgive once he realizes they’re both a little worn down.

“You do realize you’re not fireproof, right?” The sudden switch to English is startling but it prompts Hotch back to the present. The black swarming his vision falls away for a moment and he’s able to see Dave.

Dave keeps talking but Emily is aware of the Hotch’s unsteady swaying has turned to a dangerous lean. “Hotch,” her attention completely leaves Dave and the older man makes an annoyed huff before seeing what Emily does. “Hotch!”

She just… she knows right before his knees give out from beneath him.

Desperation. She feels hopeless as she kneels on the ground beside him.

“Hotch?” His cheek is clammy against the palm of her hand. Cold when it should be hot. They just ran out of a burning building. She just pulled him out of fire, he should be hot. Warm to the touch. “Hotch, please answer me!”

Arms wrap around her shoulders and she’s lifted to her feet, physically moved away from him. She recognizes the arms, knows it’s Morgan, but she still fights with everything she’s got to get away from him. “No!” She kicks out but she doesn’t land a solid blow.

“No, Morgan!” Her fight dies as the paramedics load Hotch onto a stretcher. He’s too still but she can see his breath fogging up the oxygen mask on his face. He’s limp but he’s alive. “Morgan, please.” She’s pulled him out of a fire, the least they can let her do is go with him.

At the door of the ambulance, just as Emily’s becoming desperate, the paramedics turn and motion her to them. “She needs to get checked out.”

She has the whole ride to think about her actions. What they mean. What they looked like.

It’s a distraction, a way to push her mind away from Hotch’s worsening breathing and the way he writhes on the bed. Out of his mind in pain they haven’t identified a single source to.

He reaches for her.

She pulls away.

“Garcia is going to be so mad at you,” she deflects. If that’s not the understatement of the year… She wants to be cross with him. More than anything, she wants to look at him right now and feel something other than the intense desire to pull him into her arms and not let go. Which seems pretty… non-platonic despite her best attempts to be strictly friends.

So, she tells herself that she feels nothing.

Nothing.

She feels nothing.

Underneath the oxygen mask that he keeps getting dirty looks for talking off, he hoarsely replies, “if I manage to get home. Dave’s likely to kill me first.” He shuts his eyes, body tensing as the gurney he’s laid out on moves and jostles his dislocated shoulder. His skin is cold and clammy and he’s certain that if they don’t knock him out soon he’s just going to pass out.

A nurse notes his obvious distress and places her hand on his good shoulder. “Agent Hotchner,” she calls until he manages to open his eyes. “Just a little while longer, sweetheart.” They just need to get him through the x-rays and she can get a line of saline and painkillers pumping into his system. She just needs him to hold out a little while longer.

He makes a sound, a congested wet sound. “His oxygen is falling,” the nurse notes. Her tone doesn’t give away the urgency of her statement. Emily can feel the urgency shift. Before they were just federal agents. The scuffling shoes all moving along pick up speed and Emily’s stomach ties itself into an awful knot.

Hotch’s lips pale as his wheezes grow in intensity. He writhes on the bed, blinking rapidly.

“Hotch,” Emily calls, letting her fear get the better of her. This time she takes his hand but he’s limp. “Aaron!”

The last thing she hears as he’s pushed away is a cry of distress.

“We’ve lost his airway!”

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

He spends three days in the hospital.

She doesn’t see him once.

“He’s been asking for you,” Dave informs her from behind a well placed magazine. The pages obscure his face, leaving her with only his judging tone. His implication. “Funny,” he adds, “he stopped once they took him off the heavy stuff.”

Emily huffs at that. She knows exactly why that might be-- drugs cloud the part of Hotch’s brain that makes him afraid of the comfort he seeks. She keeps that to herself. “I wonder why,” she plays off cooly, sitting herself down beside Dave.

He turns his head, frowning at her, but doesn’t say anything. It’s a very “dad” kind of frown and she takes the hint that he, also, knows exactly why it is that Hotch would ask for her, of all people. Then again, if he hasn’t got the balls to call her out on it. She’s not going to tell him.

“Hey, princess,” Morgan greets as he makes his way down the hall. He smiles at her before turning his attention to Rossi. “They’re fighting him into a wheelchair right now,” he informs Rossi. “I figured it would be better to come get you. He’s less likely to…”

Emily smirks, “be a raging asshole to Dave?”

Morgan smiles and nods, “essentially.”

Rossi huffs at that, shaking his head. It’s true. David Rossi has poured that kid-- well, not a kid anymore-- into more hospital wheelchairs than he cares to count. Hotch has been a trouble magnet since the day he joined the BAU. However, while he knows exactly how to navigate the ‘tude that Hotch is going to send his way he also knows one person who will get substantially less. “Send Emily.”

Morgan and Emily’s head both snap towards him, their smiles replaced by confused frowns.

Dave goes back to the magazine, “he’s going to be an ass either way. So long as we don’t send Derek in there, it doesn’t matter who goes in.” He shrugs, “besides, I don’t want to.”

Morgan huffs a little, looking at Emily like ‘can you believe this?’. Except, she can. Of course, she can.

“I guess it’s gotta be you then princess.”

Great.

She hasn’t seen him in three days but he still looks the same. Actually, he’s strangely more attractive.

His facial hair has grown out, leaving a peppered half-beard on his face. His light brown eyes are bloodshot, it’s hard to tell if that’s from his lack of sleep or the smoke. But he’s whole and he’s breathing on his own.

“You look like shit,” she informs him, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall opposite of him. They’ve taken his shoes (probably Morgan), leaving him to wear the socks the hospital provided. They’re an ugly beige color but she knows they’re comfortable. It’s a perk of the job how many hospital socks they get.

He grunts, not looking up from where he’s bent his body to lean his forehead into his palm. His elbow resting on the wheelchairs arm. He rubs once more along his temples before looking up, a grimace pulling his lips down. Whatever pain meds they’ve got him on aren’t doing the job. “I see you’ve come with your best attitude, Agent Prentiss.”

She pushes herself away from the wall, rolling her eyes. “I pull your heavy ass out of a burning building and I get Agent Prentiss?” She positions herself behind him, kicking the locks on the back. “How was your visit, Agent Hotchner? Did any hot nurses give you a sponge bath?”

He huffs a chuckle, it tapers at the end a hiss of discomfort at his arms curls around his sore ribs.

She’s leaning over the wheelchair to push him, her nose close to the back of his head. He still smells like smoke and not at all like his cologne. It makes a nasty feeling swirl in her stomach-- her mind wandering to the sight of him on the gurney. Struggling to breath.

“You alright,” she asks, softly. They’re not in the hall yet so there’s a good chance he might tell her the truth.

Slowly, he lets out a soft pained grunt and leans back into the wheelchair. One arm pinned to his chest by a sling, the other remains protectively held to his side. “I’m okay,” he manages after a second, even a nod. “I just… I want to go home.”

With a grunt she pushes him forward, “I couldn’t agree more.”

It takes two hours to get loaded onto the jet.

She spends the car ride to the airport listening to Hotch and Morgan argue over whether or not it’s going to be “physically demanding” for Hotch to put on a pair of shoes. Hotch refuses to walk around in socks. Morgan only makes it worse by insinuating that without his help Hotch isn’t going to be getting much of anywhere.

Fortunately, the two end the argument with childish huffs and turn away from one another. Emily was at the brink of pulling the car over and yelling at the both of them.

From then on, there seems to be an unspoken understanding that Emily is to dictate things between Hotch and the other’s.

“Give him the shoes,” she says, arms crossed and a perfect scowl placed on her face. She raises an eyebrow, daring Morgan to say anything.

With his shoes, Hotch is far less combative.

“Let Morgan help you,” Emily asks. “The last thing we need is to send you back to the hospital because you got a concussion bouncing your head off of asphalt.” She keeps her frown in place, knowing it’s what keeps her at the top of their alpha-male food chain. Besides, she likes to think they’re a little afraid of her.

“You’re a natural,” JJ comments, both of them watching the men limp their way up the stairs to the jet.

Emily rolls her eyes, “I’m just really good at dealing with dumbas-- HEY!” She points her fingers at the pair, “Derek stop being an ass and Hotch stop being a baby and let him help.” With a shake of her head she looks back to JJ. She rolls her eyes, “men.”

It takes everything she has to convince Hotch to sleep on the jet and to leave the paperwork for another time. Which really means she takes the paperwork from him and tells Reid that if Hotch gets his hands on the pens she’s hiding in his messenger bag it’s Reid’s ass. She doesn’t push it by making him lay on the couch, where he would be more comfortable. He does fall asleep though. His head crammed between the headrest of his chair and wall but he’s out enough that she’s able to wrap a blanket around his shoulders.

He’s asleep when Garcia calls to give him a proper tongue lashing. Her anger melts quickly at the sight of him.

How is she supposed to be mad when he’s bundled up like a grumpy burrito?

He wakes up once or twice, mostly just to squint around him and grumble nonsense to himself. Each time Emily looks up from her book and pats his thigh or his arm until he settles back down. Just like a baby. He’s still groggy when they land making it much easier to pack him into her car and take him home.

She feels weird about leaving him at his apartment. All alone. “Are you sure--” she doesn’t want to push him but she doesn’t want him to overexert himself either.

Hotch shakes his head, “I’ll take the elevator.” He looks up at the building, “and Jack will probably end up sleeping in my bed, tonight. I won’t be alone.”

She frowns, she can’t exactly argue against that. “Okay but you’ll text if you need anything?”

He nods. Jack knows what to do if anything happens. Besides, she’s his speed dial so it’s no problem.

“Okay,” she relents. “Don’t do anything stupid?”

He smirks, “like run into a burning building?”

She nods, “exactly like that.”

He hesitates to shut the door, mouth open but he’s not sure what he wants to say so he offers her a tight smile before shutting the door behind him. He takes off towards the building, knowing she’s going to wait for him to disappear into it before pulling off.

He just can’t wait to be home.

Hotch closes his eyes the second the apartment door behind him slides shut. The faint smell of Johnson’s baby lotion greets him with the familiarity of a warm hug. When he opens his eyes, he’s got something even better waiting. Standing in front of him, their toes lined up, Jack is squirming with the anticipation of his father’s attention.

“Hey daddy,” the toddler greets with a toothy grin.

He’s exhausted. Good and proper he can barely stand exhausted. He kicks his shoes off at the door, smiling when Jack reaches between them and grabs his suit sleeve. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy,” he rasps, voice still recovering from the smoke inhalation. “I promise.”

Jack nods his understanding but doesn’t release Hotch. His little grip stays firm as Hotch sets his go-bag down and attempts to get out of his jacket. Adamantly, Jack lets go of his sleeve and grabs hold of the belt loop of his pants. Hotch understands that tonight is going to be a clingy night, probably spent with the two of them in his bed.

“Will you watch toons with me?”

Honestly, he couldn’t think of a better plan himself. “Yeah,” he smiles, “let’s watch some toons.” He stops to toss some pills into his mouth, most are for infection and muscle something but at least one is supposed to be the pain he’s trying very hard to not let ruin his mood.

When he gets to the couch, all he wants is to curl up and sleep. He can’t be certain why but he doesn’t even think twice. Hotch lays his head in Jack’s lap, looking up his son. Jack’s attention is on the cartoons on the TV, reruns of MickeyMouse ClubHouse Hotch let him save to the DVR last winter. One of his little hands is in Hotch’s hair, softly patting it down the way Hotch does to put Jack to sleep. The other hand is holding Hotch’s shirt, keeping him there.

After a moment, Jack frowns down at him, “you stink.”

Hotch huffs a laugh. Jack’s often brutal when it comes to the truth. Rossi always reminds him that there’s really only one person he could have gotten that from. With a smile he repeats, “I… stink?” He’d suffered through the humiliation of a sponge bath the day before and he’s wearing deodorant so he doubts it’s that bad.

Jack nods, “yeah.” He leans down, eyes still on the TV, and sniffs Hotch’s hair. He crinkles his little nose, “smell funny.”

“Oh,” Hotch mumbles. “I smell funny?”

Jack nods and turns his attention back to the cartoon. Hotch just lays and watches his son smile at the TV. Jack keeps playing with Hotch’s hair. Occasionally, he looks down and pulls the thick strands into weird directions.

“Aaron?” Jessica comes into the living room, he’d forgotten about her. She smiles at the sight of them, leaning down to kiss both their foreheads. “You boys okay or should I stay the night?” She’s already collected her things, purse in hand.

Hotch shakes his head, “we’ll be okay, won’t be Jack?”

Jack nods, he wraps both his arms around his father’s head. “I’ll protect us,” he reassures Jessica with a nod of his head.

Both adults share a laugh before Jessica taps Hotch’s shoulder. “I wonder where he’d get that from?” They share a soft smile… both thinking of Haley. “Well, be good Aaron. I don’t want any phone calls from Jack telling me you’ve been misbehaving.”

Jack gets a kick out of this idea, “yeah daddy.”

Hotch smiles, “I’ll be on my best behavior.” Jessica’s just shut the door behind herself when Hotch’s phone goes off. Jack tenses but Hotch ignores the call for a moment to reassure Jack that he’s not leaving. The team might be called out but there’s no way a doctor is letting him anywhere near the field right now.

“Look,” he shows Jack the contact photo. “It’s just Pops, you wanna answer it?”

Jack eagerly takes the phone, “Pops!”

Hotch looks up, watching.

“Jack!” Rossi greets. “Is your daddy around?”

“Uh-huh! We’re watching toons!” Jack smiles down at Hotch and Hotch smiles back. “Mickey!”

Rossi hums, “oh you’re watching MickeyMouse? Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted that.”

Jack keeps grinning, “ ‘s okay because daddy promised he wouldn’t leave.”

“Oh did he?” Rossi

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

Jack Hotchner spent his afternoon being chased around the back yard by Uncle Derek. His happy laughter blending in with Henry’s, the other boy’s equal excitement coming from his Godfather’s endless magic tricks. The boys gorged on hotdogs, watermelon, Capri-suns, and ice cream- all provided by their Papa. Who, as of last time either Hotch or JJ inquired, was their favorite person ever.

“Hey, buddy.”

Judging by the little tears swelling up in Jack’s eyes right now, Hotch makes the safe assumption that he has found himself at the bottom of the list of Jack’s favorite people. He bends down, squatting so that he’s the same height as the five-year-old. “Buddy,” he cups his son’s cheek, wiping away his fat tears with his thumb. “What’s wrong?”

Jack sniffles, miserably, taking his little fist and rubbing at his tired eyes. “You lefted me,” he sobs, batting Hotch’s hand away so that he can step closer. Jack leans into Hotch’s chest, pressing his face into his father’s neck and wrapping his arms around him.

Hotch scoops him up, smiling tightly to JJ and Prentiss who’s attention Jack’s soft hiccups have drawn in. He doesn’t have to say it for them to know why Jack is clingy. Besides being exhausted from a hard day of play, there’s still a small part of Jack that remembers George. The man that hurt daddy and killed mommy.

He lowers his gaze, flush creeping up his neck. He can remember, vividly, the night Jack told him about the sound of the gun going off. That he’d known, somehow, that mommy was dead but that it was okay because he knew daddy was coming to the rescue.

“He remembers Dave.” His breath came in quick, rapid session over the phone. He had to tell someone, to make this helpless feeling go away. “Fuck,” his chest ached and, voice no louder than a whisper, Dave could hear the panic laced into his tone. “He heard it. He heard Foyet-”

But that was back when they, rightfully, thought he was coming unhinged. Losing his grasps on life…

He’s… better now. There’s no other options available.

He’s better now. He may not be the best at this single dad thing but he’s doing better than his own father. Even if that means sitting up all night when storms roll in because thunder and lightning sound like gunshots to five-year-olds. Every year explaining to Jack’s teacher’s that Hotch’s family is not in their lives and that Haley’s own doesn’t extend past an aunt and a grandfather.

“Did daddy leave you,” Dave steps up. His cigar snuffed out but his chilled drink sloshing around in his left hand. He makes an exaggerated sad face when Jack nods with a pouty little frown, not out of mockery but empathy. To win the boy over. “Come to papa,” he offers, opening his arms to take Jack.

Hotch does have a family, one that’s very present in his son’s life. Jack has papa, Aunt JJ, Aunt Penny, Uncle Weed, Miss Emily, and Uncle Derek. They’re just by no means conventional.

“It’s alright, Jack.” Emily comes up to play along too. She soothes a finger over his cheek, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Daddy is a big ol’ meany sometimes.” She shakes her head, fingers running through Jack’s soft hair. She’s not sure what Hotch uses on this boy’s head but he’s always had the softest hair. “We still love him though, don’t we?”

Jack peeks up over Rossi’s shoulder. He has this habit of playing with Hotch’s hair, the lower part near the base of his head. He takes the small strands and twists them in between his thumb and forefinger. He’s done since he was a baby. He does it now to Rossi’s hair, his eyes half-lidded. “Uh-huh.”

Rossi rubs Jack’s back, a smirk on his lips. It’s crazy to think about the sheer number of times he’s had to convince Hotch that he’s a good dad. That all kids have tantrums, get grumpy, and need constant reassurance- just like Hotch, Rossi notes. Just like everyone. “Come on, bambino.” Rossi presses a kiss to Jack’s head, “Aunt Penny is making smores. What do you say, should we join her?”

“Hotch?” Will has the cooler open, offering Hotch a beer. Will had brought a six-pack of Heineken, knowing that Hotch wouldn’t bring any and that he wouldn’t drink unless pressured. JJ had made sure to remind both Derek and Will to attempt to at least get Hotch to drink two beers before the night’s end. Because they’re all supposed to be having fun and he needs to loosen up a bit.

Will raises that second beer up Hotch is torn. He can see the attention snap to him.

“Sir,” Garcia calls from behind him. She’s not wearing heels so there’s no signature tap-tapping to give her rapid approach any warning. Just the hardly discernible sound of bare feet on the deck. “Lighten up,” she asks, with just the hint of sadness. She takes the back of her hand and lightly taps his shoulder. “Take the beer. Live a little. You deserve to have a good time too.”

Hotch swallows thickly. He doesn’t want to take the beer. Honestly, he’d rather drink a Capri-sun or one of those obnoxiously colored drinks Rossi kept steadily supplying Jack and Henry. Besides, Capri-suns won’t upset his stomach when he has to take his pain pills later. Not that he wants to but Emily had described them in great detail to Jack so he would know be very sad if Hotch doesn’t take them

“Do you all have no shame?” Emily comes up from behind them, having just made her way from the pool. Most likely seeking refreshments that aren’t alcohol. Her arm slings around Garcia’s neck and settling on them an unsurprised but nonetheless happy smile. She glances at Hotch, he earns a sympathetic smile. “Dave told them to leave you alone,” she informs him.

Hotch looks sheepishly to the ground. To be fair, he didn’t want to come anyway. He’s got fair skin that stays hidden under a suit all day. As far as sunburns go, there’s nearly no way he’s getting off the beach without an intense burn. Not to mention he’s still pretty uncomfortable from the smoke inhalation, dislocated shoulder, and messed up ribs.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #derek morgan #david rossi #penelope garcia #spencer reid #jennifer jareau

90 notes · View notes

gyuutahoe · 4 years

Text

The Pen and Sword - Part 2

Summary: Newly recruited to the Demon Slayer Corps, you finally meet your designated swordsmith. He may be as much of a misanthrope as others had warned, but you were nothing if not determined to bring him out of his shell.

Warnings: None

a/n: female reader, eventual smut, penpals with the feral misanthrope, both reader and Haganezuka are seventeen at the start of the story, established backstory for reader.

Part 1 || Part 2

Haganezuka cooked your mind so thoroughly that you were barely able to keep up with his explanations throughout the long night. Only the arrival of food could tame him, and even though you wanted to sneak a glance at his exposed face as he snacked on mitarashi dango, he barked at you to keep your eyes on the task at hand and to continue polishing all of the swords the hostess had to offer.

Your blade was sheathed and laying innocently beside its maker while you worked. You were not allowed to touch it until the giant pile of swords before you were thoroughly polished to Haganezuka’s liking. Judging by the man’s character, you wondered if he could ever be satisfied with the work of a novice.

The delicious smell of food wafted through the room and made your mouth water. You became all too aware of the ache in your arms and the strain in your back from bending over too long. “Haganezuka-san, may I join you for a moment? I can’t stop thinking about the gyoza … “

“Haven’t you been fattening up at this estate for days before my arrival?” he bluntly asked with a mouth full of food. You balked and nearly dropped the blade you were cleaning. “A rusted sword is more important than something trivial like hunger. Keep going.”

“I worry about your health, if that is really how you prioritize your time.”

“Worry about your lack of discipline,” he bit back, and you frowned at his combative tone. “I never forsake my duties. If there is a job to be done, then I do it. Are you going to ask a demon to wait while you eat in the middle of a battle?”

You didn’t know whether to pout or giggle at his outrageous dramatics. He would reprimand you for both, and you were in no state to deal with it. You let the feelings gather in your chest and concentrated on your breathing, exhaling slowly to cleanse your mind. “Enjoy your meal,” you simply replied, and resumed your polishing with practiced strokes.

You could not see his expression, back turned to the man as you immersed yourself in tapping the uchiko ball along the flat topside of the blade and admiring the mist-like form of the resulting powder. But you could certainly feel his glare digging into you.

The beauty of a clean blade was truly a sight to behold. The steel glimmered like clear water as you examined your handiwork. You were too relaxed now, too oblivious to notice Haganezuka had not turned around yet, and blissfully ignorant of his critical stare as you smiled at the distorted reflection of your face in the shining metal.

So lost in thought were you that you hadn’t noticed the time fly. You were briefly knocked out of your concentration when Haganezuka slid a plate of the coveted gyoza beside you - with his bare foot touching the rim as he did so - and he mumbled a warning to continue as he stomped out of the room.

You eyed the gyoza with mild revulsion before hunger finally humbled you. It took all of one second for you to decide that the lukewarm dumplings did not fill you up, and it took several more minutes for you to fight with your stubborn tenacity to finish the rest of the swords. They were piled neatly in anticipation of Haganezuka’s inspection. You shifted on your feet as you looked around the room, wondering if you should wait for him to return. But what if he had gone to sleep?

The hunger pains were guiding your movement before you even reached a decision. You tiptoed through the dimly lit hallway and glanced into the open rooms, taking the opportunity to practice your light steps. Move as quiet as a mouse, and as quick as a snake. The Roaring Pillar left you with simple guiding principles to master before he would formally take you on as his pupil. You had much to learn, it seemed.

By sheer luck, you stumbled upon the pantry room. The storage chests beckoned you closer with their enticing promise of food. You eagerly stepped inside, yet froze when you noticed a cabinet was still propped open, and something shifted nearby.

To your utter shame, a young man was leaning against the cabinet as he lazily ate skewered dango and watched you. You never met this man before despite your prolonged stay at the safehouse. Could this be the hostess’s grandson? Perhaps he arrived while you were busy with Haganezuka.

You suddenly became all too aware of how rude you were being, treating this house as if it were your own.

“Forgive me, sir,” You bowed respectfully. “I just, erm, I - “ Your stomach caught up with your thoughts and growled rudely to expose your intentions. You wrapped an arm across your midsection and blushed, meekly grimacing at your blunder.

The young man stared at you as he bit into the dango. The silence carried on for what felt like hours, and you were entirely at his mercy. The wisteria-marked safehouses may be subservient to demon slayers, but you could not take advantage of their hospitality by asserting your demands! Even now, when you were clearly hungry and overflowing with embarrassment at having been caught, you held your tongue and prayed that he would invite you inside and offer you food. This was not your home. You had no right to rift through their cabinets like a rodent, especially not in front of such a stern-looking, handsome man.

Great. Your cheeks were on fire now.

“I told you to keep practicing.”

Your gaze snapped up to meet the man’s hard stare. “H-Haganezuka-san?”

He rolled his eyes. “The one and only.” The skewer pointed sharply at you. It made you think of a little sword. “So? What are you doing here? I better not find out you’ve disregarded all the effort I put into teaching you by dropping everything as soon as I’m not there to watch you.”

For some reason, this familiar attitude made you feel less nervous. As long as you hadn’t been caught by a member of the household, you could soldier through this night with your head held high. “I finished all of the swords,” you said, smiling lightly. “I was still hungry, so I thought I might find some spare leftovers. What brings you here?”

“Mitarashi dango.”

“Didn’t the hostess bring you an entire mountain of servings?”

Haganezuka huffed and tossed the empty skewer aside. “One can never have too much mitarashi dango,” he stubbornly replied, helping himself to more. “I’ve got a long journey ahead of me tomorrow, so I need the energy.”

This was nice. You were finally starting to speak to each other as colleagues. He still didn’t offer to join him, though. “Is your village far from here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely you have a map? Or a sense of distance?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he sneered, and popped a dango into his mouth. “Swordsmiths make the path back home very convoluted. We don’t want demons finding our village, so we don’t even know where we’re going without the aid of others. Anyway, I’m bored with this conversation.” You blinked in surprise at the abrupt change, opening your mouth to speak yet promptly closing it as you watched him reach into the pantry to pull out a plate wrapped in cloth. He glanced down at it briefly, as though concentrating, and looked back at you with that shrewd stare. “I saw you examining your blades after using the uchiko ball. What were you thinking about?”

Warmth pooled in your chest, for whatever reason. This felt like a pivotal moment to you, as though your answer could potentially bridge a gap between you. You hoped this bridge would lead to food. “They just looked - “ His eyes narrowed. You were being too thoughtless. “The iron seemed different the more I polished it,” you changed course. “More refined, brighter … It was really beautiful. I almost felt bad about oiling the swords right after.”

“Hmm.” He eyed you for a moment longer before looking down at the clothed parcel in his hand. “Those blades are crap.” Your mouth watered when he peeled away the cloth to reveal four perfect onigiri. “The craftsmanship is mediocre at best. I would weep if I had to attach my name to them.”

“Even so, I think they are lovely in their own way.”

“That’s like saying there’s beauty in coal,” he groused.

You smiled at his boyish pout. “It warms homes and can be used for drawing.”

“Your standards are too low. It’s almost insulting to know you’d consider a pile of shit to be as beautiful as my sword.”

You chuckled. “Haganezuka-san, you are a difficult man to please.” And a remarkably attractive one. That thick mane of hair would be the envy of any human. You wondered how he hid it so well beneath his tattered rag.

Unsure of how to proceed, Haganezuka looked away and shoved a dango in his mouth. Clearly he was not used to light banter. “You’re not the first to tell me that, and you won’t be the last.”

“Your passion is admirable, you know.”

Silence. You could not read the expression on his face. Uncomfortable, flattered, wary, perhaps none of that. Where words were insufficient, action took precedence. He frowned and held out the plate of onigiri so rapidly that you jolted in a hurry to save any that might fall.

“Eat quickly,” Haganezuka said, pulling his hand away as soon as your fingers nearly brushed. “We still have a lot to do. In fact - “ He fished out his mask and settled it over his face. “Just take it with you. I want to see those swords right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

And that was that. He set off without another word to you, pacing past you as you struggled to fit a massive bite of onigiri into your mouth. You trailed after him with the same efficient precision as you had on your way to the pantry room, light footsteps and controlled breathing even while you snuck little nibbles here and there. It was as good an opportunity to practice as any. There would be situations in which you need to be quiet while moving.

To your credit, the practice appeared to be working. Several times you noticed Haganezuka discretely peer over his shoulder, sometimes pausing mid-step, and continuing onward when you allowed yourself to make a noise. You snickered silently at his mounting ire, staying several paces back lest he blow.

As you predicted, he whirled around out of the blue and clenched his fists at his side, stomping his foot like an angry child. “What the hell are you doing? Stop walking like that, it’s so unnerving.”

“I’m training,” you said with a laugh. “Demon slayers have to cultivate their own repertoire of techniques.”

“Why do you have to do it now?”

“Why not? Don’t you ever think about self-improvement at random moments?” You tipped your head to the side, staring straight through him as you thought to yourself. “Or maybe you remember performing an action that you’ve never done before, and you let your memories guide you … Sorry, I’m saying strange things.”

“You sure as hell are.” Oddly enough, there was little bite to his words. Haganezuka crossed his arms and murmured, “That’s not unheard of, though. Inherited memories, and all that.” Before you could question him further, he promptly turned away and walked off. “I bet you’re just trying to distract me from reaching the room. Did you really finish polishing them?”

You hurried after him with a huff, clutching the now-empty plate close to your chest. “I am not a liar!”

When Haganezuka later bonked a sword sheath over your head after rating your performance, you concluded that you were not swordsmith-material, either.

———————❖———————

You slept through most of the morning. Sunlight lit up the back of your eyelids in splendid redness, and the comfortable caress of the duvet made you feel idle and at peace. You nearly drifted back into sleep until you remembered you wanted to see Haganezuka off, and the sheer panic of having missed your chance made you bolt out of bed and hastily prepare yourself for the day.

You had just enough time to run outside and join the hostess as she waved at the retreating form of your swordsmith. Damn. It would have been nice to share a few parting words with him, no matter how standoffish he had been.

“You can finally rest easy, child,” the old woman said. “Hopefully he was not too harsh on you.”

“Oh, he was,” you replied, and cupped your hands around your mouth to call out, “Haganezuka-san!” The figure stilled and turned towards you. You smiled at the sound of wind chimes. “Thank you for your lessons, Haganezuka-san! I will write to you!”

He froze for a moment before turning back around. And just as you prepared to leave, Haganezuka turned around once more, lifted his hand high up in the air, and disappeared from sight.

“You will write to him?” the hostess asked in an amused tone.

You nodded, your spirit brightened from the unexpectedly pleasant farewell. “He’s not so bad,” you replied with assurance. “He just needs a friend. And perhaps a healthy dose of mitarashi dango.”

The old woman chuckled. “You are the first person I’ve ever heard say that. Haganezuka-sama is … an acquired taste.”

“Maybe he is just lonely.” You looked out at the horizon, already missing the sound of wind chimes as you recalled his steely eyes.

#kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #haganezuka hotaru #hotaru haganezuka #haganezuka x reader #haganezuka/reader

339 notes · View notes

lonelyreputation · 4 years

Text

Beach Tagger

A/N: Hi hi!! Switching up from my usual angst and writing a bit of fluff ☺️ I love reading whatever you all have to say––it brightens up my day! Let me know if you have any requests or just want to chat! I loooooveeee making new friends💗

I’m trying to build up my masterlist so please if you have anything you want to request, my inbox is wide open!!

(come request or chat if you’d like)

Warnings: None :)

Word Count: 4.6K

“And I’m telling you,” you took your bike out of the garage and put the kick stand in place before turning around to face Shawn, “It’ll be less crowded on second street.”

Shawn took hold of the handlebars of your brother’s bike and rolled it out, “But you said that there weren’t any shops or restaurants down that end.”

Once Shawn was out of the garage, you walked over to the electric security pad that had control to open and close the doors. You dialed in the digits of your grandma and grandpa’s birthday and watched the pad light up green as the garage doors began coming down.

“Do you want to get noticed?”

Shawn stood quietly for a few moments. It was day three of your five day mini-vacation visiting your grandma at her beach house and Shawn had yet to be spotted. The two of you were granted privacy with the house being located on the back bay. During the days you could swim, kayak, and paddle board without anyone bothering the two of you––besides your cousins and family.

It was all very serene; lounging around the family bay house, with your boyfriend, that you had spent every summer at. You had given Shawn a tour on the first day of all the essential places you spent most of your time as a kid. You took him by the best pizza shop in town, best ice-cream parlor, the soccer field you had camp at when you were ten, the alley way you turned down when you broke your wrist, and where you had your first job selling popcorn on the boardwalk.

The beach town was something straight out of a Nicholas Sparks novel, a tiny quaint town where everyone knew each other’s business, but that didn’t stop the reality of Shawn’s persona. The first few days of the week were fine, you were able to take Shawn out to the boardwalk without anyone noticing him with his sunglasses and hat, but now it was the weekend. And the weekend meant that everyone from the mainland and bordering states would make the two hour drive down to the beach for a little getaway.

The beach town would be crawling with girls who would no doubt spend every minute of their weekend hunting for Shawn.

Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, “I guess you’re right.”

You didn’t like the dejected tone of his voice. So you left you bike and walked over to him. He was toying with the gear shift on the bike when you placed your hand on top of his, “If we get hungry we can bike down––or even walk––it’s not that far, promise.”

A small smile made its way onto his face as he flipped his hand over to squeeze your hand, “Sounds good.”

“Good,” you smiled as you removed your hand and went back to your bike. You kicked the kick stand up and lifted yourself up on the bike, “It’s like a 3 mile ride––“ Shawn’s jaw dropped, “––It’s all on flat ground!” You defended the mileage and gave him a once over, “And besides, you’re in shape, you can handle it.”

Shawn smirked as he slightly lowered his black sunglasses, “Checking me out, y/n?”

Even though Shawn was your boyfriend, you still blushed profusely, “I––Well, yeah. Yeah, I was.”

Shawn laughed and swung his leg over to the other side of the bike, “Good.” He then lifted himself up and peddled out of your cobblestone driveway and down the street, “Lead the way!”

You rolled your eyes and started peddling fast to catch up to Shawn. It was a little harder for you to speed up than him because you had a cruiser while he had your brother’s mountain bike. And while it was flat land you would be biking on, it was hot out.

Conversation was kept to a minimum biking down the main road, but when you led Shawn down the bike road, you were able to ride side by side and not worry about speeding cars. The bike road was the street over from the main shopping district of the town, so you were able to hear the chatting of people instead of the ocean waves.

Even though you and Shawn were riding in tandem, the conversation was still nonexistent. Shawn would occasionally ask you about certain areas you two had passed and if they had any significance in your childhood. Most of the time you always had a story for a place.

You had soon made it down to second street and just had to ride up the street in order to get to the beach. Waiting at traffic lights annoyed you, so you and Shawn would play “what are the odds” whenever you were stuck at a red light.

Shawn lost a round right when you pulled up to the boardwalk path that led to the beach. He was supposed to drink out of the spicket that beachgoers used to rinse off their sandy shoes.

“Please don’t,” you pleaded with him as you chained both of your bikes to the railing, “I don’t want Andrew calling me up asking me how you got dysentery on your vacation with me.”

Shawn shrugged and placed the two beach chairs on the sidewalk as he hovered over the spicket with a scrunched up nose, “When you lose odds, you lose odds, and if there’s nothing I stand by more it’s the rules to that game.”

You snorted, “That makes me feel confident tin our relationship.”

Shawn whipped his head up with a smile, “Odds are a way of life.”

With a roll of your eyes, you plucked your backpack out of the wicker basket attached to your bike and slung it over your shoulders, “C’mon, we’re wasting time and it’s a stupid game please don’t––Shawn! That is disgusting!”

He was only hunched over for less than a second before he turned the water off and wiped the water on his mouth off with the back of his hand, “That was pure salt water.”

“No shit,” you walked up to him and smacked him in the middle of his chest, “We’re next to the beach.”

With no response to his stupidity, Shawn took hold of your hand as he bent down to grab the handles of the beach chairs you would be using. The two of you walked up the sandy boardwalk ramp and you were prepared to see a beach tagger sitting in a chair at the bottom fo the ramp.

You were expecting to see a beach tagger that you knew. One of your friends who lives in the beach town year round had worked the second street beach location for the past year and a half. But he wasn’t sitting in the navy blue chair designated for beach taggers. There was a teenage girl who looked to be sixteen.

Immediately your hands began to sweat and Shawn looked down at you curiously. You chalked it up to being hot from the bike ride and just needing to get in the water. He seemed to believe it.

It felt like walking to the beach tagger took ages, but in reality it was a ten second walk down the ramp. She was reading a book and didn’t pay attention to you two at all, “Do you need to buy a day tag?”

You shook your head, “Uh––No. We have season passes––here,” you brought up the strings of your back pack where you had two beach tags pinned.

The girl dog eared her book and looked up at you before looking at the passes, “You’re good to––“ her abrupt stop to her sentence made you wince. You knew she looked up again at you. And you knew that she looked up at your boyfriend, not expecting to see Shawn Mendes, “…Go.” She cautiously finished up her sentence.

“Cool, right, yeah––Thanks.” You took off down the dunes and dragged Shawn along.

“What are you––Slow down,” Shawn whined as he kicked up some sand. You slowed down a bit, but as you did, you turned your head over your shoulder and saw the teenage beach tagger not engrossed in her book like she had been before. She was rapidly typing on her phone.

You knew she was telling someone she saw Shawn when she turned her head and made eye contact with you. Her smile was giddy, and you couldn’t blame her. Working as a beach tagger was literally sitting and do nothing for hours. It was boring. And now she had just seen Shawn, a musical performer that you assumed she liked, and it had probably made her entire summer.

“She noticed you,” You muttered under your breath as you and Shawn found a good place to set up your chairs.

Shawn unfolded a chair and pushed it into the sand,“Hm?”

“The beach tagger,” you nudged your head over in the direction you had just come from as you unbuttoned your shorts and flung the t-shirt over your head. You took the sun tan lotion out of your backpack, “She noticed you and she’s telling people she saw you.”

Shawn rolled his eyes as he got the second chair in place and took the sun tan lotion from you, “So what?”

“So,” you stressed as Shawn began rubbing the lotion in on your back, “People will find out that you’re here and mob you.” Your eyes involuntarily closed as you felt Shawn’s hands work deep on your shoulder blades, “We did so well the past few days.”

Shawn laughed as he brought his hands on your shoulders, lifting your bikini straps so he could get sun tan lotion under them, “We were cooped up in your house for three days.”

“We still went out and did stuff!” You exclaimed as Shawn glided his arms down your arms to wipe away any excess sun tan lotion. Your breath grew shallower as he slid his hands slowly down to your hands and played with your fingers. He intertwined your hands and pulled your back into his chest.

Shawn then crossed your tangled arms over your stomach as he leaned down to rest his chin on your shoulder, “I don’t care,” he kissed your cheek, “I like being in public with you.”

His breath was hot as he hung over your ear for a split second before untangling one of his hands and trailing it up the front of your stomach, “Although…If she hadn’t seen us maybe we could’ve been a bit more…” he let his sentence trail off and your eyes widened when you felt Shawn’s fingertips lightly graze under your bikini top.

“I think your mother would absolutely cut your head off if she saw any pictures like that in any publication.”

Shawn let out an overdramatic sigh as he removed his fingers the under part of your top piece and hooked his arm around your waist, “I know,” he squeezed you tight, “Such a shame.”

You laughed and untangled yourself from him. You picked up the sunscreen and squirted some lotion into your hand, “Now, if there’s one thing Andrew will call me up about, it’ll be because of how burnt you got.”

With no response, because Shawn knew you were right on that one, he turned around and bent his knees so you could lather up his back. You took longer than necessary, wanting to spend more than necessary feeling every crevice of his back. By the time you had applied three coats to him and told him almost done for the seventh time, you knew it was time to stop.

The next few minutes the two of you applied sunscreen to your face, arms, legs, and Shawn insisted he get your stomach. Can’t ever be too prepared for the sun, he said, you could always miss a spot.

And you never denied having Shawn’s hands roam your body.

It was just after twelve, with the sun being at its hottest point during the day, and all you wanted to do was jump in the ocean. The smell of the salt water and squawk of the seagulls mocked you for not being allowed in.

“You have to let it soak in,” Shawn berated you, “You grew up on the water, don’t you know that?”

“I do,” you grumbled as you leaned back into your chair, “I just feel really sticky from the sun tan lotion.”

Shawn muttered something about you being needy and you kicked sand his way. After a few more moments of sitting down, Shawn stood up and held his hands out for you to take, “Up.”

You didn’t question his simple command and reached your hands out to grasp onto him. When your hands connected you couldn’t ignore the jolt of electricity that still zipped through your veins like the first time you had ever touched him.

He dropped one of your hands, but kept the other hand held tight in his. Just like you had told him, there was barley anyone on the second street beach. It was more residential up this way of the town and all of the weekenders went to the main strip of the boardwalk to have easy access to food, bathrooms, and mini golf.

You meandered down toward the ocean and walked up to where the ocean waves just met the shore line. The two of you just stood there, watching the tide bring in little broken shells and then take them back out to the ocean. After a few moments, Shawn squeezed your hand and the two fo you began walking along the shallow part of the water.

“Thought we had to wait to get wet,” You chuckled as the waves barely covered your feet for ten seconds.

Shawn kicked some water, “Needed to cool off, plus, I think our feet are fine.”

You hummed in response, not knowing what else to say.

Conversation was never pressured in your relationship. The two of you prided yourselves on enjoying each others company more than anything else. But there was something off with this offbeat silence of ocean waves.

“Talk to me,” You nudged his shoulder with yours and looked up at him. He looked down at you with a fond smile, “Something’s up.”

Shawn nudged your shoulder back and chuckled, “I’m fine.”

You rolled your eyes, “Did you really just pull the I’m fine card with me?” Your tone was light hearted, but when Shawn’s unnerving silence carried on, you changed your tone to one more of concern, “Are you nervous for tour?”

“Will you miss me at all?”

Shawn didn’t miss a beat with his response. It was as if he had the question echoing around his head all day and was just waiting for the right time to bring it up. The point of the mini-vacation was to spend as much time with Shawn before he jetted off to Europe to embark on a summer tour. He had already completed his rehearsals so right after this weekend was done, he would be flying to New York City to meet up with Andrew and the rest of his crew, and then flying over to Amsterdam.

You had met Shawn through a mutual friend at university when he happened to show up at one of the house parties. And since then, the two of you were constantly together; whether it be on FaceTime, phone calls, texting–literally anything. Right from the start Shawn had expressed interest in you and wanted to skip the whole friends first phase.

He was impatient, but it was a decision that you agreed with. His personality was infectious and his laugh was addicting. You didn’t want to waste any time pretending like you weren’t interested in him.

That was October and it was now the first week of June. The only time you experienced Shawn on tour was for his Jingle Bell tour run in December. And while he was just in the United States, it was still complicated to keep up with his schedule and tour demands. It was early on in your relationship that you had to learn to adapt to his lifestyle. He thought it made him undesirable, but it made you appreciate being in his presence and seeing his smile a million times more.

But a European tour was different. This was day after day for months on end with an intense time zone difference. It was going to be difficult, you didn’t lie to yourself about that, but you were confident enough in your relationship that it wouldn’t change anything.

So when Shawn instantly asked you––will you miss me at all––at all––In the least confident voice you had ever heard come from his mouth, you felt your heart get carried away with the tide.

“I––Of course I’ll miss you,” you spoke in a strained voice, not liking whenever this topic was brought up, “I––I’ll miss you everyday, Shawn, but you’re going to have so much fun.” You squeezed his hand.

He sighed and ran a hand through his curls. One of them bouncing back in place, “I know…I know…I just––I don’t know.”

“Hey,” you stopped walking. It took Shawn a few seconds before he was pulled back since he was continuing walking down the beach and you came to a standstill. You squeezed his hand and spoke softly, “We have a plan, we’ve talked about this.”

Shawn kept his eyes trained out toward the ocean’s horizon, a far off look in his eyes; pain.

“I know––I don’t even know why I said that––Just, forget it. It’s not important.” He went to start walking, but again, he was pulled back by your hands still being connected and you standing still, “Y/n…”

You tugged on his hand again until he stood next to you. Both of you were now looking out into the unknown ocean, “It’ll be hard,” you gulped and Shawn responded with a monotone yeah, “But we can do it. It’ll be hard, but we’ve done some distance before, this is just a bit…longer,” you realized that what you were saying wasn’t really helping the situation.

You sighed, “I’ll always pick up your calls.”

“What if you’re at your internship?” He fired back.

“Then I might not answer it,” you answered honestly, “But––I’ll say I have take a bathroom break and then I’m all yours for fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes?” It was the first time Shawn broke concentration with the ocean and stared at you with wide eyes, “That’s a fucking long bathroom break.”

You shrugged and offered him a soft closed lipped smile, “I’ll just say it was a terrible shit.”

Shawn tilted his head back in laughter. His eyes were shut tight and his mouth let out a laugh so pleasing that you wished to be the only one to hear it for the rest of time, “They’ll never let you go to the bathroom again––Or––Or they’ll have you clean it up.”

Again, you shrugged and smiled up at him, “Worth it if I get to talk to you.”

“Even if I have to hang up like thirty seconds later?” Shawn’s voice returned to its anxious state, “Even if you call back like right after I call and I don’t pick up––“

“It’s all worth it,” you leaned into his side and brought a hand around his waist. He slung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close, “Even if I get your voicemail.”

“I’ll miss you,” Shawn spoke lowly. The raw tone of passion and honesty that he held in his voice sent chills down your spine that made you want to wrap yourself in a blanket in the middle of summer, “I’ve––I don’t think I’ve missed anymore more than you before and I haven’t even left yet.”

You never felt a smile overtake your face just like the one you had plastered on your face right now, “Good,” you were sure your smile was blinding the sun, “Because I love you too much for you not to miss–––“

You cut yourself off faster than the thought left your lips. I love you too much. You had been in a relationship for around eight months––close to a year––and the two of you knew that you loved each other, but it’s just never been spoke out loud before. Shawn knew your reservations with that word and respected it. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe in love, or had a bad history with an ex-partner, but it was the commitment that the word brought out. It was commitment that this relationship had potential to be something more than just boyfriend and girlfriend.

Love was the closet thing that the world had to magic; it seemed too dangerous to throw around something so magnificent in power.

Your mouth went dry, “I––Well, you––You’re gonna be gone for so long and I––You better not miss Brian more than me or we’ll have a serious issue––But like, I get he’s your best friend, but I’m your girlfriend––Eh––Hold on, that sounded really possessive and weird because like––I like Brian and I like your friends––Your whole world shouldn’t revolve around me––“

“I love you, too.”

“Because if it revolved around me, then we wouldn’t have a healthy relationship and––What?”

Shawn tilted his head and shifted your body so that you were in front of him, eyes locked, “I love you.”

“You––What?” It was the second time Shawn spoke those words to you, but you still couldn’t process the information.

“I love–––“

Your eyes closed as your heart opened up, waiting for Shawn to kiss you after telling you he loved you again. His lips softly touched yours before he was interrupted from finishing the sentence you wanted to hear from him and only him for the rest of your life.

“Are––Are you Shawn Mendes?”

It was a bit of an awkward situation. Shawn had his hands on your waist and your hands were flat against his muscular chest. His lips were still hovering yours and he let out an annoyed sigh as he continued rubbing his thumb softly over your hip.

Reluctantly, he pulled away and plastered on a smile that you knew was a bit forced.

“Hey, yeah––I’m Shawn,” He introduced himself as he still kept an arm thrown over your shoulder, “And what are your names?”

The three teenage girls all looked at each other silently screaming about how they couldn’t believe they had run into Shawn Mendes in their tiny beach town. You always enjoyed being present when fans met Shawn. You loved how they looked at him like he hung the moon in the sky, but you were pretty sure you looked at him the same way too.

Shawn conversed with the fans for a few minutes, asking their recommendations for places to go in town, where their favorite mini golf was, and telling them all what he had done the past few days in town. Of course they brought up the dreaded topic of tour and you felt Shawn tense up as he sputtered out his media trained response; it’s my favorite part of the job, I can’t wait to get back out and see everyone again. While that statement was true, you knew that he was more apprehensive about this tour and what leaving you behind meant.

You took their pictures individually with Shawn and then a group picture of the four of them. One of them asked for a picture with you, which you politely declined.

“It was really nice meeting you girls,” Shawn flashed his signature smile, “But could you hold off on posting those for a few days? I’m really trying to stay low key and relax before tour.”

They all nodded their head vigorously––Of course, Shawn–––We wouldn’t want to invade your privacy, Shawn––We’re just so thankful you took time to talk to us, Shawn––We totally get that you want to spend time with Y/n, Shawn.

Their last statement made you smile.

The girls walked off holding onto each other’s wrist whispering––Did that really just happen?! Shawn Mendes?! Here?!––and you grinned up at Shawn who was already beaming down at you.

“You just made their day.”

“Ah,” Shawn tsked, “You just made my day.”

You rolled your eyes and shrugged his arm off your shoulder and began to walk away in embarrassment. Of course you were going to talk about what had slipped through your lips just moments ago, you wanted to talk about it, but you didn’t want any teasing from Shawn.

“Hey,” Shawn whined as he managed to grab your hand before you were too far away. He pulled you back into him and resumed the position you found yourselves in before the polite fans not-so-politely interrupted your moment.

His hands felt soothing on your roasting hot skin, “I love you.”

His nose brushed yours softly as you let your eyes flutter close and let out a content sigh, “I love you, too.”

And just like that, you felt as if everything aligned perfectly in the world. Everything in your world felt complete. The sun shinned with a new meaning, the salt water air smelled sweeter, and the thumping of your heart beat with a new purpose.

You loved Shawn Mendes.

His lips touched yours lightly, no more than they did just before the girls interrupted, admittedly, you expected more of a kiss for saying I love you for the first time to each other.

“Remember; you told me you loved me five seconds ago,” Shawn rushed out in a whisper.

You opened your eyes, “Wha––“ but before you could register anything, you felt Shawn grab your waist as he hoisted you over his shoulder. You felt his shoulder collide with your stomach and your vision of his face was replaced with his swim trunks. You weren’t that upset about that part.

But as soon as stereotypical thoughts of your partner’s butt came into mind, you felt the cold ocean water hit the back of your calves. You managed to lean up slightly and hook your legs around Shawn’s torso. His musical laugh rang through your ears once more as he adjusted his hands to grip the bottom of your thighs that clung to him for dear life.

You wrapped your arms tightly around him as you nuzzled your face into his neck and shrieked, “Shawn! Don’t you––“

Before you could finish your sentence, Shawn let both of you be consumed by the salty ocean water. The temperature of the water didn’t feel remotely as bad as it had before now that your whole body had been in the water, but it was still not a pleasant surprise.

Once Shawn lifted both of you up for air, you smacked his shoulder, “Why did you do that?!”

Shawn shrugged, “I don’t know,” he offered you a guilty smile, “But you love me, so it’s alright.”

You opened your mouth, but couldn’t find anything to rebuttal that statement. You loved the way his eyes glistened under the sun. You loved the way his wet hair stuck to the sides of his face. You loved the way he listened to the nonessential details of your life. You loved the way Shawn put his best work forth in music, family, life, and with you.

So, yeah, you couldn’t be mad at him. You weren’t mad at him.

You loved him quite a lot.

106 notes · View notes

redhawtriot · 4 years

Text

Sole Mates 🦶❤️🦶(Bakugou x Reader)

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

Part 1, Part 2

Part 3:

“Stupid Deku and his bitch of an ex-wife can die for all I care,” Bakugou angrily grumbled to himself as he threw his hospital gown away from him. He took to changing a lot more aggressively than normal as he tore on his hero costume.

He made sure to toss his gown in the designated clothes bin before storming out of his hospital room. His movements, however, felt robotic as the series of the day looped in his mind over and over again. He tried to pick the day apart piece by piece.

What was that kid’s name again…? His hag of a mother had called out to him a few times. Hiro…? No, that’s not it…

Bakugou’s concentration was abrupted as the sudden commotion of the hospital halls came to a sudden halt in his presence. The nurses all became deathly silent as he marched passed them. He felt their wide eyes trailing his every move like deer watching a predator.

The man scoffed, “The hell are you staring at.” He said very lowly, causing the hoards of people to promptly avert their gazes, returning to their activities.

As soon as he walked out of the hospital, he was swarmed by a barrage of news outlets,

“Ground Zero! Do you have underlying health issues you’re not telling us about!? You seemed to pass out out of seemingly nowhere!”

“Mr Ground Zero! Are you familiar with Deku’s ex-wife? Were you pulled to the scene by personal relations?”

“Are you the reason for their divorce?!”

His face immediately shriveled up at the last question, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU BUNCH OF SCAVENGERS!” he screamed, causing the herd of anchormen/women to instantly hush and part out of his way. He stormed past the terrified crowd as he grabbed his phone out of his pocket and noticed a few missed calls from some of his ‘friends’: Kirishima, Kaminari, and Jirou.

No doubt that they probably saw what had happened to him on the news. Fucking naturally. Everyone saw him faint like a punk bitch on the live television. Bakugou growled angrily— the grip on his phone tightening before he heavily huffed and began typing a contact name into his device.

He held the thing up to his ear after pressing call, “Hello? Mr. Aizawa.”

The other man gave a tired sigh, “Just call me Aizawa, Bakugou. You’re not in high school anymore,” he replied very flatly.

“I. know. that,” he forced through gritting teeth—a stream of more vulgar choice words threatening to spill from his tightened lips.

“I saw your fight from this evening on television. I am assuming you want to talk about it?”

“Tell me everything you know about bonding quirks.” He spat very hastily.

——————————————————————

‘Stupid Deku and his bitch of an ex can die for all I care.’ You felt the thought creep into your mind like an unwanted house guest—giving you slight pause as Izuku kept his hand firmly wrapped around your forearm.

You looked back up at the green haired man as he waited for you to give him some sort of response to his question, but words failed to make their way from you as you dwelled on Bakugou’s intrusive thought.

Die? We can read some of each other’s thoughts, feel each other’s pain, but if one of us were to die… would the other?

The thought sent a chill down your spine. The feeling of helplessness accompanied that chill until it settled into your tight chest.

No matter how much you couldn’t stand the raging furball of a man, the two of you would have to depend on each other from now on. Yes, whether you liked it or not, your paths had now intertwined with each other for an unpredictable period. You would need to find him and figure this out together.

You reluctantly found yourself grabbing Izuku’s arm and guiding it back away from you, “I-I don’t…” you prepared to decline his self-invitation; however, one look into his emerald eyes completely melted your resolve.

Seriously?

C’mon, Y/N. You are a whole fucking mother. If you can handle Koko’s adorable puppy dog eyes after an entire day of not seeing her, then surely you can handle this. You shook your hesitation away before opening your mouth to firmly speak up,

“Izuku. I don’t think that’s a good—”

“I understand that you’re scared about your situation, but I promise that we will figure it out,” he softly interrupted you, “Together… A-as friends of course,” you weren’t so sure about that part, but you listened to him as he continued speaking anyways, “I do have a few ideas of who to contact, and we can pull some of the street surveillance videos, and grab a witness or two to ask them what happened. We will figure this out—t-the bonded thing.”

You fought the heavy urge to roll your eyes, and settled for crossing your arms instead, “Well, do you have to be at my house to do that?”

“N-no, of course, but It would be easier for me to focus on this, plus my everyday work if I didn’t have to worry about switching Koko between the two of us every day,” he argued, uncertainty written upon his expression.

He so obviously just pulled that outta his ass.

‘Well, he never really was too good at hiding his emotions’ you sighed, “Okay....” you agreed, your eyes shifting away from his own, “...just for tonight…” you trailed off as you looked to your ex-husband’s brightening expression—instant regret filling your mind as your heart fell with his contagious joy.

The upbeat man immediately took to gathering up your belongings for you, excitedly chatting about how he was excited to see what you’ve done with your home, and how Koko was telling him all about how you changed the dining room into a spare office. And how you changed the spare bedroom into a playroom for her.

You listened to all these things that your ever so sweet child had told him from the other side of the bathroom door as you changed into some clothes that he had brought you.

Fuck. She probably tells him everything about your days. Does he know you don’t cook anymore? Damn, he probably does. He probably knows that you put her to bed early on Thursday nights so you can have conference calls with your global investors and everything-- more ammunition for his judgmental fire, “I gotta talk to her about privacy…”

“What did you say, Y/N?” he called from the other side of the door.

“Nothing, just thinking out loud,” you replied as you opened the door revealing Izuku’s flustered expression. He had brought you some of his spare clothes, and the sight of you in them after almost a year sent an unexpected surge of emotions to his heart.

“Uh.. um. T-t-the n-nurses said that we can go out of a back entrance to avoid the media swarm outside…” he finally spat out as he averted his gaze from you.

Damn, you had almost forgotten how he was basically a celebrity. He was climbing up the ranks towards being the number one hero after all. And his ex-wife was just hospitalized, probably on live news, “Okay…”

After successfully making it out of the hospital with little disturbance, You found yourself in Izuku’s car. Alone. Just you and him.

God, try not to think about it. Don’t think about it like that. For God’s sake DON’T—

“So this is the first time we’ve ever been alone like this since last year, huh…?” He suddenly broke the silence.

“…Yeah…” you trailed off with an uneasy tone of voice.

The rest of the ride pretty much followed this exact script: an awkward silence where you were practically dying internally, followed by him opening his mouth to spout some meaningless conversation, followed by you giving a half-assed reply and then starting the cycle all over again.

And a vicious cycle it was.

Soon enough, however, the two of you found yourselves at Inko’s apartment. Praise whatever omnipotence was listening to your prayers, because Izuku decided that he would stay inside of the car to keep it warm and running while you grabbed Koko.

You, of course, had your own key to the place since this was the usual buffer between you and Izuku. As soon as you began to open the front door to the apartment you heard rapid shuffling on the other side, shortly after followed by a high voice, “Daddy’s home! He’s back!”

You scoffed, ‘Mommy’s here too, brat,’ you spitefully thought to yourself before swinging the door open to scoop your daughter, who had run to the door to help you unlock it, into your arms, “Hi, my baby!” you cooed as you squeezed her small frame into yours. The girl hugged you back for only moment before going stiff,

“Where’s daddy? He said he’d be back tonight,” she whined.

“Oh, he did, did he?” That fucker had this planned the entire time! The sweet face and freckles did wonders for the man-- you gravely underestimated his plotting nature. Shit!

“Hi sweetheart!” you heard the schemer in question chime from behind you in the entrance, causing you to snap your head back in shock. You were met with an apologetic expression as if he wanted to say ‘I changed my mind, sorry.’

You took back what the fuck you mentioned about ‘whatever omnipotence is listening.’

“DADDY!” Koko snatched herself from your arms as she shuffled over towards Izuku. Her arm and leg prosthetics heavily clunked as she fumbled his way. She practically fell into his embrace as her foreign limbs tried to keep up with her excited body.

You heart dropped at the sight, settling in a deep pit of guilt at the bottom of your twisting stomach. You would never get used to seeing her struggle with her two prosthetics. You tried to hide the obvious discomfort on your face and offer a slight smile at the otherwise warming scene in front of you.

“Be careful, honey. You don’t want to hurt yourself,” Izuku warned your daughter, however the young girl was too busy fumbling with pieces of his hero costume,

“When I make my hero costume, I want it to be just like yours,” the five-year-old randomly spit out.

That pinge turned into full fledged heartbreak at her words. Izuku seemed to feel the same way as the two of you made eye contact with one another; however, as you opened your mouth to say something and break the thick silence, Inko walked in,

“Oh, good! You’re back! How are you Y/N, sweetie? You doing okay?! I saw the attack on the news! Of course, and then when Izuku called—”

“I’m fine, Inko,” you interrupted the frantic woman. She tended to over worry about things and work herself up. You guess Izuku had to get it from somewhere, “Thank you so much for watching Koko,”

“You know it’s no problem at all! We had dinner of course and washed up for bed already, so you're all set to go tonight!” she sang.

Both you and Izuku once again thanked Inko and as soon as you all said your good-byes, you headed back to your apartment. The drive there was much louder with a five year old in the back seat, however the conversation mostly stayed between her and her obvious favorite parent. It’s okay. You weren’t bitter. Not at all.

Izuku, much like he promised, found himself touring your apartment and commenting on little things you had changed here and there as Koko and him hung out for about a half an hour before she went to bed at around 11 pm. Sadly, that was her normal bedtime.

By the end of the night you found yourself drowsily plopping down onto your living room couch and turning on the TV to unwind. Ironically, around this time of night when you watched television, dramatic reality TV was what you found yourself absorbed into. Viewing people get wound up was the perfect way to wind down.

Watching a ho get dragged by her hair and seeing glasses of citrus vodka being thrown across dining room tables was just the relaxing conclusion that you needed.

And god, was that the understatement of the century! Koko was always a pain in the ass to get to sleep, but Izuku being there made it a lot worse! Eventually you stepped into the situation and put your bad guy pants on to help you put your foot down. Izuku never really was the best at giving the girl stern orders. She practically had him wrapped around his finger. Especially since her accident…

He felt the burden of guilt you supposed...

You were snapped out of your thoughts as Izuku came to sit down next you on the other far side of the couch. You immediately threw him a suspicious side eye; however, concluded that if he stayed way over there you would permit this intrusion.

Still, every now and then when you would look back over to the green haired man, he seemed to be inching close and closer, until eventually, here was less that a foot of space between you.

“Ughhhhhh,” you threw your head onto the hard back of the couch as you bellowed a loud, annoyed groan.

“What? What’s wrong?!” he inched even closer to you as his voice pitched in worry.

You snapped our head back upright to toss him a soft glare, “What do you think you’re doing Izuku?”

His eyes darted around your expression as if he were searching for the right thing to say “Watching TV...?” he hesitantly trailed off.

“Mhmm,” you deadpanned as you swiftly stood up from the couch, “I’m gonna head to bed.” Reality Tv night was ruined by his stupid broccoli head ass. You regretted letting him stay here in the first place. How could you have possibly thought that this was anything even resembling a good idea after everything that you two had been through?!

“Wait…” he called out to you has he jumped int from of your path. You angrily eyed the green flashes of light accompanying his body. You looked up to him with wild eyes—he knew how much you hated it when he used his quirk when it came to you. He held up two apologetic palms to you as if he wanted to reach out but stopped himself letting them fall limply by his sides, “I just… this is the first time we have really talked in months. I know that I have already said this, but I am sorry… I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I think about it every day and if I could take it back I would. You know I don’t really mean those things.”

“Oh you mean the part where you called me a… hmm what were your exact words” you tapped your finger on the bottom of your chin in feign thought, “A selfish bitch? Or maybe you’re referring to when you said that I was a bad mother?” You finally released your urge to roll your eyes.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he sadly repeated.

“Ya fucking think?” you dropped your head into a scowl, “’Night.”

“Wait. Y/N wait! Please. Let’s fix this right now,” he begged as he tried to keep up with your retreating form.

“Ummm, it’s a little past that isn’t it?” your voice carried higher in frustration as you continued walking, trying not to make eye contact him as you rushed toward the sanctuary of your room.

“No, I mean. I want to be close to you,” Izuku finally grabbed the courage to jump in front of you and place his hands on your shoulders, as if he were trying to steady you on the edge of a cliff, “Things just aren’t the same without you. We can be friends,” he promised.

Your faces were dangerously close to each other as he gazed deeply into your eyes with his pleading expression. You bit your lip in uncertainty. It seemed like minutes had passed by with the two of you staring at each other until you finally broke the stalemate, “Friends, huh?” you raised an eyebrow at the man before the distance between the two of you seemed to shorten ever so slightly.

It was still enough for Izuku to notice, “Y-Yeah,” he stammered as his eyes quickly shifted towards your lips and then back up to your eyes.

“Friends?” you softly whispered as the distance between the two of you shortened even more, as if by some magnetic force.

“Friends…” the words barely floated out of his mouth before your lips pressed softly against his. You pushed deeply into him and allowed the heat of the moment flow between the two of you, your lips moving perfectly against each other when suddenly, you ripped yourself away from him,

“You can’t handle being friends,” you spat, glaring at his at his clouded eyes. Your words seem to phase straight through him as he quickly grabbed your face once more and pressed his wanting lips back onto your own. You tensed up at first.

Since when was he so fucking bold?!

Despite every logical thought in your brain, you eventually fell into his warm embrace— melting against his familiar touch.

On the other side of town, Bakugou was also having a very heated night as he fought against a villain with meteor quirk.

“KACCHAN! On your left!!”

The explosive man immediately weaved to the right and only narrowly missed getting slammed by a flaming ball of rock. Most people in this situation would say thank you, however Bakugou was not like most people, “SHUT UP, YOU IDIOT!! I saw it coming! Also, call me that again if you wanna get set on fire!”

“I see you’re still the same…” Kaminari trailed off before shooting a line of lightning toward the villain.

Bakugou gave slight pause, “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be dumbass?!” he barked.

“You know what they say about near death experiences. They change a man. I guess it doesn’t apply to gremlins,” the other blonde smirked as he teased the short fuse.

“Shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you, sparky!” Bakgou bellowed just as Kirishima came into the mix,

“Hey guys, we are kinda in the middle of a major villain fight, here! Could you save the bickering for later?!” he yelled before slamming his hardened fist into an incoming meteor.

“He started it!” Kaminari laughed.

“I’ll fucking finish it t—”

Bakugou’s threat suddenly paused as his face became bright red. Both anger and embarrassment accumulated in his cheeks as he flashed a furious glare behind him. Who the fuck just grabbed his ass?!

However, his face immediately fell as he found no one behind him.

That’s when it hit him like a meteor—the bond. That fucking bitch must be slutting it up!!

WAIT… she was with … does that fucking mean…?!

The man felt the sudden urge to through his entire body into a bleach bath.

Deku was indirectly copping a feel on his ass.

“DEKUUUUUUUUU,” Bakugou screeched at the top of his lungs as the redness in his face intensified by tenfold, “YOU BASTAAAARD!”

Do you keep going with Midoriya?? or slam the breaks??

YOU DECIDE!

Follow this link to participate in the poll!

323 notes · View notes

xbellaxcarolinax · 4 years

Text

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 12- Northumbria

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 3545

Warnings: Mentions of blood eagle.

11- Arvid/ The Sacrifice

...

"I did not take you to be the type to get seasick." Artemis says with a smile. She hands Ivar a scrap of cloth when his head emerged from the side of the ship. He spit into the sea the remnants of the bitter sick in his mouth before glaring at her. He snatches the cloth from her hands and wipes at his mouth unbecomingly before tossing it back at her.

"I am not fond of the sea." He mutters bitterly, groaning again as his stomach began to churn unpleasantly. Ivar scooted as far back into the corner he was in, treating the space as a safe haven.

"The sea is unpredictable, Prince, I think we all fear it." Artemis looks out into the calm Northern Sea, its waves gently rocking the ship like a babe in a cradle. Both Ivar's and Artemis's people were excellent seafarers, it must have bren engraved in their blood, but the fear of open water was still a rational one.

There were hundreds of ships down towards the horizon, and beyond, and a nervous buzz settled in the lower pits of her stomach. It was finally happening, all this talk of vengence and war, it all felt like stories one told a child at night.

The ship beside their own had her heart feeling heavy. Arvid's blue eyes were locked with hers as he grabbed an oar to help steer the ship. His wife was not far from him, watching the waves push and pull. She was a pretty thing, with yellow hair and blue eyes, exactly what every man here wanted. Her name was Alfhild, daughter of a well off farmer in Kattegat.

A small wedding was arranged. It was a simplistic wedding, and they were married right before they departed to England. For such simplicity, Arvid seemed to be the star of the event. His dark hair was neatly combed with intricate braids styled down the front, and he wore his very best clothes.

Arvid was a good man, if he could treat a slave with respect, then he would no doubt treat Alfhild in the proper way.

"Does it upset you?" Ivar interrupts her thoughts, gazing at her through his lashes.

"Hmm?" Artemis turns to him, her eyes swirling with mixed emotions. She began to fiddle with her leather padded vest, hearing Ivar suck his teeth at her feigning confusion.

"Are you upset that he is now married?" He reworded his question, lifting the hood of his cloak to shield his face, "His wife is pretty." He says as an afterthought, resting his head on his hand. The nausea was coming back.

"He deserves happiness and a suitable companion."

"I asked you how you feel about it, Artemis." Ivar lightly scolds her, adjusting his lifeless legs. He waits for an answer as he watches his older brothers bombard the front of the ship, no doubt feeling as if they could conquer the world. Perhaps one day they will.

"It does not matter what I feel. A slave does not have that luxury." She handed over the cloth again when he suddenly lurched over the side of the boat again. Groaning, Ivar sits back properly, snatching the cloth from her.

"You are not wrong," He says in agreement after a moment, "But you are no ordinary slave. You are Ivar the Boneless's slave. You are not average. You may think yourself downtroddened, but the gods have blessed you. This is where you belong." Artemis says nothing, though her eyes said it all.

What was that? Where did that come from?

Ivar stares back, unmoving, his eyes solely on her. His brown hair, growing longer by the day, blew in the salty breeze, and although his cheeks were reddened by the constant vomiting, it did nothing to tarnish his pleasant features. He looked more a man by the day.

"Do not look at me like that." He says finally, breaking their gaze in favor of looking out towards the sea.

"Like what?" Her lips began to curl into a grin, and she leans back against the wooden rail with her arms crossed.

"Like that," Ivar grumbles, waving his hand around to make a point, "With those eyes." He wrapped himself tighter in his cloak as if to hide. Artemis continued to smile, focusing her gaze on her wool trousers now that she felt a sudden shyness engulf her.

"You should tell me another story," She tells him, "Perhaps the one of Odin's eye?" Ivar hums, bringing his eyes back to hers.

"Very well, but after, you must take your turn at the oars." Artemis nods, casting one last look at Arvid before focusing all her attention on the crippled prince beside her.

"As you wish, Prince Ivar."

...

Spring was at its zenith when they finally arrived.

They landed on their sandy beaches, in a place they called Northumbria. The sun wasn't always visable as the clouds dominated the sky for most of the day, just as it does in Kattegat. It was a rainy country, with constant passing showers. The air was a bit humid and sticky, not a pleasant feeling after traveling such distance.

The Ragnarsons made their plans, attack and kill King Alle of Northumbria, and continue into Wessex. Ivar mounted his chariot as soon as they boarded off their ships, and they made camp in a field near by before regrouping into the fierce Heathen Army that struck fear into the hearts of men all throughout Europe.

Hundreds of tents were set up, surely appearing as a maze from high above. It was a war camp, the first that Artemis had ever seen, and it was truly an intimidating sight. It was over crowded and noisy, and if it weren't for the ships being spotted by the kings men, the wild chatter would have given them away. She sees Arvid again, setting up his makeshift home and forge, as his new bride went to gather wood.

"How fairs the marriage?" She approaches him. Having enough of his struggling, she grabs the tarp on one end as he grabs the other, stretching it over the wooden stakes that he had previously imbedded into the earth. She wasn't much help, her stature did nothing to aid him, but he looked over his shoulder at her with a beaming smile, and the glow reached his eyes.

"I've missed you." He replies sheepishly, turning to face her fully while rubbing the back of his neck, "The marriage was arranged, as you know, but Alfhild is kind." A man steering a cart arrives with all their forging instruments placed in the back.

"I'm glad the union has been in your favor. You will grow to love each other, in time." She says, reaching for the tools that were rolled into a thick cloth. Arvid placed his larger hand atop her smaller one, grabbing her attention instantly.

"I do not love her." His tone was the most serious she's ever heard it, his eyes boring deeply into her own. Artemis gulped, nervously shifting under is gaze.

"Arvid?" She says his name hesitantly, removing her hand from under his.

"I do not love her." He repeated with finality in his tone, letting his arm drop to his side. Alfhild approachs with an arm full of wood. She had not witnessed their encounter, and she smiles at both her husband and Artemis.

"Artemis, it is nice to finally see you after such a long journey." She says, going over to Arvid to place a kiss upon his cheek. Artemis fought to give her a smile while watching the exchange, placing her hands behind her back in her awkwardness.

"Likewise, Alfhild. Would you like some help with the wood?"

"Nonsense," She replies, "You are not ours to command. You worry about the tasks that are expected of you." And with that she heads into the empty tent.

Artemis groans, dropping her face into her hands.

"Arvid, she is much too kind. If you cannot love her, than at least try to like her." She begs through her hands, her muffled voice causing Arvid to smile.

"If I am to see you every day, then that will be a challenge, but I will try my best, if you wish it so." Artemis peeks at him through her fingers, and he could still see through the slits how piercing those eyes were.

"You promise?"

Arvid rolls his eyes but continues to smile at her, draping his arm over her shoulder in the most friendliest of hugs he could give.

"Yes, yes, I promise." She returns the smile gratefully.

He drops his arm from her as soon as Ivar's chariot came to an abrupt halt in front of the cart, his reckless riding causing Alfhild to come out from the tent in curiosity.

Ivar glares at Arvid, moving his blue eyes to his slave. Artemis gazes at him curiously.

"Set up the forge with only what you need before nightfall. There is work to be done before we attack tomorrow, understood?" Artemis lowers her head.

"As you wish, Prince Ivar." Ivar scoffs at her before nodding his head in aknowlegement towards Arvid and his wife.

"May the gods grant you a happy marriage." Ivar's demeanor changes suddenly as he smiles, baring his wolf-ish teeth.

"Thank you, Ivar." Alfhild replies when her husband remained silent. Ivar grunts, slamming the reigns harshly on the mare's back, the chariot disappearing into the mess of tents. Arvid grumbles, turning to look at his wife who joined the rest of the women in creating a fire in the middle of the surrounding tents.

"He reeks of jealousy. " Arvid grunts, grabbing a crate filled with supplies. Artemis joins him, placing the cloth covered tools atop a smaller crate that would be easier for her to carry.

"I suppose you were right." She follows behind Arvid, almost crashing into him when he turns to face her with a hardness in his eyes.

"Yes, and you seem to enjoy it, do you not?" Without another glance, he makes his way into the tent, leaving Artemis to ponder his words.

And she came to the conclusion that Arvid was correct.

...

King Alle was easily defeated. His army was no match against the larger one of the heathens.

The battle lasted no more than an hour, and Artemis waited patiently in Ivar's tent for his return. She had no doubt he would return.

"Artemis!" She hears Ivar's familiar voice call for her, and when she exited the tent, her hands flew to her lips in shock.

He sat in his chariot smirking, with a naked man attached to the backend of the chariot from his feet. The man was filthy from head to toe, squirming as his hands were also bounded behind his back. He had the appearance of a fish out of water, or a worm tunneling out from deep in the earth. It looked humiliating.

"I present to you the King of Northumbria." He announces proudly, looking back towards the fat man who groaned for mercy over the dirty cloth that had been tied over his mouth.

"The king?" Artemis whispers, eyes raking over his bloody form. A Christian king brought down to nothing. It was a sad sight.

"He is to be blood eagaled," Hvitserk appears with the rest of the brothers, dropping an arm over her shoulder. Something about the term did not sit well with her, but she decided to ask anyway.

"What is a blood eagle?"

"Something you would not bare to witness." Bjorn answers, lowering himself to one knee before the king.

"You are going to die now," The Saxon words escape Bjorn's mouth easily, though Artemis didn't understand a word of it.

The king began to cry, large droplets of tears running down his dirty cheeks. He pleaded in his language once Bjorn removed the cloth from his mouth, babbling something about gold and silver, perhaps trying to bribe them for mercy, but this king did not know who he was dealing with.

"You've never been around such things, have you?" Sigurd slowly approaches Artemis, whispering in her ear while Ivar watches the fallen king.

"No." She replies, her eyes following both Hvitserk and Ubbe as they crowded around the naked king to humiliate him further.

"He tortured our father and threw him into a pit of snakes until he died," Sigurd says darkly, "He is to receive the highest punishment that can be given." He crosses his arms, looking down at her.

"The blood eagle is not for the faint of heart."

Sigurd was right.

There weren't many witnesses as the rest of the army stayed behind to protect the camp. Floki was there, smiling menacingly while watching as the king was placed over a tree stump. Helga and Tanaruz stayed behind at the camp as it was no place for a child.

"Be brave, baby bird." Ivar says to her, and she watches after him as abandoned his chariot for crawling on the moist ground, settling himself directly in front of the crying king for the best view.

And so it began.

Bjorn did not hesitate to carve into the kings back, plunging the knife deep into his skin and dragging in down. The King cried out and Artemis's heart began to race wildly, watching the blood ooze from the large wound.

Again, Bjorn plunged the knife parallel to the wound, carving down his back easily. The thick blood covered Bjorn's hands and dripped down towards the forest floor like a river. Once she heard the ominous sound of bones cracking, and how easily Bjorn pulled out the kings lungs to rest atop his shoulders, she immediately felt the bile rise.

She felt lightheaded, turning round and falling to her knees, heaving up the contents of her stomach with eyes tightly closely. She could recognize the thick liquid seeping into the leaves and onto her fingers.

With a shaky breath she lifts her trembling hand, her palms and fingertips coated in King Alle's sticky blood. She could smell the iron instantly, lowering her head again to release the remaining food she had in her stomach.

She pants, sweat clinging her hair onto her brow, feeling her rapidly beating heart would leap out of her. She blinks the tears from her eyes before crawling away from her sick and the blood.

...

Blood.

Bones.

Lungs.

Artemis shot up quickly, her head spinning from her sudden movements. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breathing was laborious, choking on the oxygen she struggled to inhale. Pushing her hair away from her face, she takes a ragged breath, willing herself to be calm.

"Finally wake."

She whips her head at the sound of his voice, meeting the familiar eyes of her crippled master. He sat up, leaning against the wooden frame of his makeshift bed. In his hands was an elaborate golden crown, shinning jewels embedded within.

"Veikr." Ivar says to her, using that same word, though there was no hostility in his tone. Instead he chuckles, shaking his head as he brings his fingers to the pointed edges of the crown.

"I thought I told you to be brave," There was light teasing in his words, though it was apparent that he meant them, "You failed."

"Forgive me." Artemis mumbles, scouting her surrounds. Ivar's small tent was illuminated by the very few candles Artemis had arranged herself at his bedside, giving the small space a strangely cozy atmosphere.

The bed was soft, layered in the furs she had choosen specifically for him. She grips the soft hairs under her palms tightly, a rising panic surfacing as her mind raced with scenes from eariler. She sniffles, swallowing thickly when she felt her throat tightening.

"Hush." Ivar tells her, almost commands her, though somehow his voice was the most soothing it's ever been. The hot tears began to blur her vision, spilling past her lashes and down her cheeks. She felt her throat tighten as she fought to keep in her whimpers.

"Artemis," He calls out to her, and she when turns again to look at him, he raises a brow, "Stop your crying. Sit beside me." She sniffles again, her tears not masking her bewilderment. She waited for him to laugh and tell her to get out.

"You look foolish," He says instead, "I said stop your crying and sit beside me. You sound like a whimpering babe without it's mother. Come on." He beckons her with his hand, satisfied when she finally scoots back to sit up against the wooden frame as he did.

"Here," Ivar hands her the crown, watching her grasp it with trembling fingers, "It is Alle's crown." The distraction calms her for a moment, her curious eyes raking over the gold. She was holding the crown of a dead man.

"Saxon work is impressive, but I think you can do better. What do you think?" Artemis licks her dry lips, her finger leaving a print of the smooth edge of a ruby.

"You want me to make a crown?" She says to him with watery eyes.

"Mm, perhaps," He shrugs, fiddling with the edges of the fleece blanket he was under, "I might need one in the future." She remains quiet after that, hearing the crackle of the fire and the murmuring of the men outside the tent.

"Prince Ivar?"

"Yes?"

"What happened?" Ivar chuckles, snatching the crown back and placing it under the bed before crossing his toned arms over his bare chest.

Oh.

Had his chest been bare the entire time?

"You fainted," He smirks, "Like the little baby bird that you are." She frowns, ripping her eyes away from his glistening skin and onto her hands.

"I've not seen such cruelty before." She says quietly, remembering the king's screams vividly.

"Cruelty?" Ivar scoffs, "He deserved his fate and more."

"He was a Christian king." She responds.

"He was a worthless Saxon." He spits, yanking at the collar of her shirt to pull her torward him. She yelps, their eyes clashing as he brings their faces so close, the tip of their noses almost brushed.

"Who are you to pass judgement, hm? Are you a god?" Artemis hurriedly shakes her, not wanting to ignite his anger further.

"Well?" Ivar insists.

"No." She finally squeaks, and he releases his grip on her, only somewhat satisfied. He pauses, an angered breath passing his lips.

"When I first came to England with my father," He begins, "I did not know it would be the last time I would see him." He wasn't looking at her, but she could see how his eyes glossed over, his blue irises appearing red from the candle beside him.

Artemis listens intently, picking up the sadness in his tone even though he tried to hide it. She fiddles with her fingers, feeling an awkward and tense air around them.

"He surrendered to them. Do you know what he told me as his final request?"

"No." He turns to face her again, slinking forward on his toned arms to get a good look at her.

"He told me to avenge him. To lead an army into England and enact revenge." Ivar was so close to her again, just a breath away as they stared each other down in the dying candle light.

"Alle tortured him, threw him into a pit of venomous snakes and watched him die. I'm certain you have heard the story," He spits, his lashes fluttering as he fought to control his emotions, "And you think us cruel? What do you know of having a father murdered unjustly?"

The question sounded rhetorical, but his eyes were begging for an answer. Artemis says nothing at first, looking away from his intense gaze, pushing a lock of matted hair behind her ear. She sighs, biting her lower lip before facing him again, her features hardening.

"What do you know of being stolen away from a father?" She counters back, watching him jerk away from her as if burned. Ivar frowns, her words taking some sort of affect on him. He clenches his jaw, the rolling of the muscle poking through the skin of his angular face.

"Sleep," He commands suddenly, moving forward to push her down enough to lay back against the furs. Her confusion was evident, but he ignores it, resting against his pillows and placing an arm behind his head.

She had her own cot in the slave tent. Which she should be in. Not with Ivar.

"Prince-"

"It is late," He cuts her off, "You are unwell. I'm trying to keep you safe like I said I would."

"Yes, but-"

"You want to venture out in the darkness? The men will not be kind. Go on if that is what you wish."

Well, she supposed he was right.

Ivar chuckles to himself when she curls up into herself, her hand gripping the furs. He reclines further under the blanket, turning his back to her and scooting to leave as much space between them as possible.

"Go to sleep," He grunts, "You will return to your own tent and duties come daybreak." And with that he blew out the candles beside him, and the entire tent descended into darkness.

...

Veikr- Weak

...

@heavenly1927 @didiintheblog @rastakami23

@heavenly1927 @didiintheblog

#ivarxofc #ivarfanfiction #ivar imagine #ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar the boneless #alex hogh andersen #vikings ivar #vikings

73 notes · View notes

freewheelshippin · 3 years

Text

Major insomnia and heartache in this chili’s tonight (this morning), so here we are with a quick little fic about two dum dums learning how to share heartache.(SFW, no major content warnings I can think of.)

next day edits: well, now that it’s not ass o’clock, i went back in and tidied this up and added a fair amount more!! (much more satisfying ending instead of something so abrupt, haha.) doesn’t add any further content warnings, tho!

Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed her, he thought as she tensed and her demeanor changed entirely.

“I want to know,” he continued, resolutely.

“Everyone says that,” she spat. “And nobody actually does.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Ranmaru barked. “You heard me out when I told you about everything. Were you lying all those times you listened? Pretending to care just long enough I get over myself and shut up and move on?!” He knew, in his heart of hearts, of course she wasn’t, but the way she said it insulted him so badly he could practically taste the bitterness.

She paused, looking to the side ruefully, shamefully. He had a feeling she’d struggle with eye contact this conversation, and he slouched his arms together, dropping back onto the couch with an irritated sigh, out of her line of sight.

“....No. Absolutely not. Look, this … is different.”

“How,” he growled. “You want to fucking talk about it. I tell you I’ll listen, it’s the least I owe you, and you say ‘no.’ You think I’m not gonna say ‘why’ after you shit all over my answer like that?”

She took a longer time than usual to find words, so just a few empty seconds where he waited, frustrated and somewhat furious at the disconnect.

“...You’re right that I shouldn’t have put it like that. That was shitty, and I’m sorry. But there’s...just...some kinds of life experiences that I’ve found nobody has any reason to learn to understand if it doesn’t happen to them. And...nobody’s prepared to deal with it -- meaningfully, anyways -- even secondhand.”

“Are you just looking for excuses to run away from--” He nearly hesitated over the words, realizing what they were almost a second too late, but marching forward with them anyway. “--trusting me?”

Another pause. “....I don’t know. I...can’t think of a time I’ve talked about it and….it hasn’t been taken from me.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means....” She lingered long enough that Ranmaru worried, rousing himself a bit from staring blankly at the ceiling as he sprawled on the couch. She hadn’t moved from where she had been standing, but she looked at a far-off bare wall with nothing on it. “...that...the way people aren’t,” Another pause, as she searched for the word, “magically equipped with how to deal with it. It...turns me from a person into….anything else.”

“Like what.”

“An after-school lesson. Entertainment. A new toy. A pet. A messiah to burn later, if I’m being really dramatic and cynical. I don’t know, it depends on what flavor of asshole feels like coming out, and it’s never anything good.”

“Then tell them they’re being an asshole -- tell me I’m being an asshole -- and don’t quit until you get what you want out of them!”

“Look!” She finally lost that last twinge of polite restraint, of saying things more nicely than Ranmaru thought was worth bothering with. “What if I didn’t know how to do that, ‘cause how could I?! And what if I don’t want to have to fight every fucking time? What if I just want to be important enough to get it right on to begin with?! And-- don’t give me that shit about being so strong, you’ll survive the mistakes, blah blah -- fuck that! I’m tired of it! I’m not a crash-test dummy! So fucking crucify me for not buckling in to crash myself into who fuckin’ knows what just ‘cuz you got it in your head this is how you’ll repay this stupid friend debt you think you’re in -- you’re not! Just---” she grunted exasperatedly, her uncharacteristic stillness disappearing as she felt less cornered.

“I don’t care if you think I don’t owe you!” Ranmaru shot back. “I do! I want to even the score! If you did right by me, then I gotta do right by you! It’s how I do things, and I’m not about to just forget and let you keep diggin’ yourself into this hole--” (this hole I know very well, Ranmaru thought) “-- where you get so hellbent on doin’ it on your own you cut down all your vision, ‘n your potential, ‘n all the ways you reach it, ‘cuz you keep having to re-invent the wheel just to take a step forward with all the shit you’re carrying!”

“Will you stop trying to quantify this!?”

“I’m not! I’m just tellin’ you what I think, and I’m right!” (I know I’m right because of y--)

“Okay! Maybe you are! About the hole thing -- not the whole thing, the -- the fuckin pit, not the whole-- ah, fuck it, you know what I mean! But I still think this debt system you keep putting basic acts of friendship into is dumb as shit!”

Ranmaru could already feel the point of this argument slipping away from them. “Are you gonna tell me what’s eating at you so bad or not?!”

She froze again. “---I’m. ….No. I’m not. I...my heart’s not ready, if things....go badly again.”

“Fine,” Ranmaru said, resolutely. He was hurt, in a small way, but he felt better that she was at least being truthful, and least acting out of her best interest, not some idiotic idea of useless martyrdom. H couldn’t fault her for protecting her heart. He, of all people, couldn’t possibly do that.

“...then I’ll work to be someone worthy of the trust you deserve,” he murmured, somewhat less resolutely.

The words just came out of him before he could think better of it, so Ranmaru hadn’t considered any reaction to expect. But stunned silence, then sniffling tears, that was probably the reaction he’d been least prepared to deal with.

“Oi-- don’t---” Ranmaru leapt to his feet, like he were a startled prey animal. “Don’t cry!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she huffed through a miserable, contorted, crying face. “Come here, you stupid bastard!” She came towards him with arms outstretched, only just enough warning for Ranmaru to open his own and receive the gesture, an awkward stalwartness to him as he stiffly supported her while the tears ran their course.

“I think it’s amazing how when you say shit like that,” she murmured, her arms tight around his chest. “I really do believe you mean it.”

“....’cause I do,” Ranmaru grumbled, realizing his face burned just a little as she squeezed tighter, and he felt just a little colder when she let go.

“...It’s not about you changing yourself, you know,” she continued, busying herself with cleaning up her tears and snot. “It’s not about you not being enough. You know that, right?”

“...I don’t care if it is. I’d want to do it. I know you don’t expect people to be anyone but who they are. Whatever change I’d have to make was one I should be working on, anyway.”

“Oh, god,” she sighed, stepping away to the nearest sink to wash her face, but there was a smile on her voice. “I really can’t underestimate how seriously you take everything.”

“I told you. I’m always serious about what I do,” he muttered, a little sourly, as the faucet ran.

“Charm point~!” she called from the bathroom in such a silly, mocking voice Ranmaru could hardly believe she’d been crying like she had just a bit ago.

“Shut up! Stop saying weird shit like Reiji!”

“Oh.” She came back with an ominous smile, a little at odds with her puffy eyes and smudged eyeliner. “Well, that’s how I know I really hit the nail on the head.”

“What’s so charming about taking things seriously,” he bristled. “It’s just what people should do!”

She laughed, so genuinely, so warmly, Ranmaru felt a twinge in his stomach. Maybe it was pride, maybe something else he didn’t want to unpack just yet.

“C’mere,” she said again, despite going right to him, wrapping her arms around his waist tightly before leaning back, hoisting him higher until his toes dragged against the floor. Ranmaru let it happen, feeling his weight shift onto hers as she growled into the effort of getting him into the air, even with his extra height on her. He complained about these kinds of hugs, once, but had since grown so used to them, there was something about them he could admit to liking.

“...Alright, alright. Put me down. Oi. Don’t swing me around, put me down!” The cats had gathered around, looking ready to pounce at his toes and pant legs as they waved through the air.

“Is big baby scared of heights,” she said with that facetious tone that always got him.

“Who said anything about that!? Put me down before the cats get on me -- like -- damn it, exactly like that!” One took a flying leap, batting at his legs until her claws her tangled into his pant leg. He could feel her grin into his shoulder as she obliged, slowly enough that the cats could get out of the way.

“It absolutely is what people should do,” she murmured, flopping back around him after he freed the the paw from its fabric prison (and his pants from any more catscratches). “You’ve just got the big stupid, stubborn heart to follow through with it. With literally everything you do.”

“...Tch.” Ranmaru wrapped his arms around her then while he felt his cheeks, the tips of his ears prick with heat. “Of course you’d make it about heart. It’s not, it’s about the ways souls burn when you give ‘em the right passion and drive....”

“Mmhmm,” she said, squeezing one last time before she released again. “Heart. It’s very rock of you.” She patted him on the back as she slipped out from his arms. “I’m gonna get myself a glass of water, you want one?”

“...Oi. It’s not --” He sighed. “Whatever. Yeah, I’ll take one,” he replied, stretching back over the couch.

She disappeared, and ice and water clinked into glasses. Ranmaru, for a stolen moment, rested his right hand over his chest, quietly lingering at how open and warm it felt beneath all the skin, muscle, and bone.

Even if she didn’t like the idea of it being a debt, Ranmaru swore to himself that he would’t let this sort of favor go unreturned. It was how he did things, after all.

#iron maiden & rocka rolla #scribblings

9 notes · View notes