#painting is getting increasingly more difficult the worse my eye gets

[alongtidesoflight]

this is the first time in months i've had enough freetime to pick up a pen

#painting is getting increasingly more difficult the worse my eye gets #i should go see an eye specialist about it soon

[letaliabane]

Quiet Love

Ser Harwin Strong x reader

genre: very romantic, fluffy, yearning, I mean i squealed while writing it so must be exciting

a/n: Harwin Strong has taken all my attention, not only because its Ryan Corr my childhood crush, also because we got so little of such an eye capturing performance! I have no idea where this came from but I think we all deserve some loving don’t you? Enjoy!

Your heels clicked against the pavement as you took a leisurely stroll through the beautiful gardens of Kings Landing, members of the court addressing you with a nod while servants bowed as you passed. 

You were a Targaryen, first daughter of King Viserys and Aemma. Yet it felt like you were second to everything these days since your Mother and baby brother's passing. With your sister Rhaenyra being announced as the heir to the throne and hostilities within court growing worse by the day, it wasn't difficult as to why. 

You were extremely proud and happy for your younger sister, she was truly a force to be reckoned with and meant to rule. But without her and your father, it had become increasingly lonely within the walls you called home.

You missed the simpler times; you and and your father horse riding alongside each other breaking out into laughter as it became a race, Rhaenyra dragging you to the library where she would lay and listen to your voice as you read to her. All of it seemed nothing but a distant memory.

You didn't have many friends apart from a few of the servants. Those who did try to gain your favour at court you came to realise was for their own personal gain, to get closer to your sister or father. And that hurt more than anything. Which is why you denied any affection given to you by any suitor. 

However, you always seemed to feel like someone was watching you. When you sat within the council, dancing at one of the many events, even now as you walked through the rows of blooming rose bushes. 

In the corner of your eyes, the flash of sunlight against armour caught your attention, a silhouette with a mane of wild curls stood at the entrance of the maze.

Ser Harwin Strong, you recognised. Captain of the City Watch and your personal guard. His features rugged, handsome you dare say, like he had been ripped straight out of one of the great paintings that hung within the castle walls. 

He was a man men and women fawned over at dances and the hunts, hoping to gain his favour. And yet his attention seemed drawn only to you. But that was because he was there to protect you, nothing more. Yet it still warmed the depths of your belly that he kept an ever watchful eye over you. 

You paused mid step, anxiety gripping you, screaming at you to continue onwards. But you changed trajectory, walking towards the maze and marched right towards him. A gentle smile overtook his features you noticed as you grew closer, greeting you with a bow of his head. 

‘Morning Princess.’

‘Good morning Ser Harwin! I hope you are faring well this morning?’ 

‘Besides training the new blood who seem worse than the last batch, I am my lady, thank you.’ 

You chuckled softly, nodding towards the maze. ‘I was wondering if you would take a walk with me? Seems like a good day for it.’ 

Harwin couldn’t help but smile briefly before allowing you to walk onwards first, following close at your side. The pavement changed to pebbles, the sound resonating in the silence that lay between the two of you. 

‘And you, my lady?’ 

You looked to him as the deep rumble of his voice caught your attention, dazed by his brilliant brown eyes, almost amber in the sunlight. ‘I’m sorry?’

He chuckled, armour clinking as he ducked his head before looking towards you. ‘How are you? It’s only courteous of me to ask in return for your kindness.’ 

There were so many things you wanted to say. You wanted to tell him everything and yet nothing all at once. The lump in your throat grew, and yet the words left quicker than you expected. 

‘I won’t lie Ser Harwin I feel I'm at a standstill. People seem to be moving in and out of my life sooner than I’d like. I feel the role of a spinster will do me well better than a princess with the way I’m going.’ 

Harwin’s brow furrowed, faltering ever so slightly in his step. ‘You don’t mean that.’ 

‘But I do!’ You started, jumping at the sound of your own voice raising, glancing towards the knight who remained unchanged, however halting in his place. ‘‘I-I’m sorry I didn’t-’

‘Do not apologise,’ He said as he stepped closer, but he kept his distance. He didn’t want to overwhelm you. ‘What truly troubles you my lady?’ 

You wanted to weep. No one had ever asked how you felt. 

‘As feeble as it may sound I’m afraid of being left behind. My sister, heavy is her head that will wear the crown, is blessed and loved by all, but busy with the duties of being a leader. My father is enraptured by his newfound family while I’m left to the wolves to fend for myself. Every person at court comes to my side with wishes and hopes, for my love and attention, only to want to gain favour with my family, not me! And it hurts it-’

The words died on your lips, taking in the worry that was etched upon Harwin’s face. He pitied you, like everyone else he probably did. 

‘I’ve spoken out of turn,’ You muttered as if you hadn’t been on the verge of crying almost moments ago. All emotion had left your voice, you wouldn’t show weakness, you couldn’t. ‘You must be sick of having to watch over me.’ 

‘Princess-’

'I'm sure Rhaenyra would be happy to have you as her personal guard-'

'I did not ask for her, Y/N. I asked to protect you,' He said. You froze, mouth seamlessly moving without making a sound. Though his tone had been firm, his eyes spoke only gentle reassurance. The way your name slipped from his lips sent chills down your spine. 

‘Wh-What did you say?’

Harwin sighed, his heart pounding against his chest. ‘When I was given the honour of Captain of the Watch, I asked-no, requested that I was put to your side.’

‘But why-’ 

‘You must know there is something there between us, do you not princess?’

You knew what he was talking about. 

Longing looks you both exchanged from across the room, the way he watched you as you danced with other men, while you watched him mingle with the ladies of the court. Brief touches of his hand against yours when he passed by or on the small of your back as he led you through the castle. 

There was a fire between the two of you, and it grew every more fierce as the days passed. And you couldn’t help but deny it. 

‘No I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ 

Harwin stepped forward and you couldn't help but stray away, only to find your back pressed against the hedge. His hand found purchase firmly on your hip, the weight and heat almost soothing, thumb stroking gently against the fabric of your dress. Your eyes looked anywhere but his, breathing deeply, the scent of pine wood invaded your senses. 

You gasped as his fingertips slipped between yours, his palm engulfing yours as he gave it a gentle squeeze. He ducked his head, looking into your eyes. 

‘I care for you Y/N. I know it may not be correct to say it but I will not deny it. And I know that you feel the same way.’

No he couldn’t. Ser Harwin Strong could never be in love with you. Maybe an infatuation but no, not love. 

Hearing the crunch of pebbles beneath boot, you glanced back towards Harwin now watching as you walked away, his golden cape billowing in the wind. And as he stood there, he promised himself he would make sure you knew how loved your were. 

You pulled away, shaking your head as your chest heaved. As you dashed through the garden you couldn’t help but glance around. There were eyes everywhere, one could never be too careful. 

Part Two

a/n: let me know if you want another part to this story! Some spicy smut coming very soon in a separate story as well so stay tuned! 

tagged (if your tag isn't working DM me and we'll try and fix it up!): @thesithdiaries​ @dazecrea @ppeuppeuppeu @a-sunflower-in-bloom @siren-of-the-deep-sea @ccallistata @agoldin @vivilingme-blog @my-dark-prince @derzauberermitlilabademantel @blooomsstuff @starxdame @alexslittlegirl  @budugu @piper570 @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @words-way-of-life ​ @rosemalachi @m1tzifa1ry @gibbsgirl7 @b0xfullofdarkness

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon fanfiction #ser harwin #ser harwin strong #ser harwin strong x reader #harwin strong #harwin strong x reader #rhaenyra x harwin #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaewin #ryan corr #harwin strong imagines #house of the dragon imagines #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 6

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: none

Chapter word count: 3.4k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

Chapter 6 - The Tsar's Quest

At close quarters, Tsar Afron's castle was as sumptuous as it was from afar. Though it was constructed of wood like the rest of the town, the carvings were a lot more intricate, draping like lace along the roofs, running down columns and banisters, surrounding windows and doors like decorations on a marzipan cake, and painted so they stood out against the rich brown log walls and shone even in the twilight. Every roof peak was topped with a gilded weathervane or an ornament in the shape of a horse. The inside was even more resplendent, with walls and ceilings painted in the brightest shades or covered in the richest tapestries, all illuminated by the light from hundreds of gold chandeliers. And everywhere was the image of horses, in every configuration and pose, carved into the wood or painted in gold. Paul, used as he was to the splendor of the palaces of Saint Petersburg, had to remember to close his mouth lest he drooled at all this opulence and looked even more like a fool than he already did.

Not that he had much of a chance to take it in. After Zhara's demonstration on the pasture, the soldiers wasted no time bringing them to Tsar Afron, and now he had to scurry to keep up with their long strides down the many corridors of the castle. To make things worse, the soldiers had been too frightened to rebind Zhara's hands, but had neglected to untie him, so he was forced to march with his hands behind his back like a common criminal. He didn't dare complain. He could feel Zhara's anger coming off her like a heat wave, and he was afraid that wave would burn him to a crisp on the spot if he so much as opened his mouth.

He had been a fool, he knew. Yes, he could try to blame Zhara for not trying harder to warn him, or even blame the horse for moving toward him first, but at the end of the day, he was the one that had decided to steal the horse. He was the one that had gotten them into this mess. Somehow, in this strange land with its strange, bewildering rules, Paul was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore his own fault.

The commander stopped in front of a door covered in so much carving and gilding that it hurt Paul's eyes, and instructed them to wait. Zhara seemed to have simmered down a little, so Paul cleared his throat and turned to her, hoping to get back into her good graces with something he'd never uttered—an apology. "Listen, I'm—"

"No, you listen," she interrupted, a finger pressed into his chest, hot enough to burn through his shirt. "Once we are in front of the tsar, do not speak. Do not make a sound. I don't want to hear so much as a peep from you. I shall handle the talking, and if you still wish to see your precious Rus' again, you shall follow my lead. Do you understand?"

Paul was quite certain his shirt was starting to smoke and scorch. There was nothing else he could do but nod. At that moment, the door opened, and they were ushered into the throne room. It was more magnificent than the rest of the castle combined, all crimson walls painted with gold vines, gilded window frames, and, on a raised platform, framed by a red velvet tapestry, stood a pure gold throne flanked by two gold horses, where Tsar Afron was seated.

For all the equine imagery around the castle, Paul had expected the tsar to be something of a Tartar, but the man he saw was rather weedy and colorless, with pale skin, thin hair of an indeterminate shade, a downturned mouth that gave him the look of a sulky child, and eyes that were watery blue under one light and gray under another. Those eyes squinted inquisitively as Paul and Zhara were led into the room. Zhara dropped a curtsey. Paul, following her lead, sketched an awkward bow.

"Lady Zhara," Afron said in a wheezing voice. "Forgive me this rather unfortunate welcome, but I was told that you were a fugitive..."

"No, my lord, it is I that must beg forgiveness," Zhara said. "What you heard is not true"—and here she gave a brief summary of the story she'd told Paul and of their goal to find Baba Yaga. "We were on our way to ask for your help," she continued, "but my—companion here was worried that the horse would not take to us and decided to introduce himself." That was a rather clever way of explaining their presence in the pasture without admitting that they had been trying to steal the horse. "It was an honest mistake. We never meant to disrespect you."

Afron let out a deep sigh. "I, too, have heard disturbing reports from Arthania that match your story," he said. "Had you come to me first, I would have done my utmost to help you put an end to your brother's reign of terror." Paul could feel Zhara's glare boring a hole into the side of his head, and he hung his head in shame.

"But," the tsar continued, "the truth of the matter is, you did disrespect me, by entering my land and putting your hand on my most valuable property without permission. These trespasses ought to be severely punished."

Paul wanted to shout, The horse touched me first!, but he remembered Zhara's warning and kept his mouth shut.

"However, out of respect for your late honorable father, I shall excuse you, if you perform a certain service for me." The tsar said this in an oily voice that reminded Paul of the way the soldiers had leered at Zhara, causing him to bristle. Well, if Afron insisted on behaving the same way as his men, then Paul would have to speak up, regardless of Zhara's wrath. He would allow no one to talk to a lady that way.

Zhara asked warily, "And what service would that be, my lord?"

"Bring me back Tsarevna Elena the Fair."

Afron's request didn't come as a complete surprise to Paul. It was how it happened in the tale. The question was, did it happen this way because it was in the tale, or because he, knowing the tale, had inadvertently caused it to happen...? It hurt his head to think about it, so Paul stopped thinking about it.

Zhara frowned. "Tsarevna Elena of Bryansk, you mean?"

"Do you know of any other tsarevna of the same name?" Afron replied, his eyes turning dreamy as he looked at a spot somewhere in the distance. "For so long I have loved her with my whole body and soul, but her mother, Tsarina Kostroma, is proud and rejects my suit. The Horse with the Golden Mane will be yours, if you can bring me Elena's hand in marriage."

The lustful look on the tsar's face made Paul feel quite sick, and he saw Zhara's lips curl in barely concealed distaste. Then she set her mouth in a resigned line. "As you wish, my lord," she said, inclining her head. "If you would be so kind as to provide us with some supplies, we shall be on our way presently."

"Presently?" Afron said, surprised. Paul glanced at Zhara in dismay. It had been several long days, and he was rather hoping for some rest and proper food. Well, he supposed he should have thought of that before deciding to steal the horse.

"Time is of the essence, my lord," Zhara said. "We cannot delay."

"Very well," Afron said. "I shall have my servants prepare for your trip."

He clapped, and a string of servants appeared to replace the soldiers in leading Paul and Zhara out. Once they were safely away, Paul held Zhara back, out of the servants' earshot.

"What's the rush?" he asked. "I would've liked to sleep in a bed for one night at least."

"You don't deserve to sleep in a bed," she hissed, not looking at him. "You deserve to rot in Afron's dungeon!"

"Fine, leave me here then! I'm done trailing after you!"

"Perhaps I should."

She sounded rather serious, which made Paul stop short in his track. He hadn't considered the possibility that she might really leave him, and it filled him with trepidation. She was the only one who knew he was a stranger in this world; what would happen if he angered a leshy or a rusalka or one of the many strange creatures that roamed this land and she wasn't there to warn or shield him?

"You're not going to, are you?" he said plaintively. "I know I should have listened to you..."

She turned and examined his sheepish face for a moment or two, her eyes softening.

"Well, I guess someone ought to keep an eye on you," she said. Paul gave her an uncertain smile, which, strangely enough, seemed to fluster her. "Just so you wouldn't wander around trying to be a hero!" she snapped, before turning and following the servants down the corridor.

Despite Zhara's refusal to stay the night, Afron still insisted on treating them as honored guests. Paul soon found himself luxuriating in a hot bath in the tsar's personal bathhouse. It was heavenly, except for a startling moment when he again caught a glimpse of another green-skinned creature covered in birch leaves, but it quickly disappeared. He then had his shoulder wound redressed with some sort of herbal poultice and was given a new suit of clothes in the old style, before Peter the Great introduced European fashion to Russia, made of the finest fabric and beautifully embroidered. His own clothes were cleaned, and even his wig was carefully brushed and set aside for him. Paul hesitated to put it back on—it did not go with the old-fashioned clothes, making him look like the Fool of his mother's court—but he felt naked without it, so he wore it anyway.

"Wow" was all Zhara uttered when he rejoined her outside the dining room. The bath seemed to have lifted her mood. She had changed into nicer clothes as well—a snow-white chemise, a red sarafan embroidered in gold, a gold headdress studded with pearls and rubies, and a string of coral beads around her slender neck. But for all the regal air they gave her, her sarcastic, impish grin remained the same.

"Stop it," Paul said sullenly, tugging at the upstanding collar of his shirt. "I look like an imbecile."

"No, you look like you would fit right in with the Lukomorians," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Even with that ridiculous wig." Her teasing only made Paul scowl and ram the wig more tightly onto his head, out of contrariness.

They entered the dining room and sat down to a scrumptious supper. It was nothing like the feasts that Paul was used to in his mother's court—the food was simpler and heartier—but the taste was incomparable. He was so busy stuffing his face that it took him a while to notice Afron was asking him something. He looked up, bewildered.

"I say, are you a knight at the court of the late Tsar Artyom?" the tsar said.

Paul gave Zhara a panicked look, not knowing how to answer.

"No," she smoothly interjected. "He's—a court jester."

"A court jester!" Afron exclaimed, looking rather offended at having to share his table with a fool. Paul, too, stared daggers at Zhara and opened his mouth to protest. She gave his leg a swift kick under the table.

"Yes, my father's favorite," she said. "And he has been most loyal and attentive to me since my flight from Arthania, so I thank you, my lord, for rewarding him with your kindness and generosity."

Afron's thunderous expression dissipated, and once more, Paul had to reluctantly admit that Zhara's quick wit had saved them.

"That explains his outlandish dress and manners then," Afron said. "But, my lady, will you be safe traveling with a jester as your only companion? I am quite worried for your safety."

Though clearly not worried enough to offer your soldiers as protection, Paul noted.

"Oh no, I trust him with my life," Zhara was quick to say. Paul glanced at her to see if she was speaking in earnest or not, but her face was turned toward the tsar, and her side profile gave nothing away. He looked down again, feeling rather hollow. It was likely that she said that simply to avoid raising Afron's suspicion.

After supper, Zhara insisted on departing right away. Afron saw them to the castle's front door, where their mounts and supplies were waiting. Upon seeing the animals, Paul almost shouted out in indignation and had to bite his tongue to keep quiet. Zhara, who seemed to see nothing wrong with them, curtseyed to Afron, thanked him, and promised to return soon with Elena the Fair's hand in marriage. They then mounted the animals and rode out of the fortress, under the light of a full moon.

It was only when they had gone far enough that Paul made his displeasure known.

"Donkeys!" he exclaimed. "I bet he has a stable full of horses, and he gave us two donkeys! What a miserly little—"

"Donkeys are perfectly good animals," Zhara said calmly. "Besides, horses are no good for us where we're going."

That sounded ominous. "Why? Where are we going?"

"There." She nodded toward the mountain range in the distance. "Perun's Crown." Paul had only given it a passing glance that afternoon, and now, his stomach dropped to see how far it spread out, a veritable wall of silver and crystal under the moonlight, stretching as far as the eyes could see, with peaks so high they were lost in the clouds, and so steep they were like knives cutting through the night sky.

"Elena the Fair lives up those mountains?" Paul asked, his voice coming out squeakier than he'd intended.

"No, don't be silly. Her kingdom is behind those mountains. But the quickest way is to go through them. And these donkeys are experts in crossing mountains. So stop your complaining and keep up."

***

It took them three days to reach the mountains. By the second day, Paul realized that Zhara had been right about the donkeys. The ground was becoming rougher, with almost no discernible path, yet the donkeys picked their way through the rocks as surefooted as walking through a level field.

Though Zhara still took care to hide under Paul's cloak during the day, they met very few people on their way. During the first two days, they traveled with some convoys of merchants, but one by one, these convoys all turned right as they neared the mountains and followed the river instead, and they were on their own.

"It may be easier traveling along the river, but for us, it is safer this way," Zhara said when they stopped on the second night by a rock outcrop, the mountains looming above them like some giant, ancient god. "We don't want to draw more attention to ourselves than we already have." She had changed out of her finery and was back into a coarse linen chemise and dark blue sarafan.

"Do you think your brother is tracking you?" Paul asked.

"I don't know. He may use the victims he has transformed into animals, like poor Alyosha, but that takes a lot of strength from him, so he is going to focus on protecting his death. He knows he only has to bide his time; I shall have to confront him sooner or later." She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them close to her body, her eyes fixed on their fire. "Besides, I wasn't just talking about me." She nodded at Paul meaningfully. "I didn't wish to stay at Tsar Afron's castle for longer than necessary because I didn't want him to start asking about you."

That reminded Paul of a question that had been bothering him for some time. "About that—how come you know I'm from Rus, but others don't?"

"Those of us with magic in our blood can always tell," she replied. "I don't know how to explain it—we simply know. Be thankful that the rest of Lukomorye do not have such ability."

"Is that... bad?"

"Anything from Rus' is a great curiosity here. If they knew who you are, they would descend on you like a pack of wolves. How would you like to be paraded around like some exotic creature, to be ogled at?" She smiled at Paul's horrified look. "I suppose it would be the same if I ended up in your world."

"It might be worse," he said. "You might be burned as a witch, even though that practice had been outlawed for a century now." Now it was his turn to grin at her.

Zhara laid her head on her knees and regarded him with interest. "What is it like, your world?" she asked.

Paul thought about it for a while. "It's—like here, but different," he said lamely. He did not know how to put into words the otherworldly feeling that constantly coursed through him ever since he set foot in this land. "The trees, the mountains, the river, even the people... they're all similar, but back in my world, they're more—dull, solid, while here, there is this air about them... I can't describe it. It's the same with how you can tell me from a Lukomorian, I suppose. It's—"

"—magic?" Zhara prompted.

It wasn't quite what he had in mind, but it would have to do. "Yes, magic," he agreed. A strange little smile flitted across Zhara's face. She said nothing more and went back to watching the flames.     

They arrived at the foot of the mountains on the third day. There was a stone-built shelter there, and Paul and Zhara found themselves in the company of an old man, who said his name was Simeon, and that he was placed there to aid travelers in their crossing. He gave the donkeys some hay and stoked the fire to make tea, while Zhara opened the supplies Afron had given them and shared their food with him.

"It's been months, nay, close to a year, since I had anyone passing through," Simeon said, biting into a hunk of cheese with relish. "They all follow the river these days. Even large groups avoid the mountains. It's odd that you two would take this route..."

"My mother lives in Bryansk," Zhara said. "She is very sick, and I must go to her as soon as possible." This was the story she and Paul had agreed on, should they meet another traveler.

"Well, you're traveling light, so I suppose you don't have much to worry about—except for those two donkeys—" The old man considered their packs and clothes with the eye of an expert.

"Worry about what?" Paul asked.

"Who, my lad, worry about who," Simeon corrected him. "Nightingale the Robber. You have heard of him, yes?"

Paul wracked his brain for the old stories. "The one with the deadly whistle?" he asked.

"The very one. He has staked out these mountains as his own. His nest is on Perun's Peak, and he perches there, whistling down mountain passes, blowing men and animals against the rock. Many merchants have had their entire stock of goods and their animals taken, so now they just avoid these mountains altogether. And even then, those that stray a little too close to them may still be in danger."

Paul looked at Zhara and met her worried returning glance.

"Perhaps we should—" he began, but she shook her head.

"No," she said firmly. "It's going to take months to go around, and who knows what my—what might have happened to my mother by then." She glared at Paul briefly, giving him a silent warning to say no more.

Later, after Zhara had settled down on the narrow bed in a corner of the hut, Simeon clapped Paul on the shoulder. "Listen to your missus, my lad," the old man said. Paul's cheeks flamed. Though he and Zhara had agreed to pose as husband and wife, the idea still made him feel oddly shy. "I know you're worried about Nightingale, but trust me, having a wife and a mother-in-law angry with you is worse," Simeon continued in a friendly tone. "Why do you think I stay out here in this stone hut even when there's no traveler?" Chuckling, the old man climbed on the stove to sleep, leaving Paul to make himself comfortable by the fire.

Chapter 7

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

[filmtv2022]

In the Bleak Midwinter: Chapter Four (The Sound of Shovels)

Previous Chapter Next Chapter (Updated Once Posted)

Masterlist

Pairing: Thomas Shelby X Reader

Chapter Summary: Y/N begins her healing process, and Tommy is forced to open up about the nature of the letter. Past trauma haunts Y/N, but Thomas isn't ready to give up on her yet. The two begin to find their way back to life with one another's help, but finding a new normal again after all this time proves very difficult. 

Warning: memories/nightmares of previous sexual assault + mentions of suicide + violence (in the context a war 'flashback') + some smut/heavy petting + language

A/N: First of all, sorry about the delay. Work has been off the charts, and I don't see it slowing down for a while. With that being said, I hope that you enjoy this chapter. Tommy and the reader are finally realizing how much they need each other. Additionally, I think there is another story being published right now that has the same/a similar title. That is totally okay, but I'm trying to think of a way to differentiate my story from those in the title so that readers aren't confused. Oh, and as always, I apologize for all mistakes.

** If you'd like to be tagged in future updates, let me know in the comments.

“This one’s yours.” Turning the knob, Tommy opened the door to a grand bedroom. The walls were covered in ornate carvings and elaborate paintings filled the blank spaces. The room screamed of a woman’s touch, but as of yet, there'd been no hints of other inhabitants, not even the lingering scent of perfume.

“This place is beautiful, Thomas. You and your family must be very happy here. ” Making your way across the room, you ran your fingertips along the smooth edge of the bed frame, the shake of your hand already proving to make simple actions difficult. 

With your back turned to him, you missed the way his shoulders tensed. Desperate to avoid any further conversation about him, he found himself staring at you. Your steps were as steady as they could be given the circumstances, but your hands gave away the struggle. Standing in the doorway, Tommy’s focus remained on you, scanning for signs of what was sure to come. The increasingly erratic tremble of your hands caused his body to go rigid once more.

“Y/N, there are some things you need to know.”

Glancing over your shoulder, your brows scrunched up in uncertainty, “Okay, I'm listening.”

Pushing off of the frame on which he was leaning, Thomas made his way over to you, his palm gently resting on your shoulder as he guided you down to sit on the bed, your knee bumping with his as you settled. A heavy silence filled the space as you waited for him to speak, his touch shifting to brush over your fingers. Holding your hand in between both of his, a steadying warmth rolled off of his skin as he cleared his throat but remained mute for a moment longer.  

“This is gonna get worse. You might-” 

“I know how this works, Thomas. It’s not my first time. I’ve been down this road before.” dragging your face up to meet his, a flash of worry and confusion split across his eyes, “I had a whole life before this… before I ever met William.”

There was devastation in your features. Some form of it had been there the whole time, but something deeper, more broken joined as you spoke about the past. Tommy held fast to you, his thumb smoothing over the back of your hand in an arc. 

“How long have you been back at it?”

“It was just the whiskey at first, it helped… it dulled the edges. And it was easy enough to get.” Embarrassment bled into frustration at your admission. This man deserved nothing, not an ounce of explanation, and yet, the words flowed of their own volition. 

“And the rest?”

“I buried my children, Tom. When do you think?” 

“All right.” Standing up, he started toward the door, but your words caught him before he could leave. 

“The opium... I started again with Will’s, he had an open prescription left over after he...” Tommy stopped in his tracks, turning back to look at you, a mask of calm painted over his features, “The doctor gave it to him for the headaches and the nightmares. But uhh, it didn’t work, not the way it was supposed to. He still heard ‘em.” 

“Heard what?”

“The shovels.” 

Stunned, Thomas stood staring blankly back at you, the commanding touch of his voice faltered as he finally spoke, “Someone will be around later with food. I’ve… I’ve got a meeting to get to. This door is to remain unlocked at all times, understood?” 

“Of course, and I won’t keep you.”

Watching him go, you remained seated, slipping your pantyhose off and discarding them on the floor. Wasting no time, you changed out of the clothes you’d worn to travel this morning. You were quickly running out of fresh ones, but it had yet to become an emergency. Pulling on a soft blue jumper, you pulled back on the tattered bottoms you’d worn for bed. Laying back on the pillows, you snuggled your nose in the collar of the sweater. The faint musk of tobacco and cologne lingered in the fabric. The scent was weak, barely clinging on, but it was there, the last physical reminder you had of William.  

… 

Evening settled over the house, and the tremble in your hands intensified as the remnants of your vices left your body. Sweat coated your skin in a sticky sheen, while every muscle in your body tightened in vicious knots. The spasms were strong enough to take your breath away, but not enough to pull you into unconsciousness. You were stuck, the loop of pain and anxiety trapped you inside your mind. The real world was hazy as the memories cut like knives in the night, hacking and slicing away at your sanity. Falling somewhere between the layers of what is and what was, the food and water on the nightstand next went untouched. Darkness sat as a constant companion. 

Raised voices crashed in waves from somewhere far off in the house. The words were lost, but their desperation and anger were clear. Most were foreign to your ears, but there was one that caught the fragment of your mind that held firm to the present, Tommy’s. Even with the rage that flowed freely over every syllable, the sound of his presence brought a sense of peace to you. 

…

The dead of night brought with it a hollowness to Arrow House. With his family long since departed from the residence, memories of the past flooded in without hesitation. Papers were cast in haphazard piles around the desk in front of him. Running his hands over his face, Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose, shoving out the rest of the world. The small amber vial in his pocket weighed heavily on his heart. Slipping it from its hiding place, he held it firmly in his fist, letting the edges bite into his calloused skin. 

Releasing a heavy breath, Thomas moved quickly, unstoppering the bottle and bringing it to his lips. Draining it, he fell back into his chair and waited. The whisper of her voice calling to him slowly slipped into focus as the opium took control. 

“Grace” Her name was a faint prayer, begging the universe to bring her back to him.

…

Caught in that thin line between wake & sleep, you felt the ghostly presence of another hovering somewhere in the room but lacked the strength to respond. Panic flared white hot at the sound of approaching footsteps. Struggling to regain control of your limbs, you stirred under the covers, your breaths coming in ragged fits. The steps fell away, replaced by the press of another body. It fell hard on your chest, pinning you to the bed. Fingers dug savagely into your neck as warm breath wafted over your exposed skin, their teeth biting harshly along your chest. Terrified screams caught like barbed wire in your throat, the column of your neck strained with fear. Tears began to flow in steady streams down your cheeks, the release of emotion allowing the agonized howls to rip from your lungs. 

Tearing you from your sleep, the phantom sensations gave way to reality. Strong hands held firm to your biceps as you writhed against the touch, your eyes still jammed shut to block out the memories. A stern voice called to you, repeating your name over and over. 

“Y/N… Y/N… you’re all right. There’s no one else here, you’re safe.” 

Your eyes snapped open, but the face in front of you remained out of focus. Shoving yourself away from the figure, you pleaded in wheezing sobs, “Stop, please, get off me…” 

“It’s me, it’s Thomas. I’m not-”

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.” Yanking yourself away from Tommy, his hands dropped from your body as if he’d been stung. 

Backing away, he raised his hands, holding them up by his shoulders showing that he meant no harm. He continued to stare, his attention never leaving you as his eyes raked over your body. Forceful sobs shook you, your face buried in your hands as a small, youthful voice rang clear through the chaos.

“Daddy, is everythin’ okay?” 

Turning to look, Thomas found his son standing in the doorway, his hair mussed up and pajamas rumpled from a deep sleep, “Everything’s all right, Charlie. Why don’t you back to your room, and wait for me there, eh?”

“But I heard the lady cryin’.”

“I know son, I know, but she’s all right. Now be a good boy go on, go.”

The light patter of bare feet on wood floors bounced into the room as Charlie took off toward his room, his little legs carrying him away as quickly as he could manage.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” you mumbled over and over, continuing to shake not from withdrawal, but from fear, “I’m so sorry Thomas.” 

Carefully, Tommy returned to your side, finding a place to sit near your feet. Avoiding any physical contact with you, he waited for your breathing to slow before speaking again.

“What happened, Y/N? Who were you seeing just now?”

Pulling your face from your hand, you went rigid at the intrusive question, “That is none of your business.”

“You just scared my child, and disrupted my home with your screamin’. I think I’ve a right to know.”

“But you don’t ‘ave a right. If you want me out just say so. I’m happy to leave. You’ve done enough already, and I’m sure my dead husband won’t care one way or the other.” 

“I’m not lookin’ for a way to get rid of you. I just… I want to know you’re okay.” 

You huffed an incredulous laugh, “I appreciate the sentiment, Thomas, but I don’t need it.” 

“Need what?”

“Your pity. I’ve had my fill of that from everyone else. I’m tired of people lookin’ at me like I’m ready to break.” 

“I don’t pity you, Y/N.” 

“You’re a liar, Tommy Shelby, I can see it in your eyes. That sad, worried look, like you’re afraid to turn your back on me lest I decide to end it all.” 

“Can you blame me for that? Given everythin’ I’ve seen it seems an honest concern.” 

“Maybe you’re right, but I still don’t fuckin’ understand your concern! You don’t know me!” 

“You’re right, I don’t. But I did know William.”

“What the hell does that have to do with me?! Why the fuck did he write that letter anyway? Why am I here Thomas?”

Standing up quickly, Tommy put space between you both as he spoke, “Because he almost died trying to save my life! And I prom-” Thomas’ voice wavered, the confession taking the wind from his lungs, “I promised him that I’d do whatever I could to keep you safe if he didn’t make it out alive.” 

“What are you talkin’ about? He never said anythin’, I never heard anythin'…” Lost and confused, you begged for more. 

Seeing the hurt wash over you, Thomas returned to your side, this time sitting close enough that your bodies touched. Your hands sought his the moment he was settled, pulling them onto your lap. 

“Tell me what happened.” 

“We were down in the tunnels, god I don’t know how many days it’d been, but we could hear the Germans through the dirt. Their shovels were working fast, closing the gap. We knew they were getting close, but when they broke through… all hell let loose. In the chaos, I don’t know what happened exactly, but they had guns. William, he… he pulled me out of the way as they fired. I got hit in the shoulder, but if it hadn’t been for him… that bullet would’ve… it would’ve ripped straight through my chest.” 

Thomas paused, his eyes glassy with images of the past. He was relieving that night over in his mind as he spoke, feeling him slip further away from the present, you held his hand tighter.

“What happened after that?” 

“They just kept comin’ with their bullets and bayonets. Shooting and stabbing. William put himself in front of me, and they got him before he could fire a shot. The others, we managed to fight them off, but by the time the threat was gone he’d lost so much blood. We tried everything we could, but it just kept pouring. I thought, everyone thought, that he wasn’t going to make it out of that tunnel.”  

Thomas exhaled a shaky breath, pausing for a moment, to collect his composure, “I stayed in the tunnel with William while the others left to go get help. He talked about you. You were the only thing on his mind as he lay there. He just kept asking for asking for you. I lied to him, I told him you were comin’, that the boys had gone to fetch you..”

“Thomas…” 

“He made me promise that I’d bring him back home. So that you wouldn’t have to wonder where his body was and you could move on with your life. He made me promise that I’d make sure you were all right, that I’d take care of you, no matter what. He didn’t want you to be alone, Y/N. He lost consciousness before the medical team got to us, but he was still holding on. They managed to get him back to a field hospital. He was sent back home after he recovered.” 

The trance broke as his blue eyes found yours once again, “He loved you. And I know how broken you feel, but you can’t let the pain win. Not this time, not ever.” 

Leaning forward, you cupped his face, your thumb running along his cheekbone, “You can’t let it win either.” 

He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath was hot against your skin, the scent of whiskey and opium strong enough to sting, “Y/N.” 

“Where’s your wife, Thomas?” Turning your face away, you tried to put space between yourself and him.

Feeling you hesitate, he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his thumb ran over your lips, “She’s dead… because I couldn’t keep her safe. I promised I’d make her safe, and I failed.”

“You have to forgive yourself. You can’t hold onto that guilt, it’ll kill you.”

“How can I do that when it's all my fault? If it wasn’t for me she’d still be here, and Charlie’d still have his mother. I don’t deserve…” 

“Stop it, Thomas. You told me that I deserved a life, and to be happy, and the same goes for you. You deserve happiness, you deserve a life.” Your fingers found the simple metal band that adorned his hand, “There are people who need you… I need you.”

Letting go of his hand, you slid your palm along the buttons of his shirt, stopping at the collar, his breath hitched. Dropping his face closer to yours, lips touching in a near caress. Thomas panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he let his touch wander over your body. Gingerly, he fumbled for the hem of your jumper, one hand finding a home on your waist while the other wandered higher, cupping your breast. A gasp fell from your lips as he brushed over your nipple. Needing more, his lips found your neck, laying a line of fire from the shell of your ear to the hollow of your throat. 

“We shouldn’t do this, Thomas.” Holding him to you, your words and actions were at odds with one another. A clear depiction of the war going on in heart and mind. 

Bringing his face back to yours, Thomas captured your lips with his. It was a hungry kiss, teeth and tongue clashing in a desperate embrace as if the dam had broken, and he was holding back the flood waters with the last of his resolve, “Tell me to stop, and I will.” 

Hovering over you, he shifted so that he was kneeling, one hand gripped the headboard, while the other remained on you, waiting. Seconds passed and when no answer came, he pushed you back into the pillows and continued to work at your body. Featherlight touches over your stomach and sides sent shivers down your spine. Stunned and overwhelmed by the feeling of him, you found yourself moving without thought as he tried to take off your shirt, the collar catching before he freed it from your body. 

The chill of the room sent goosebumps across your exposed skin. Feeling you shudder, he pressed closer, the heat rolling off of him was enough to relax your muscles. Settling his weight between your thighs, he groaned as he rolled his hips into yours, relishing the sensation of having you so close. Your head fell back against the pillows as he kissed down your chest, nipping at the tender skin as he went. Soothing over the bites with his tongue, he found his way back to your breasts. Threading your fingers through his hair, you tugged roughly at the silken strands making him moan.

Laying open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, his one hand reached for your throat stopping just short, while the other ran down the outside of your thigh. A whimper tumbled from your lips as his free hand toyed with the top of your pants. Sliding the hand on your chest up the rest of the way, his wide palm spanned the width of your neck, his fingers curling around the sides applying pressure. 

Your lungs hitched, and anxiety flooded your system as the same images you’d seen in your dreams were now haunting your waking moments too. Your heart thrummed in an erratic pattern as you began to panic. Quickly the room around you started spinning, your breathing coming in rapid gasps as you wrapped your hand around his wrist and pulled hard. Tears spilled down your face as you finally managed to speak, shoving him away, “Stop, Thomas, please.” 

Crawling out of the bed, you wobble a few steps before gaining your footing and leaning against the wall. A harsh sob wracked your body as he stood up and made his way to you. Holding onto your waist he dipped down so that he could look into your eyes, “Y/N, hey, look at me… look at me, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” 

You shook your head no, unable to form the words you so desperately wanted to say. Seeing you continue to collapse further inside of yourself, he wrapped his arms around your body, one coming to rest on your lower back while the other wound into the base of your hair. Whispering words of comfort in your ear, he held you fast and let you cry. There was a conversation to be had, but not now, not until you were ready. 

@sadroses98

@weaponizedvirtue

#thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fic #thomas shelby fic #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #thomas shelby smut #tommy shelby smut #peaky blinders smut

[ldreamofgenie]

My Man

Summary: Fifteen years after you gave away your heart to him, the boy you fell in love with ends up in Arkham Asylum. You decide to pay him a visit…

Warnings: manipulation, loosely based off the song My Man from Funny Girl (theatre kid jumpscare), weird spacing bc I copy and pasted this from my notes app

“Edward Nashton, you will be the man I marry one day…”

Fifteen years ago, you promised Edward the most sacred thing anyone could sign over to another: your heart.

That promise would be the last thing you said to Edward. Your sweet Eddie would never hear from you again, not even a visit or a call or a text.

Now here you were, fifteen years after that promise, standing in a muggy puddle under the moribund rust that mockingly read: Arkham Asylum.

You were shivering—whether that was from the frigid air or overwhelming fear was unclear.

You were hardly able to give the security attendant your ID, your hand trembling throughout the entire exchange. You slipped him a twenty when you saw that look of recognition cross his face to stop him from calling the paps before he got the idea. If your parents found out about this, you’d be cut off for life.

Fifteen years ago, you were adopted by a wealthy writer and her socialite wife who had recently moved to Gotham from Miami. After a couple of visits to the orphanage, they fell in love with you and wanted to adopt. You and Edward were fourteen then, and the both of you swore you would never be adopted at this point. Your Cinderella Story came true, while his everlasting nightmare continued.

Your parents didn’t allow you to visit the orphanage to see him. They wanted to protect you from the harassment of the press, as it would be a bad look for them as new mothers. So you sent letters. Letters with riddles, love notes, and your favorite fairytales. You poured your soul into each letter, but they were thrown away by the orphanage on arrival, never to meet Edward’s arms…

Your leg bounced incessantly onto the ground. Every bounce would create a new scrape against the chipping paint on the floor. The guard gave you a dirty look, making you stop and look down in embarrassment. You notice your sock was still wet from that dirty moat. You wondered if it was still possible to get trench foot nowadays. To be honest, you would rather take the trench foot than to be wading in this vexatious reality.

A guard comes in on the other side of the plexiglass. You look up, expecting someone unrecognizable from the boy you last met fifteen years ago. But the reality is so much worse. They bring him in with shackles around his hands, feet, even his neck.

The sight of him makes your lip begin to curl up involuntarily. The stinging of your eyes from incoming tears forces your head to hide in your hands. It’s agony. Nothing but pure agony to see him like this.

What hurt the most is that he looked the same. His mousy hair was still unable to be brushed down and his smile, abliet sinister, still reminded you of a smiley fry. You could not fathom that your sweet Eddie could have ever turned into this tempestuous monster. The very thought made your throat clinch and it became increasingly difficult to breathe.

“What’s the matter my dear Y/N?” his soft voice caresses your ears once again despite the muffle from the plexiglass between you.

The lump in your throat was too big to speak. You shake your head in your hands, praying that you’ll wake up from this nightmare. You’ll be fourteen again and back in his arms; counting stars on the roof of the orphanage, reading books to each other, him telling you riddles and you telling him fairytales. No murder, no Riddler, no fame, not even wealth; him back in your arms is all the peace wish for.

“Hello Edward,” you managed to choke out in between your heaving breaths.

“Aww, not even an ‘Eddie’ for your dear old friend? I know you’ve been avoiding me for fifteen years, but I think I deserve a little more than formality here.” He was jovial. It pissed you off. How can someone be jovial in a place like this after causing so much destruction in other peoples lives. His solipsism was unfathomable.

“Edward I came here to…” you didn’t know why you were here actually. You thought it was to just talk to him, but who in their right mind would want to speak to this asshole. You wanted to see him again, but why?

“You came here to apologize for never visiting me or contacting me after you began to live your high life and leaving me in the dust…Go ahead let’s hear it.”

“That’s not true Edward. Don’t you dare say that. I wrote to you every day that I could—“ you tried to explain but he cut you off.

“Oh stop it with the lies Y/N! That’s all you wealthy types do all day, lie lie lie.”

“I am not a liar and I’m not one of those—“

“Oh but you are! Just like the rest of them—“

“Edward I am not them! I wrote to you, letters upon letters upon letters. I poured my heart into each of them. My parents forbid me from—“

“Forbid you! Oh Y/N I knew you lived in a fantasy world, but this is sick! You are an adult, your parents can’t forbid you from anything!”

“Don’t talk about being an adult with me Edward. You are mad at the world, so you decide to kill people?! That’s more than childish, it’s fucking stupid! My parents support me financially, you don’t understand how—“

“No, YOU DONT UNDERSTAND! You got your Cinderella story Y/N and you left me behind to die! I watched you in the press, going to school with Bruce Wayne and the Kane’s and the Elliot’s. You became friends and cohorts those no good yuppies that made our lives in the orphanage a living hell! You abandoning me was a choice. Your parents may have forbid, but you didn’t want to be seen in the press with the poor orphan boy anyway!”

You sat in shock at his vehemence. You wanted to be angry at him, but he was right. Everything he said was correct and you were deeply ashamed in yourself. His soft eyes bore daggers into your soul.

After what feels like an eternity of silence, he says “Take off the sunglasses Y/N.”

You shook your head violently. “Edward you know I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Because people will talk. The press will know that Gotham’s sweetheart has come to visit the terrorist. Take the sunglasses off Y/N.” He says it with force, but you’ve known him for so long. You know that familiar look of sadness on his face; when his eyebrows slant down and his left eye twitches. He’s trying not to cry.

“Please Y/N,” tears begin streaming down his face and his once bellowing voice barely a squeak, “just take the sunglasses off. I need to see your eyes. I’ve missed you so much I just—“

You shush him softly and press your hand against the glass. He presses his hand in the same place. Just like when you were kids, pressing your palms against the orphanage window. It always provided him solace when the nights got frigid and hypothermia seemed like a sweet escape from the pain. He would feel the heat of your palm against the glass and everything would be okay once again.

You took the sunglasses off. That familiar smile returned to his face. This time, it wasn’t sinister or evil: it was warm and filled with love.

You sat there and stared longingly into each others eyes. It was like counting stars on the roof again. Each iris had the same amount of lines as when you last met, but they held so much exhaustion. So much pain inside. You wanted to help him because god knows Arkham isn’t doing anything to assuage his anguish.

“Am I still the man you want to marry one day?” He broke the comfortable silence with a deadweight…

You broke down. You remember the night you made that promise to him; you had just learned you were going to be adopted by the fairytale family of your dreams. It was the night you had to leave Edward behind. So you gave him the best gift you could think of: your heart.

“I—I don’t know Eddie…”

“No Cinderella story is complete without it’s prince. Let me be your prince. Please Y/N, will you marry me?” He pressed his left hand to the glass.

Fifteen years of emptiness. In these fifteen minutes you’ve spent in this horrid place, that emptiness had been filled by his warm presence. You experienced more emotions in these fifteen minutes that you had these past fifteen years. It was enthralling. No amount of wealth could ever make up for an eternity with your Eddie. You wanted to experience this Saturnalia for as long as possible.

You pressed your left hand in the same spot.

“Yes Eddie, I will marry you.”

“So help me get out of here darling.”

“Yes Eddie, I will.”

#dano!riddler #edward nashton x reader #the riddler #dano!riddler x reader

[brisbookmark]

The Three Times Jason Wasn’t Saved- and The One Time he Was

Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: detailed descriptions of torture, angst, character death, blood, needles, knives/ cutting, batfam au where the gangs all here, Robin!Jason, reader can summon weapons, sad ending

One

His head hangs, he doesn't have the energy. His feet barely touch the ground, and yet he makes no move to stand himself up. They're tingly and fuzzy and cold, as are his hands that are tied above his head. 

Jason Todd hangs in chains like a slaughtered pig, and his breathing is hoarse. His dull blue eyes land on the bloodied crowbar laying on the floor. It's his blood, and it makes him groan in pain. Hyper realization of his injuries hits him and he whimpers. It's low, pathetic, and his breathing picks up.

He doesn’t remember how to wear clothes that aren’t covered in dirt and grime and acid. The fabric of his robin suit sticks to his skin, blending with his wounds. Every small move of limb sends fires of pain throughout his body, and he tries his hardest not to make a sound. 

The Asylum wing is freezing and he’s cold, skin almost blue. He shivers every once in a while- it’s different from when the Asylum is scorching hot and he feels like he’s in hell where he belongs. The hair he used to keep so elegantly messy, it's dirty and scorched and matted and greasy against his head.

And he’s scared.

He knows that if he looks up, he'll see pictures. Taped to the dusty and damp walls of Arkham Asylum. Red circles trace each of their faces, and whether or not it's paint or blood he doesn't want to know.

It’s blood, it’s always been blood.

He can't bear to see their faces right now. Barbara, happy and smiling next to Dick as they enjoy a Gotham carnival. They're happy without him, he always held them back. He was too dependent on Barbara as a sister figure and was just an annoying kid to Dick, they're better now. 

Bruce. With a child on his shoulders. The son Jason could never be. A new Robin, one that could properly fulfill his duties. He was the failure, he was never going to be what Dick Grayson was. Maybe his replacement could, his replacement wouldn't let himself get captured.

Barbara and Selina and Alfred who had only ever taken care of him.

All with red targets around them. Everyone he'd ever cared for. Marked.

Everyone except Y/N, who's picture lay in pieces on the ground. Unlike the others, it wasn't taken by Joker's goons, and it wasn't recent.

It was her student ID from their first year at Gotham Academy. She was young, really young, eyes still bright and skin untainted by the scars of vigilante work. And she wasn't even looking at the camera but rather off to the side, caught by surprise when the photographer flashed his equipment. She hated pictures, and going to school was never a part of the deal. She’s mid laughing and so alive and happy in a world where Jason never hurt her. 

He'd stolen it soon after it was taken, sticking it in his wallet so she'd be forced to ask him for his own. You couldn't access the Academy Library without one after all. 

And the Joker had found it in his pocket and took it and ruined it and tore it and left her in pieces in the corner, her name never spoken from the maniac again. 

Jason assumed that was good. Better to be left in silence than threatened and marked for death. Hell, he couldn’t remember how long it's been since he’s seen her, and he softly starts to whisper her name. She promised him a night out once he found his mother, 

No, he couldn’t. 

Maybe the Joker couldn’t find her, hadn’t figured out her identity. He could keep her safe.

"What's that my boy?"

"No.. no," Robin pleads, the voice of nails on a chalkboard sending fear into his every bone. "Not again, not again."

The Joker comes into view and a weak cry comes from Jason's lips. His body jerks and another cough wracks his body, warm blood spilling from his mouth. Broken ribs, internal bleeding, punctured lung, he has no idea what it could be. If only Alfred were here, or Dick. To let him rest as they fixed him up, took care of him.

His chin is grabbed harshly, the bruising making it worse. The Joker laughs, pushing his face upwards and close to his own. He can smell death and acid on this villain, and Jason whimpers again. 

"How long do you think it's been, Jason?"

The robin doesn't answer. He can't keep track. He tried counting the amount of times Joker visited him, but then again, that was most likely more than once a day. And sometimes it was Harley, or a low level goon dressed like Batman and Nightwing and Batigrl and her. 

Time is a blur to him, he's been in pain too long. Everything hurts, even if someone were to save him now, he feels practically gone already. 

He wanted someone to save him.

"What about it Jason? You think Bats will come? Save his precious son?" The Joker prods, mouth wide.

Jason wants to say it. But the words dont leave his mouth. 

"Go on, don't be scared Jason. Tell me, tell dear old Joker."

"HE'LL COME FOR ME!" he yells, and it uses all his strength to just move his jaw.

"Even when he's better off without you?" The Joker asks, and he bends down to lift the bloodied crowbar. 

No. Please, anything but that. 

"He's going to! He has to!" Jason screams, and then tears start streaming down his cheeks.

The metal finds its way onto his hip, sending his body swaying helplessly as he cries. 

"Tell me, who's hurting you?" The Joker asks, grin never leaving his face as he hits Jason again. 

"Please stop, I'll do anything," the boy pleads, desperately trying to think of anything else. If only the Joker would end him now, let him go free.

"Who's hurting you Jason?"

"YOU!" He shrieks, the crowbar smacking painfully across his chest and ripping at the skin. It's like his lungs have collapsed, he no longer has bones. 

"Wrong!" 

"The, the Joker-"

"WRONG AGAIN MY BOY."

Jason looks up at the pictures on the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Blood pours into his mouth and he spits it out, shaking in his chains. "Batman.. batman is hurting me."

The next hit never comes. "Attaboy," The Joker mutters, and then he leaves.

Two

He returns the next morning. Jason assumes it's the next morning, as he's in a new purple suit. Harley gave him a dosage some odd amount of time ago, it must be a new day. His limbs are numb, his wrists are cracked and bleeding. He tries to keep his tongue in his mouth but his jaw is slack and disfigured, it’s increasingly difficult. 

Jason hasn't slept in days. Dark circles accessorize his black eyes, it's a miracle he can see at all.

The green haired man sets a timer in the corner of the room, and the Robin's brain goes into endless loops of trauma. The crowbar, the explosion that almost killed him. His mind wandered to warm arms pulling him out, thinking Bruce had pulled him from the rubble. Except it wasn't his father at all.

Batman hadn't even tried. 

"Jason." The Joker says sweetly, walking around the boy like a predator. The robin is helpless, he's lost all feeling in his limbs. "I thought I might tell you a story today."

The dark haired boy stays silent. He doesn't cry, he doesn't scream, he prays to a god he doesn't know for it all to stop. A bullet, a poison, the world ends in a fiery explosion, he didn't care.

"Jason."

"Just kill me already," he pleads, voice cracking and desperate.

Loud laughter echoes through the room. Jason's head hurts from the sheer volume, and it doesn't stop. It gets louder, and it carries around, and Jason lets out hushed breaths. 

"I can't kill you boy, we're a great team you and I! Would you like to hear my story?"

Jason closes his eyes in anticipation for today's beating.

The Joker grabs his face again, and Jason is groggy. Fading in and out of consciousness. But as his eyes are forced open and the first thing he sees is a blade, Jason screams.

It's a dull knife, long and serrated and bloody and dirty. And in its reflection is the lunatic's face, grinning like mad. The light catches on the razor as the Joker's eyes go wide.

"Wanna know how I got these scars?" He sneers, and Jason cries. He struggles to get away, hanging helplessly from his suspension. Nothing works, and two goons from the shadows hold him still with no thought towards his bruised and broken body.

He's in agony, and he's begging. He's in insurmountable pain and he can't do anything about it. The razor is brought to Jason's lips, presses to the side of his mouth with dull pressure.

He’s muffled now, and he continues fighting. 

"Just,, like, this!!" The Joker yells, dragging the blade upward through Jason's skin at a slow agonizing pace. He wants this to be slow and torturous, and Jason only cries and shakes. It hurts, god it hurts, he's being cut open, and the blood and tears mix and cause him more pain, 

He almost wishes for the crowbar again and once the knife is finished on one side, he screams again. His blood bleeds from the blade and falls onto the floor, joining the rest from the past days. Months? It couldn’t have been years.

“Such a handsome young man,” the joker croons, erupting into even more laughter. “Tell me what brought the chicks in, your crippling daddy issues or your criminal record?”

Jason couldn’t answer if he tried. The Joker grabs his face, almost smelling his newfound wounds, and then pulls back, leaving him in a hanging sway. 

“Let me go..” he pleads, mouth sore. His bright blue eyes are so devoid of color it hurts, and he closes them. Blood and dirt clumps on his pretty eyelashes. 

“Now I don’t think I can do that dear Jason.”

Joker licks the blade clean, it catches on the man's tongue and cuts him, not that he cares. Jason's glad he's not forced to swallow the damn thing.

Well, be careful what you wish for. 

Its sharp edge is brought down his jaw, down his neck, so close to his jugular veins, if only he could shift and catch himself on the blade, he could end it all. 

He starts crying.

He doesn’t know when he stops.

The Asylum walls go black, and he's shrieking. Harley Quinn brings a bat to his body as the Joker moves his knife, and it finds solace along Jason's cold chest.

One cut. Two cuts. Jason screams more. His throat is raw, he doesn't even know where his terror is coming from anymore, it'd been beaten out of him. 

"Bruce-, bruce stop-"

The Joker laughs. "AHA, the boys learning, don't you see? That's right, that's right."

The cuts are few, and after a while they're bearable. The hardest part to deal with is Harley"s high squeals as she beats him. She calls him cute, handsome, a songbird.

Songbird.

"You can't.."

"I can't what Jay darling? Hmm?? What can't I do?" The Queen of crime pouts, and Jason sees red.

"Don't say that," he spits, finding his voice. "That name isn't for you bitch."

The next time the knife touches his skin, it's coated in acid. And he's yelling for it to stop, he's pleading, thrashing around.

His kicks find Harley and he's flown forward and backward, still chained to the ceiling. Its desperate.

"JAY DARLIING," she sings. "Puddin what else gets our birdie going?? Mm? What makes him sing like a good pet. Oh this is exciting!" 

"SHUT UP-"

"Jay," Harley flutters her eyelashes, bringing herself close to his face. "Baby? Love? Is it sweetheart?" Her mouth is wide, eyes deranged. "Perhaps it's Mister J! He stares into her gaze, and for a second the jester flinches.

If Jason wasn't suspended and restrained, he'd kill her. He knew it and she knew it and Joker most definitely knew.

"Well Jason, kill her then! Do it loverboy, why won't you end her?" He croons, and Harley feigns sadness. 

"I-" he starts, unwilling to let himself hang in shame. How could he do this? 

"Oh come on angel! Why don't you try?" She shrieks, and then Jason is shouting, further tearing into the cuts along his mouth as he brings his legs up, attempting to wrap them around Harley's neck. 

He doesn't get very far. Someone holds him steady, and the stinging knife is brought back to his chest. An H. An A. Another H and an A. 

Straight across his chest, and then it begins again. Jason's breathing is labored from his attempt to retaliate, and he slips back into his daze of unconsciousness. He can't do this much longer.

THE.

Jason can see it in the mirror on the opposite wall. He doesn't remember when that got put there. If he could reach something with his feet he could throw it. Break the glass, pick it up with his feet again perhaps, end this torture-

JOKES.

Jason feels like vomiting. 

ON.

Jason vomits on the ground in front of him. Sweat sticks to his skin and he's pale, he feels a fever growing on him. The knife continues lower to his bruised skin. This couldn't get worse, could it. 

YOU.

The words are engraved on his body, marred by the blood dripping from it. Jason's eyes roll to the back of his head. The trauma puts him to sleep, and the Harley Quinn whispers another "Jay Darling" into his ear before departing. 

Three

Y/N’s picture is gone now, he can't even piece it together in his mind anymore. The scraps are scattered and disintegrated into dust.

This time he hears Harley before Joker, she's hanging off of the clown's arm, looking at him with the adoration of a psychopath. In her hands is a long poker, tip red hot, and she swings it without a care in the world. She giggles as her love comes closer to the half dead boy, untying his chains.

Jason lands on the floor, a crumpled heap of skin and broken bones. His head hits the ground, but it's the most beautiful thing he's touched in a long time.

He doesn't move, curling into a protective ball. 

"Mister J our bird isn't moving," Harley whines, kicking him in the back. He groans, shielding himself as best he could. There's nothing on the ground that's usable, not even a sharp stick or rock, there's a used abandoned needle but it sends him into nausea.

The Joker's laughing brings him back to reality as he attempts to crawl away. The floor is appalling, disgusting, a mix of wax and blood and body fluids that he wished he could forget, but he's let go. 

Jason slams his hands on the cement, using the force to wake him up and pull himself forward. His legs don't work, he's going delirious again, and then there's the sizzle of water behind him.

"Where are you going birdie?" Harley asks, and the Joker takes another step closer. 

"No, no, NO-" Jason pleads. Please let him go, dead or alive he doesn't care. Just get him out of here, make it stop. It's the only word he knows at the moment, every syllable is tortuous to pronounce. He bangs his head on the cement. God he’s going insane.

Stop touching him. Stop hurting him. 

He’s been beaten and tortured and degraded in the worst ways possible. He couldn’t remember what it was like to be human. And still, this was the worst pain yet.

He's pinned down as the hot poker nears his face, the symbol bright red on the end. Like a branded piece of meat. His flesh burns and sizzles as the Joker gives more pressure, and Jason's never screamed louder. 

It's in the intense silence within which he screams with his whole body. It forces its way from deep in his throat, demonic and angry and scared. 

He's hiding a truth from himself, and soon he's not screaming from the burning, but rather that he's stuck here. Forever. 

Edged with the tantalisingly sweet release of death, the Joker will never give it to him. 

The Joker will never let him die, he will never let him go. And now his cursed J is on Jason’s cheek, he’ll forever be the Joker’s pet.

When the brand stick is taken off his skin, Jason is sweating and pale and falls asleep.

"What a shame you couldn't handle it."

x

Y/N runs through the hallway with desperation. She'd tracked down Harley one night and by some god forsaken miracle, the deranged woman had blood on her skirts.

Another miracle hadY/N sneaking into Wayne Manor to ask Barbara to help her, analyzing the blood samples to track down the Joker.

They found something better.

For a second she believed Bruce's high end, most technologically advanced equipment was wrong. Babs assured her it wasn't. That was Jason's blood on Harley, less than two weeks old. 

"Jason?"

The boy looks up, whimpering. He almost doesn't hear her.

"Oh Jay," she whispers from the hallway. She's just a shadow but Jason knows it's her. No one has ever said his name with such gentleness. 

The woman lets out a sob. He's here, he's alive, he's gonna be okay. 

Jason holds back sobs of his own as she runs to him. Her fingers are first to touch him, resting on his chest and trailing over his scars, his wounds and his blood. His torn clothes, the dirt and acid burns. Her hand stops over his heart, beating so slow she would have believed him to be dead.

But this is Jason. He's not dying anytime soon. Especially not if she can help it.

Tears stream down her face as she wraps her arms around him, holding him close. 

He's gonna be okay.

Y/N is immediately supporting him as she conjures a knife to cut him down. His arms are free and he nearly goes unconscious.

She catches him before he can fall. It's not like the Joker when he needs to crawl away like a wounded puppy. He welcomes the other presence in the damp room, shaking. Jason lifts his head, and he doesn't even have to move until she's at his side. It's so different.. he forgot what this feels like. 

Jason forgot what it felt like to have emotions besides fear. 

He curls into her lap, slowly using her body to sit up. 

"Jay look at me, please," she murmurs, holding his face and brushing the hair out of those colorless eyes. "Oh my god I knew it.. I knew you were alive.. Jay I'm so sorry-" she stops herself, kissing the top of his blood matted head.

That doesn't matter now.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, you're okay sweetheart. Stay awake okay? Okay. Stay awake for me please."

Jason nods, hanging onto her. If he lets go, she'll leave. He'll lose her and he'll be stuck here again. She'll fade away.

It hurts to move, every bone and every limb is on fire. Then she's grabbing him and they're standing up, she's practically half carrying him.  

Mumbles of his name fill the empty asylum wing. Js and Jason's and Jay's pass her lips as if just repeating it is gonna make him alright.

One step, and Jason crumbles. He can't walk, it's a miracle he can feel his legs at all. "I'm not going anywhere," he mutters. 

She doesn't say anything. She knows.

Footsteps in the background. Walking, jogging, running. 

Maniacal laughs and snarls and spit.

Y/N bends her knees and slings him over her shoulder in a fireman's carry, and then she starts running. Down one hallway and then the next, the Arkham Asylum is a maze.

"Jay, side of my mask, the-"

"Comms," he finishes, holding the button to turn it on.

"Bat? Batgirl, do you read me?" The girl whispers, ducking into an alcove.

"I'm here. Did you..?"

"I've got him. Babs, he's alive, Jason's alive, he's breathing-" It feels so good to say, to not just breathe an empty statement. 

Crying comes from the other side of the comms. Barbara composes herself enough to speak, but even then, emotion hangs in her voice. "Let's bring him home then, where are you right now? Dicks outside the Asylum with Bruce, don't worry about the thugs or the cameras, we have it covered."

"I'LL FIND YOU BIRDIE!" 

"The Joker's here," Y/N tells Barbara and the air hangs with a pregnant pause. 

"Okay, Tim's gonna have you turn right, we got his signal."

The woman turns, ducking into the darkness.

"Y/N,." Jason wheezes, hanging onto her shoulders with the strength he could muster. 

"Jason if this is one of, one of your 'if we don't make it out' speeches-"

"Nevermind," he replies, wishing he had the energy and the ability to smile. She does, she smiles for the both of them- even if he can't see it from this angle. 

"God I'm going to make him pay for this. Writhing and screaming and begging for me to end him," she threatens, listening for the next of Barbara’s directions.

She's told to go right and through a door.

There's two sets of footsteps now.

Y/N continues, trying to fill the silence. The Joker won’t track her voice, the alarms are too loud. "That doesn't matter now, I guess. You're alive and I- we thought you were dead and it took so long for me to accept that, and I still don't know how I found you but I did and Jay I'm so proud of you-"

"Hey this doesn't mean you can give me a speech of your own," Jason interrupts, and she cracks another smile. She’s rambling like she always does when she overthinks, and he closes his eyes to imagine that they’re once again on a Gotham skyscraper with a bottle of champagne. Spilling secrets and laughing like they weren’t masked vigilantes with secret identities. 

"I love you Jason, and you're not leaving me again."

"HAHA I LOVE THIS GAME-" The Joker yells. His psychotic grin fills Jason’s vision as the maniac throws open a hatch, jumping down into the room. Jason is dropped to the ground and Y/N has her sword in hand, stepping in between the two men. 

His vision is blurry, he can’t see anything, and the ground is warm. 

He can’t succumb. Jason stands up again, grabbing a pistol from Y/N’s leg and he shoots. The feel of a gun trigger isn’t unfamiliar. 

Yelling fills the room, as does the clash of metal and fists, Jason smiles as the Joker cries out in pain. Another door opens, there’s girlish laughter now, and so many footsteps. He keeps shooting, dropping enemies like a second nature because he was Jason Peter fucking Todd. 

Jason’s ribs get stomped on again and he loses his gun, and metal echoes on the ground as something is dropped. Three gunshots ring through the room. 

No. 

No.

The Joker and the Harlequin keep laughing in glee, and Jason blacks out from crying again. 

x

Cold hands grab his face. The man who laughs is, well, laughing and pulling Jason’s face close to his own. The smell of death fills his senses and Jason opens his eyes. 

"How long do you think it's been, Jason?"

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x oc #jason todd imagines #red hood x reader #red hood #dc #batfam #batfam x reader #jason todd hcs #redhood hcs #arkham knight #titans #titans jason

[bontenten]

Ours

Pairing: Osamu x f!reader, Atsumu x f!reader

Tags/Warnings: noncon, infidelity, pregnancy/forced abortion, knife stuff, gore, body horror, snuff, wound, necro-stuff, abuse, yandere, angst

Osamu stares at your pregnant belly; a round barrier that’s keeping you away from him. He knows you don’t even want it. Otherwise why would you come crying to his onigiri shop crying tonight. It’s obviously because you tried to go to a clinic, but who in their right mind would try to abort the baby of famous athlete Miya Atsumu? 

Atsumu gagged them all with money, tied their hands together with even more promises. There’s nothing for you to do but stay put and birth the child. It took everything for you to find a time with no bodyguards to slip away. If it weren’t for the excuse that you wanted to shop for baby clothes, Atsumu would never have allowed you to even step foot outside the house.

“Please help me,” you sob, taking a step closer to the one who looks almost identical to your fiance. “There’s no one else but you.”

You look pathetic, makeup smudged and messy. Osamu smugly looks down at you. “Only now you finally realize?” He grips your jaw and forces you to look at him, fingers squeezing your cheeks and making your lips pucker. “I told you before, didn’t I? Atsumu’s a crazy bastard, but I would take care of you. All he wants is to use you as a breeding cow, his little cocksleeve. That’s all you’ll ever be to him. Shallow, gold-digging bitch, you reap what you sow.”

“Shh-shhamoo, ‘Samu” you slur between your teeth, “shorrry.” Sorry. You regret it now. You probably shouldn’t have turned Osamu down in the first place for Atsumu. Maybe you really were blinded by Atsumu’s reputation and prestige...and his money. He could give you what Osamu could not at the time and the simple life working tirelessly, saving and making ends meet wasn’t how you wanted to live. But really, you shouldn’t have ever gotten yourself involved with the twins.

“Sorry? SORRY?! You say?” Slap. Osamu yanks you back up with a fistful of your hair. “You hurt me. I loved you and gave you my heart, but you...you broke me. And now you’re just going to sweep it all under the rug with ‘sorry’?”

“Sorry, I really am ‘Samu,” you sob, wincing from the sharp pain shooting through your scalp. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. Please help me, I’m begging you. I know only you can save me now.”

The tight grip on your hair relents and Osamu wipes the messy trail of smudged makeup from beneath your eye. He smiles almost gently, “That’s right, only I can protect you. Stupid, took you too long.”

Osamu’s kisses are deceptively soft. Another reason you left Osamu for Atsumu is also this. Osamu made you feel like you were dangled over deep waters with no safety net. You couldn’t tell what was on his mind, he hid his thoughts much better than Atsumu. Atsumu was more straightforward and that gave you security. But right now, only Osamu can give you safety and protection. Even though you know it’s not right, the time and the person, you can’t help but respond back

Your hands thread through his grey locks as bodies come closer until Osamu feels your pregnancy pressed against him. He pulls away abruptly and stares. You follow his eyes to your belly and the unmistakable growing biology within it beyond the skin and flesh.

“You want to get rid of it, right?” Osamu mutters, palming the protrusion.

“Yes...but—” 

“Shut up,” he snaps, stalking to the kitchen quickly. You find him back a moment later with a knife in his hand, sharpened tip pointed at you. “You asked me to help, I’m going to help you.”

“What are you doing?” you ask hesitantly, unsure and frightened. With the blade pointed at your throat you have no choice but to back up as Osamu comes closer to you. You feel the edge of the table at your hip, another step and your stumble, falling back onto the table surface. 

Osamu loosens the tie on his apron and stands between your legs, forcing them apart. You hear some buckling noises and strain your head to see his length fully erect. His hands travel to your waist to pull your skirt and panties down. Your hand stops him in their tracks. Your widened eyes are alarmed at what Osamu really wants.

“Not this! Please, not this ‘Samu,” you argue, trying to pull his hand away from tearing the clothing from you.

Osamu deftly slices the knife across the back of your hand, drawing out a thin line of red. The pain has your hand flinching away, letting Osamu pull the skirt down, exposing the naked skin of your belly, and pussy folds below it. “Gonna fuck this bastard out of you,” he mutters, stuffing himself into your hole.

You scream, legs kicking out wildly as you feel the thick intrusion sheath itself into you fully. You can feel the tip pushing through your tight muscles, getting closer and closer to your womb.

“Fuck,” Osamu groans. “If I didn’t see your pregnant belly, I would’ve thought you were a little virgin. You’re so fucking tight.”

“No! Please I’m begging you, stop!”

“You begged me to help you get rid of the little bastard.” He hammers into you even harder, assaulting your cervix, the one that’s plugged like a gate.

At some point, your wails are lost when the cries become increasingly lewd. You can’t help the moans that slip out of your mouth each time Osamu pushes into you. Each draw and thrust sends waves of pleasure throughout your whole body. The bliss is almost enough for you to forget that you didn’t have your current burden, the pregnancy, that fetus. It’s kinda a pathetic state for you, being fucked on a table of the restaurant belonging to your fiance’s twin? And enjoying it?

This thing within you...if only it weren’t Atsumu’s but Osamu’s instead. It was a mistake all along.

The pain comes swift and overwhelming, an agonizing hell when you register the three inches of blade buried above your pubic bone, carving its way horizontally across. Your flesh parts like gauze, the skin splitting open sideways, the yellow paddings of your fat and the red that floods over. 

Osamu pulls out the knife as he buries himself deeply into you, shooting his seed into the sealed-off womb. Your body shudders as the pain signals run havoc in your brain and the orgasm washes through beyond the pain. Your head tosses from side to side as empty screams fall from your throat. Shock takes over your body as more and more blood comes pouring out from your womb along with the fountain of amniotic fluids.

Osamu isn’t so much as bothered by the amount of red and clear pooling behind you and dripping onto the wood floor. He sticks his finger through the laceration and fingers through your guts, pushing the intestine aside until he finds the tear in the womb.

“Found it!” Osamu delightfully shoves his hand in, grabbing at the mass of dividing flesh and umbilical cord sustaining it. The mound is more difficult to remove than Osamu thinks, he tugs and tugs. It takes the muscles of his whole arm, the same ones carrying rice bags daily, to successfully detach placenta stuck to your womb.

The blood spurts in a flood, filling your belly cavity, painting Osamu’s shirt crimson. Your blood splatters across his legs and drips down his cock.

Osamu has never seen a full placenta like this in its glory. He has heard of people who have cooked it before. It’s the nature of a chef to be intrigued by ingredients of a rare and bizarre nature. But not today.

He drops the mounds on the floor, worse than food scraps. He clambers to the top of the table, knees straddling your body.

“I did it,” he tells your open yet empty eyes, looking for his thank you.  He reaches his stained hand and caresses your faded cheek, smearing red across your skin. “I got it out for you.” He kisses your cold lips. 

You don’t respond.

“‘Tsumu and I are genetically identical,” he tells your body. “You know what that means? That means the same cell that created that, I have it too.There’s no difference in biology, between his and mine.”

Osamu's hand wraps around his cock and pumps the length, the slick of blood squelching around him.

“But you didn’t want his version, huh? You wanted mine right? “ He chuckles and positions his cock against the gaping hole where your womb begins to deflate.

Your residual warmth still wraps around him, the yellow fats squishy and soft. Osamu wraps your gash around him, thrusting straight into your womb. 

“Could’ve been with me, could’ve been...ours.”

Each thrust propels your body back and forth, tugged along his movements like an empty doll that's chewed and clawed broken. Fallen apart by seams, insides spilling out, completely drained. Only to be filled with Osamu’s seed, that you’ll never have a chance to foster.

#haikyuu smut #osamu x reader smut #osamu smut #yandere haikyuu #tw infidelity #tw blood #tw pregnancy #tw violence #tw noncon #tw gore #tw death #tw yandere #emi had a little nightmare and this was it LOL tweaked and added some more blood #miyacest fic is ALMOST done omg sorry it's taking forever but i can't wait to post it soon #idk looking at wips and i just really like 1) osamu with a knife 2) osamu with a knife killing y/n LOL #emi.freshtea #🍵.osamu #🍵.atsumu

[the-iceni-bitch]

A Surprise to be Sure

Pairing: Geralt/Fem!Reader

Words: 5761

Summary:  You meet Geralt and Jaskier on the road and have a lovely little adventure in the kingdom of Temeria.

Warnings: Explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit descriptions of violence, TW mentions of rape, SMUT, 18+

A/N: It’s here y’all, my b-day Geralt fic! I’m really happy with how this turned out and could honestly have published it without the smut, that’s how much I love this fic. It is definitely going to be part of a series so I hope you all enjoy! (PS I love writing Jaskier way too much and could honestly just do a full series of him having random misadventures all over the continent!) I’m tagging @navybrat817​ because I know she loves some Henry Cavill

Jaskier had been belting the Fishmonger’s Daughter for the past 30 minutes, and Geralt was ready to murder him.

“Must you insist on shouting our position to every living creature in a 5 mile radius?” He hissed at the bard.

“List, my grumpy, hoar-headed friend. I need to be sure my voice is in top form if I’m performing at a royal ball. Now, you’ll feel better if you sing with me, Oooh Fishmonger, Oh Fishmonger, Come Quell your Daughter’s Hunger!”

“I’m going to feed you that damn lute before we reach the castle if you don’t shut up. I can’t listen to this for three days.” The Witcher growled under his breath. He couldn’t figure out why he had agreed to accompany the irritating man on his journey, but the man always managed to convince him to go along with his stupid plans.  

“Now, Geralt. You know you secretly love my singing. After all, how many jobs has that little song of mine rustled up for you, eh? Stop being so grouchy.”

He gave him a grunt. “Fine, can you at least sing something else?”

“Ah, but of course, my large, angry friend. Eh hem, You think you’re safe, without a care…”

“Gods, not that one.”

“Well, there’s no pleasing you is there. Ahh, what’s that noise?”

A feminine shriek split the air, causing a flock of birds to take flight only a few feet from the pair of riders. Roach of course didn’t mind, but Jaskier’s mount almost threw him, causing Geralt to smile.

“Gods, see, this is why I hate travelling on these creatures. Give me a nice coach ride any time. Come Geralt, let us see what fair maiden is in need of our assistance.”

“Our assistance?”

“Well, your assistance. C’mon Geralt, a damsel in distress, this is the perfect material for a new song.”

Geralt followed the idiot as he rode towards the sounds of distress, determined to keep him from getting himself killed. He didn’t really like getting involved in petty issues of the realms but knew that Jaskier lived for these tiny adventures.

They came upon you, surrounded by five men in soiled armor. Your cart had a broken wheel and was sinking into the snow and mud. One of the men had you pinned in the back of the cart by your neck as he buried his other hand in your skirts. The other men jeered at you as they kept their watch.

“Look Geralt, a fair maid waiting to be rescued, what could make for a better song? Ho there fellows, stop your raping or you’ll have to deal with my cantankerous companion here.”

“Move along, bard this doesn’t concern you.” One of the soldiers growled at Jaskier before spitting to the side. “Or, wait your turn and we’ll let you and your pal have her when we’re done.”

“Ah, Geralt, I’ll let you take care of them. Make sure to draw it out, a long fight always makes for a better song.”

“Oh, fuck this.” You hissed, pulling out the stiletto you had hidden in your skirts and gutting the man who was restraining you.

Jaskier turned his head and vomited as the man’s intestines seeped out of him and he crumbled to the forest floor. You flung your cloak off your shoulders as you drew the obscenely large longsword you had concealed beneath its folds and chopped off the hand of the next soldier who came charging at you before plunging it into his chest.

“I don’t know, bard. Seems like the maid has things under control.” Geralt grinned at his companion once he had finished emptying his stomach.

You wrenched the blade free as the two unhorsed soldiers rushed you. One of them tossed his own dagger at you and you used your sword to whip it back at him, catching him in the throat. You brought up your dagger and crossed the blades you were holding to catch the sword of your fourth opponent. You managed to loop the dagger under his hilt and wrenched the sword from his grasp as you let the momentum from his attack carry you the two of you backwards, flipping him over your head until you were straddling his chest. You gave him a small smirk as your drove your dagger through his eye.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something?” Jaskier asked as he watched the bloody show with abject horror painted on his face.

“What would you suggest bard? The woman seems to be able to handle herself, and I can’t say these soldiers seem particularly deserving of assistance.”

The final soldier had dismounted and was now striding towards you, twirling his sword around like an idiot peacock. You scowled at him before pulling a massive crossbow from beneath the packages in your cart and shooting him in the shoulder.

He went down with a soft grunt and you strutted over to him, crossbow slung over your shoulder and dagger twirling through your fingers. You tutted at him like you were chiding a naughty schoolboy.

“Oh, Abbett, what did you do with the money? I certainly hope you have it on you. I don’t feel like trekking through this frozen forest digging for it.”

“You cunt.” The man spat at you. “We fought those bloody Nilfgaardians to keep these farmers safe and warm. The least they can do to thank us is give up a few bloody coins and their daughters.”

You shot him again in the leg and he let out a scream.

“One more time, Abbett, the money? I can’t give those poor girls their maidenhoods again but maybe their families can offer a dowry to make them good matches.”

“Argh, bitch! It’s in the saddlebags.”

“Excellent! See, not so fucking difficult, and you saved me the nasty task of gelding you!” You took a few steps forward and shot him through the eye as you went to examine the horse and find the stolen coins.

“Ahem, hello, madam! I am Jaskier the Bard and this is my companion, Geralt of Rivia! Would you join us on our journey to the capital of Temeria? You seem like a lass with stories to tell and I’m just the fellow to put them to song.”

“Jaskier, shut the fuck up.” Geralt hissed at him.

You whipped around to the two of them and pointed your crossbow at the Witcher. “Fuck, I almost forgot about you two. Well, you’ve given me a bit of a conundrum boys. I was counting on there not being any witnesses here. These vagabonds are still wearing the king’s colors after all, and we’re close enough to the capital that that could prove to be a problem for me.” You had started to unfasten the bodice of the gown you were wearing, desperate to get out of the confining layers of cloth that had comprised your disguise. You revealed an outfit of bleached leather and furs that clung to your body.

“Oops.” Jaskier murmured, giving Geralt a sheepish grin as he raised his hands in supplication. “Geralt, friend, maybe you can talk to our new companion.”

“Right, listen, we don’t care that you just slaughtered five of the king’s soldiers, though I’m sure upon closer inspection they’ll be shown to be deserters. And as we have no desire to bring any trouble down on you, we’ll just be on our way.”

“Wait,” You called after them, tossing the rags of your gown onto the abandoned cart as you saddled your horse. “If you’re heading towards the capital, I’ll join you. I have some deliveries to make before I get out of this god-forsaken country, and that way I can keep an eye on you.” You gave them a grin as you rode up the hill to join them. “I can think of worse company than a bard and a Witcher.”

Jaskier shot a grin back at you as you joined them. “Ah, finally someone who will appreciate my talents. Tell me… um..”

“Y/N”

“Y/N, lovely, do you have any requests?”

Geralt groaned internally at the thought of being stuck with two singing idiots for the journey but was cut short by the sound of multiple bows being drawn.

“Fuck.”

“That’s far enough you three.” A captain in shining armor commanded as you came into view of a mounted regiment of king’s soldiers, accompanied by about 100 footmen who all had arrows trained on you. “What do you know about several groups of dead king’s men that have been found in these woods.”

Geralt shot you a look of reproach over his shoulder as you pointedly avoided making eye contact, examining your fingernails like they were the most interesting thing on the continent.

“There’s another group of dead soldiers in the clearing back there, captain. Looks like we’ve found our culprits.”

“Oh, just wait a minute. My grouchy friend and I were just passing through when we came upon this lovely woman being set upon by these supposed kingsmen. Granted, we considered dispatching them ourselves but our fair companion had things well in hand. Seems like she was doing your jobs for you.”

You and Geralt shared a groan. “Shut up, Jaskier.”

The captain gave a snort of derision. “You want us to believe this pretty thing has been besting the king’s chosen troops on her own for months? Take their weapons and restrain the Witcher and the woman. The bard can sing us some songs to pass the time as we travel. We’ll save this for the king to sort out.”

You gave a heavy sigh and started handing over your blades. Jaskier’s eyes started to bulge as you continued pulling smaller and smaller knives out of an increasingly absurd number of hiding places, until there was an impressive pile in front of the soldier who had been tasked with collecting your weapons.

Geralt was less forthcoming in turning over his weapons and didn’t really start until a spear prodded him in the back. He was gazing at Renfri’s blade when the captain lost his patience, and the butt of the spear whipped across the back of his head, knocking him cold.

“Put his blades with the rest of it.”

Geralt woke up with his face buried in your hair and let out a groan at the throbbing in his skull.

“What the fuck?” He lifted his head, squinting against the sun reflecting off the new fallen snow.

“Good morning, Witcher. Apparently this type of restraint has been proven to limit the ability of the restrained to extricate themselves from their bindings. You missed a fascinating lecture on it as they were tying us up.”

The two of you were bound face to face on the saddle of your massive black courser. Your arms and legs tangled around each other and wrapped in an intricate series of knots. He started trying to wrench himself free, but only succeeded in bringing you even closer to him as he let out a grunt of frustration.

“Look at the two of you, so cozy.” Jaskier rode up with a grin on his face, strumming his lute. “Do not worry yourselves, my violent friends. I am currently working on a plan to extricate the two of you from this predicament. I have the ear of the captain.”

“Are you going to annoy him to death Jaskier? Maybe if you sing that damn abortion song enough times, he’ll release us just to be rid of you.”

“You wound me, Geralt. The name of that tune is “You Think You’re Safe” and you’ll be happy to know that the captain is enamored of my talents and has asked me to regale him and his officers at their meal tonight.”

“Ah, good for you Jaskier. Make sure to sing the ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ I hear that’s a favorite of the troops.” You smiled at him, throwing him a wink.

“Oh, I knew I liked you, Y/N! See Geralt, it isn’t so hard to appreciate what I bring to the table. Thank you for your advice, sweet lady, I will be sure to take heed!” He rode off, humming to himself as he tuned his lute.

“Why would you encourage him?” Geralt growled in your ear, still fighting against his bonds.

“Ah, Witcher, you need to relax. I’m sure Jaskier’s plan will work out just fine.”

“The bard is an imbecile, the day I trust myself to any plan of his is the day I resign myself to a slow and painful death.”

“Well, be that as it may, if you don’t stop struggling, we’re going to end up in a very uncomfortable situation.” You said, giving a gasp as another jerk of your bonds brought you indecently close.

“Fuck.” He let out in a hiss, resigning himself to waiting for a better opportunity as a lock of your hair blew into his face, smelling of pine and turned earth “I don’t suppose you have any sort of plan of escape, since it’s your fault we’re in this situation.”

“Geralt, I do apologize that you have ended up in my mess. I’m so sorry that the war with Nilfgaard has caused unprecedented levels of desertion, and that the cowards that have runoff have been terrorizing and robbing the smallfolk. And I’m sorry that the king failed to listen to the pleas of his people, who had to pool together the last of their coin to contract me to come in and relieve them of their problems. But yes, this mess is entirely of my own making, and nothing to do with the colossal mismanagement of the realm of Temeria.”

“Hmmph.” He grunted into your hair. “So how are you getting us out of this mess?”

You gave him a snort. “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours Witcher, something will work out.”

“Alright, dismount.” One of the lieutenants ordered, leering at the two of you. “Hope you two have enjoyed today’s ride. I hear they’re already constructing a gibbet for you in Vizima.”

“I see the royal council has decided to do away with even the minimal farce of a trial then.”

Two soldiers had started to undo the maze of knots binding you and the Witcher together and you gave a hiss as blood started to flow back into your legs.

“An attack on the king’s army is an attack on the king. No trials for traitors to the crown.”

“You do know that neither of us are citizens of this kingdom?” Geralt asked him. “You can’t betray a monarch you don’t serve.”

“Pssh, a minor inconsistency. The king can’t be seen as soft during wartime.”

“Oh, of course not.” You murmured as the soldiers dragged you off your mount and led you to the prisoners’ tent that had been erected next to the officers’. The same intricate raveling of ropes and knots started again as they bound your upper bodies to the poles in the center of the tent. You could hear the beginnings of revelry in the officers’ pavilion when they left you.

“Well, now what?” Geralt asked you, pulling against the bonds at his wrists.

“Just, have a little patience.” You chided him, leaning against your pole in as relaxed of a pose as you could achieve.

“You did hear that they plan on executing us once they get us back to the capital?”

“No, Geralt, I missed that.” You spat at him as you heard Jaskier start to sing and gave a small smile. “Excellent, let’s hope he leaves the good stuff until they’re well and drunk.”

“What are you talking about, Y/N?” He asked you, still trying to wrench himself free.

“For fucks’ sake, give it a rest. Apparently the royal knot tyers are the only members of this army who haven’t fallen lax in their duties.” You rolled your eyes at him. “Just give it a half hour and we’ll give you a chance to get out all the pent up aggression.”

“So you do have a plan? Any chance you want to let me in on it?”

“I think I’ll leave it for a surprise.”

The two of you sat there listening as the sounds of drunken celebration filled the camp. It only took 20 minutes for the revelry to reach a dull roar, and a smile crept over your face when you heard the first refrains of ‘The Fishmonger’s Daughter’.

“Ah, Jaskier, perfect timing.” You muttered.

The song started speeding up and spread through the regiment. You heard the soldiers start clapping along and seized your moment, bending your legs and driving your back into the post you were bound to at each clap, starting to shift it out of the ground with each drive of your shoulders.

Geralt finally seized on your idea and joined you in wrenching his post out of the ground. Within a few rounds of the song, they were loosened enough for you to drag them out of their anchors, causing the tent to collapse around you. You slipped your bonds over the ends of the posts and unraveled yourselves. Geralt gave you a look of appreciation as you hefted your post, flung the folds of the fallen tent off yourself and whipped the post around to take out the two guards that had been posted at the entrance.

“Well, let’s find our weapons, shall we?” You said, giving him a grin.

Apparently, your appraisal of the army had been accurate; you ran into minimal resistance as you made your way to the weapons tent and managed to knock out the only sentries you encountered before Geralt had a chance to react.

“Ah, my babies.” You said to yourself as you started resheathing the ridiculous number of knives you had accumulated for yourself, kissing each blade before you returned it to its rightful place.

“How can you possibly be comfortable wearing all of that steel?” Geralt asked you around a grin, watching you tuck a dirk between your breasts and wondering how you managed to not cut yourself.

“I’m a woman traveling the continent alone, Witcher. I’ve found that the element of surprise is my friend, and there’s nothing quite as surprising as an unexpected knife between the ribs.”

He actually laughed at that, strapping one sword to his back and one to his hip as you hefted your crossbow and loaded it with a bolt before heading back out into the snow.

You were met by the surprised faces of a drunken group of soldiers who were wending their way through the tents, arms around each other as the slurred the lyrics to their favorite song. You shot the first through the chest as you drew your longsword over your shoulder and you dropped your crossbow to the ground, slashing the second across the face before they finally regained their composure and sounded the alarm.

Geralt drew his blades and clashed with three of the remaining soldiers as you grappled with the other two. He managed to drive his long sword through one of their chests before the other two had a chance to converge on him and he struggled to drive them apart with his fists to allow himself room to maneuver. One of his opponents went down suddenly with a dagger through his throat and Geralt threw a look your way to see your first opponent down and missing an eye as you drove your knee into the chest of your second opponent, driving him into a post as you brought your sword around and ran it across his throat.

Geralt threw his assailant over his shoulder and rammed his blade through his chest as you let out a shrill whistle and hefted your crossbow as the sound of hoofbeats rose through the camp. Roach and your courser came charging around the bend suddenly and you latched onto your steed’s mane and swung yourself onto his back as Geralt vaulted onto Roach’s. You turned suddenly and led him back towards the officers’ pavilion as drunken soldiers did their best to pursue you.

“We almost forgot the fucking bard!” You grinned at him as you hopped off your horse and slashed through the back of the officers’ tent. You emerged seconds later with a terrified looking Jaskier, who you tossed over the back of your mount like a sack of potatoes before leaping up behind him and kicking your steed to a gallop.

“Either of you want to fill me in on what the fuck is happening?!” Jaskier shrieked as he bounced around.

The two of you ignored him as you rode on. You set a punishing pace through the whole night, not looking back until you crossed the river into the kingdom of Redania as the sun rose and you finally allowed your horses to slow their pace to a walk, dismounting to give them a rest.

“If my lute is damaged, I’ll never forgive you.” Jaskier whined as he inspected his instrument, hobbling along as he tried to adjust after the unceremonious thrashing he had taken during the ride.

“Jaskier, a little thanks should be in order. Y/N and I did save you from a rather nasty execution after all.” Geralt grinned at him as he walked beside you, Roach nuzzling him in the shoulder as he patted her snout.

“I told the two of you, I had the captain’s ear, I would have been able to talk us out of any trouble.”

You gave him a snort as your courser butted his head into yours, begging for his own pats. “Jaskier, you would have been strung up right beside us. Just think though, this little adventure has the makings of a great song, eh? I’ll buy you a nice hot meal and a bath at the inn we’re coming up on.”

“Well, I’d never say no to a bath. How close is this inn?”

“Just over the next hill.”

You arrived within an hour and made arrangements for the horses as Jaskier headed in to arrange rooms and meals for the three of you.

Geralt and you headed into the inn and you grabbed the two of you the largest mugs of beer you could arrange before joining Jaskier at a table and tearing into the trencher of bread.

“So, good news first.” The bard said. “I arranged for nice, hot baths for all three of us, in addition to our meals. The only thing is, they only had two rooms.”

Geralt let out a groan at that. “Fine, bard, I guess the two of us are sharing accommodations for the next few days then.”

“Aah, well. I figured, with you two having grown so close during our little journey, that you wouldn’t mind sharing the much, much larger room whilst I make due with the tiny, lonely room myself that I’ve already had them unload my things into.”

The two of you shot him equally reproachful looks over your mugs of beer as a barmaid arrived to let him know his bath was ready.

“Ah, splendid. Well, you two enjoy your breakfasts. I’m going to take a very long nap after my bath and I’ll see you this afternoon, or maybe even tomorrow.”

A whole roasted chicken arrived and the two of you tore into it without a word, polishing it off quickly as you hadn’t realized how famished you were.

“I’ll arrange for them to bring up the hot water for baths for us.” You told Geralt as you stood up and stretched, downing the last of your beer.

“I’m fine without.” The Witcher grumbled at you.

You gave him a derisive chuckle. “If we’re bedding together for the two days it’ll take for the horses to rest up, you’re bathing yourself at least once, I don’t need to smell everywhere you’ve been in the past month.”

He gave an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders as he followed you upstairs. It had been a while since he’d spent the night with a woman he wasn’t paying, and there was something about you he found disarming. Endearing, but disarming nonetheless.

“Ah, at least there’s two tubs.” You said gleefully as you entered the room. A group of attendants arrived a moment later, carrying four large buckets of steaming water between them that they emptied into the copper tubs before taking their leave.

You started by pulling off your supple boots and Geralt turned his back as he began to unlace his jerkin. He heard you give a soft laugh behind him. “Are we really going to pretend like neither of us have seen a naked body before, Witcher?”

He whipped around at the amusement in your voice. You had removed your corset and sleeves and were down to nothing but a thin linen tunic on top. He tried not to stare at the shape of your breasts moving beneath the fabric as you worked at unlacing your breeches. You shot him a wicked look through your lashes as you moved your fingers back to unstrap the multiple sheathes that had been hidden beneath your bodice.

He did his best to ignore you as he ripped his jerkin off over his head. He made easy work of his tunic and breeches and sank into the tub while you were still working on undoing the intricate trappings of your hidden arsenal.

“I really don’t see how you can be comfortable in all of that Y/N.” He chided you as you removed the final straps and drew your tunic over your head before shimmying out of your breeches. He did his best to keep his eyes occupied elsewhere as you stepped into your own bath, hissing at the heat.

“Comfort is a matter of individual preference, dear. Oh, that’s wonderful.” You sank into the water with a sigh and dunked your head under before coming back up with a gasp.

“So, you going to tell me how you ended up with a warhorse, enough steel to equip a small band of thieves, and the strength to wield a tentpole like a damn quarterstaff, or is that something I’ll have to guess at?” He asked as he dumped a bucket over his head and ran the water through his hair before shaking it back out and splashing you, making you yelp.

“I think I’ll keep that my little secret for now, Geralt. Maybe if you buy me a few strongales over the next few days I’ll regale you with my tale of woe.” You let out a sigh as you felt your muscles relax. “Maybe I’ll get you to tell me your history as well. I hear the Redanians have a liquor that will light your chest on fire and make you forget the seasons.”

He gave a laugh and settled his head back against the tub. “You think you can outdrink me girl, you’re in for a nasty surprise… fuck.” He hadn’t heard you leave your tub and sat up startled when you crawled into his, sloshing water over the sides.

“Oh, Geralt, you’ll find that I’m full of surprises.” You said before pressing your mouth to his softly and giving a gentle sigh.

He got over his surprise quickly and wrapped his arms around you, pressing you to him fiercely as he growled against your lips.

You gave him a small laugh as you moved your lips down the line of his jaw to his neck, running your teeth along his collarbone before nipping at him softly as your hands moved down the plains of his chest, dipping below the water to take his cock in your grasp. He gave you a satisfying moan as you did so and you began sliding your hand up and down his length slowly as you raised a small bruise on his shoulder with your mouth.

He bucked his hips up into your hand as you increased your pace and you moved your other hand below the water to play with his balls. You leaned against his chest and gazed up at him with heavy lids as you watched him come apart under your ministrations.

He arched his back and gave a heavy moan as he came in your hand and you grinned against his chest as he softened, planting soft kisses along his throat as he came down and his breathing slowed.

He swallowed thickly and grinned at you before scooping his arms underneath you and lifting you out of the tub easily, making you shriek with glee before he dropped you unceremoniously on the large bed and pounced on top of you, nuzzling himself into the skin below your ear as his large hands skimmed down the sides of your torso before coming to rest on your hips and kneading them, raising bruises on your soft skin.

He brought one hand between the two of you and ran his fingers through the soft hair of your mound before rubbing them between your folds, making you arch into him as you let out a thin whine, fluttering your lashes as you gazed at him. He grinned down at you as he inserted two fingers at an agonizingly slow pace and you moaned as he started fucking them into you, curling them against that sweet, spongy spot each time.

He added another finger as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling your clean scent as you mewled and whimpered, begging him for more. He started strumming your clit with his thumb and you writhed underneath him, doing your best to grind your cunt into him as his fingers stretched you.

It was almost too much when he added the fourth finger and you wrapped your hands in his silver hair, pressing his face to your neck as you cried silently. He moved his mouth back to yours as he increased his speed and pressure on your tiny bud, moving his tongue softly past your lips and tangling it with yours. You came around him, clenching down on his fingers in your release as all the breath rushed out of you. He felt you go rigid beneath him before you collapsed back against the bed with a sigh.

“You think you’re ready for me sweetheart?” He asked as he kissed your neck, moving his hands up to palm your breasts.

You pulled his head back by his hair and gave him a grin before squeezing his sides with your thighs and rolling until you were on top of him, straddling his hips.

You sat up over him and he groaned at the sight of you, soft skin moving over lean muscle, a patchwork of faint scars covering your torso. He ran his thumb over an especially noticeable one that ran over your ribs below your left breast as you guided him to your entrance and sheathed his length inside you suddenly, making him hiss.

You started grinding against him, rubbing your clit against his pubic bone before you started fucking yourself on his cock. He tossed his head back with a moan and a murmured “Fuck” as his hands moved to your hips and guided your thrusts, meeting your hips with his own as he rutted up into you.

He sat up suddenly and pressed you to him as he knelt beneath you, staring into your eyes with lust blown pupils, a thin golden ring around a pool of deep black. You wrapped your legs around his back as he fucked up into you at a faster pace, making it hard for you to breathe.

He wrenched your head down to his and crashed his mouth against yours, his tongue invading you hungrily as you felt your pleasure starting to coil in your abdomen and you whimpered into his mouth.

He felt you starting to clench around him and moved a hand between you to strum at your clit. It only took a moment and you were flying apart around him, every muscle below your waist spasming as your orgasm wracked you and you cried into his mouth. His release was right behind yours as his hips stilled and you felt his spend spurting into you, coating your velvety walls in his release with a feral growl.

He collapsed back on the bed, still holding you to him as you both came down from you pleasure, breathing heavily as your hearts pounded together. You propped your chin on his chest and gave him a sinful grin that he returned, planting a kiss on the top of your head as you started to untangle yourselves.

“Well, if all your surprises are that pleasant, Y/N, I can’t wait to find out more.” He said to you over his shoulder as he stood up from the bed, grabbing a towel to finish drying himself off. He tossed you one and you ran it softly between your thighs, cleaning the mixture of your releases from your slit as you grinned back at him.

“My dear Witcher, I aim to please.” You threw a wink at him before you stood up and stretched. “I arranged for some clean clothes to be brought up, could you check the door for them?”

He peeked his head out and brought in two sets of soft woolens, tossing one to you. You yanked a tunic over your head before stepping into the clean pair of breeches. You decided to forgo most of your blades for the moment, opting for a simple belt that contained two daggers once you had finished lacing up your bodice.

“Shall we head down for more ale?”

“Gods yes, what else do you know about this storied Redanian liquor?”

You gave him a throaty laugh as you headed down to the main room and lute music floated up to meet you.

“Ah, Y/N! Geralt! My friends! Join us for a song won’t you? Y/N, I still want to hear you sing ‘The Fishmonger’s Daughter’ for us, eh? Oh Fishmonger, Oh Fishmonger, Come Quell your Daughter’s Hunger”

“Gods, Jaskier, aren’t you sick of that song yet?” Geralt growled half heartedly

“Pull the stick out of your ass, Witcher. C’mon, Jaskier. To pull on my horn, as it rises in the morn!”

“What a lovely voice you have my lady! For tis naught but bad luck, to fuck with a puck!”

The Witcher rolled his eyes at the two of you as he headed to the bar and the rest of the patrons joined in. What he wouldn’t give to never hear this abominable tune ever again.

“Lest your grandkid be born, a hairy young faun! Bleating and baying all day, hey ho!”

Permanent Tags:

@drabblewithfrannybarnes​

#geralt of rivia #geralt x ofc #geralt x y/n #geralt x you #geralt x reader #witcher netflix #witcher fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #fanfic #fanfiction #writing

[vocalyunho]

For the game

pairing — bad boy! Yunho x fem. reader

genre — angst, smut

word count — 4.4k

warnings: blowjob, cunnilingus, explicit protected sex, degradation, mention of insecurity.

synopsis — playing truth or dare with a bunch of 20-year-olds always leads to impermissible happenings. What happens when your friend dares you to make the bad boy of the campus come in order for you to win the game?

A/N(1): to the anon who requested this, I made some changes to the request to fit the plot. Writing bad boy! Yunho was kinda difficult for me though when he’s a walking sweetheart 24/7. My apologies if this one’s not good.

Α/Ν(2): gif is mine

“Make Yunho cum and you’re the winner of the game”, everything went blurry for a second and you thought you didn’t hear right. However, you heard perfectly but when the night started, you didn’t expect it to come to this.

“we want proof, too”, Mingi smirked from across you in the circle.

Your eyes flickered and before they could go wide, you collected yourself. If anything, making Yunho come was a fantasy many girls had. He’s the dreamlike Yunho, after all...tall, blond with his black natural roots always visible, built like a damn Greek God and he’d really resemble one, if only he wasn’t him. Hs has a different reputation...the ‘bad guy’ kind of reputation, but he isn’t just the type to smoke too much for his own good or break the law because ‘laws are meant to be broken’ -even though he did both-. He’s more like the type that doesn’t pretend. He never changed his personality just to accommodate whoever was around, he never tried to fit in, he never asked for approval by anyone. He was him, too confident, unpredictable, cocky and rough and most of the times...too much.

You’ve never come in direct contact with him, you’ve never talked to him, he’s intimidating enough to just mind your business and stay away from the trouble he could cause you. However, you do see him in many lectures to know how smart and eloquent he is and that worries you the most, because he knows how to use these two gifts of his very well. So well to the point, girls fall for him and his carefully chosen words, even though they subconsciously know he just wants to fuck them and never talk to them again. But they still fall!

“So?”

“I’ll do it”, you didn’t think much of it. There are 15 people in this room waiting for you to take the dare, you can’t be a coward now, even if you know you’ll regret it later. “but just so you know, the proof part...fucking gross...what’s going on inside your mind?”, you spit out the words. How are you going to keep proof, anyways?

Everyone cheered as you stood up and from the corner of your eye you could see Yunho doing the same, the simple way of just standing up with a smirk smudged on his lips making your heart clench out of nowhere.

“take your time, no need to hurry”, Mingi shouted and Yunho laughed cheekily. Your eyes only rolled dramatically at the back of your head and, without knowing that’s a foreshadowing of your near future, you walked upstairs. Who would’ve thought walking to a room would be hard, especially with him following behind you as you felt his eyes on you the entire time. Trying to stay calm, your mind wandered around trying to think of what you’ll do once you come face to face with him behind the closed door and when you reached the room, the clicking sound of a door getting locked, made you snap out of any other thoughts. You turned around fast, only to catch him scanning your body as his tongue played around in his mouth and when he felt your gaze on him, he didn’t even try to take his eyes away. The -not so loud- music from downstairs was even lower upstairs and it could only be heard as a distant echo now, behind the closed door.

“well, uhm-“

“you had planned this, right?”, only then he decided to leave your body and move his eyes up to yours. Everything happening as he moved his hands into his pockets and narrowed his eyes as the same sly smile from before got wider.

“excuse me?”

“you planned this with Mingi, didn’t you?”

“believe me, if I was to plan something...this would be the last thing I’d try to”, your hand moved in circles in front of you, indicating that you’re talking about the situation you’re in right now.

“the last thing, you say?”. It looked like he got offended as the smirk disappeared, but you couldn’t care less right now.

“can we just get over with it fast? Sit down so I can blow you”

“I can’t come from blowjobs”, he said in a normal tone.

“there’s no way you don’t, all guys do”

“I don’t”, he shrugged and started walking around the room, “besides, we wouldn’t be able to keep proof...would you go downstairs with my cum all over your face as proof?”

“I’d never do that, my level isn’t so low”, you grimaced at his boldness as you faced his back.

“I’m not so sure about that”

You tilted your head and -without realizing- your eyebrows furrowed, “excuse me?”, a bitter smile creeped up your features, trying to process the words he had just blurted out as you crossed your arms tightly in front of your chest. He turned around and his characteristics looked extremely chill, like he was discussing normally with a friend. “I think you’d gladly go down these stairs to show off to everyone what good of a job your pretty little mouth can do”

“I really hope I misunderstood what you just said”, you tried to stay content and waited for him to somehow explain himself. You were sure you weren’t hearing right, this guy doesn’t know you the slightest bit to spit out dreadful things like that.

“aww what? are you mad?”, he sneered pouting and walked towards you. If you weren’t already mad at what you were hearing, his attitude was enough to make you.

“no”, although your head felt like clasping from the rush of nerves, you took a deep breath and let your eyes fall heavy on his.

“guys like you always speak like that”, you raised your eyebrow at him “you don’t have anything better to do, after all. Your only concern is who you’ll fuck next…so, I didn’t expect anything more from you”

You let your hands fall on the back pockets of your jeans and looked at him with the same sly smile he had before. At this point, you know you’re about to lose both Mingi’s dare and the opportunity to blow the Jeong Yunho, but who cares after what he’s already told you? If he can be bad, you can be worse.

The black buttoned down shirt he was wearing betrayed the tension spreading in his body and as he raised the sleeves up to his elbows you saw the -painted with black ink- arms flex and unflex at the words you spoke, making the veins pop out. His expression changed into a mix of confusion and surprise and stayed still where he was, maybe 1 meter away from you.

“you don’t know me”, he smiled ironically and you held back every urge to kiss this flaming hot smile of his away.

“You don’t either but you said what you said before, uhm…Yunho? Is that right? Wait, what’s your name, again?”, you frowned like you couldn’t remember his name.

He laughed coldly and let his tongue lick his bottom lip, bet then moved closer and bent down to reach your height, “ask that one more time and I’ll make sure you never forget it again”, he whispered like someone could hear you.

You looked everywhere but at him and your face was expressionless, but your mind travelled with 200 miles an hour. If this meant what you thought it did, you’d love to never forget his name again but why is he attacking you? You don’t even know each other, he has no right to talk to you like that and after all, you were dared to be in this room alone with him. It’s not like you asked for this to happen.

It took you everything to press your palm against his chest to keep a distance between your bodies, “cut the act already and let’s get over with what we came here for. I need to win the dare and the game, not argue with a fucking stranger”

“oh, don’t worry about that, you’ll win the game”, he kept coming closer and closer and you moved back until your back pressed against the wall, leaving you no other choice than to stare up at his intimidating, yet hot form “and we won’t be strangers anymore”. It felt like his lips attacked yours in a matter of seconds and his hands travelled immediately down to grab your ass and pick you up. Your head felt dizzy at the relieve of the previous nerves as you kissed him back just as hungrily, and it felt like all the argument from before did, was build a sexual tension that drove you both crazy. He was breathing heavily against you, making the sound of lips on lips and breath against breath echo in the room and your legs wrapped around his waist fast. It was sloppy and passionate, like you were both waiting for it longer than you should and as his tongue wandered around in your mouth, you arms wrapped around his neck tightly. Your hands messed his hair up as you grabbed the back of his head in whichever way you could and when he parted and travelled down to kiss your neck, only then you realized how much you’d lingered for this. Leaning your head back against the wall, it seemed like all the previous thoughts about the credulous girls that fell for him led you to becoming one of them. Your mouth fell open when he bit down in the part between your ear and collarbone and the spine-tingling feeling made you let a breathy moan out. If he hadn’t already marked it, he was definitely going to with the way his lips sucked on the increasingly sensitive flesh. All your senses had almost given in until you felt fingers grab your chin, forcing your head drop down to his eye level “seems like someone’s having fun”, he smirked.

“shut up” and this time you actually kissed that cheeky smile of his away, with no second thoughts. If you’re going to regret all of this afterwards, better regret it after doing everything you wish for, now. He didn’t hesitate a second and before you knew it, you were thrown on the bed with him on top and your legs still wrapped around his waist, but now you could feel his bulge between your thighs. “You considered me a slut, yet you are the hard one”. You turned him over easily but you’re sure he only let you to. You straddled him on purpose, already grinding your crotch against his and your lips landed on his neck, sucking harshly. Multi-tasking isn’t your forte, but you successfully did all of this while unbuttoning the useless buttons, until gravity forced the two parts of the shirt to slide on the sides exposing his chest that you couldn’t see yet. He breathed heavily under you, not letting a single sound out though and you so wanted to hear what he’d sound like. You raised your body to admire the view of his exposed torso and it didn’t let you down at all and his comment only made your curiosity about how he’d sound like, grow more “wanna know how I taste like? C’mon go ahead, baby”. Oh, you’re so gonna taste him. You kissed his chest and travelled down to the fairly formed abs, giving attention to each one as they tensed with every lick, but still no sound from him. The sight of the v-line on his oblique muscles, travelling down and inside his jeans, made your mouth water and unbuckling the already loose belt along with the zip, he raised his hips to help you take it off.

“Both”, he growled and the message was taken in an instant. You don’t know why you obeyed but you slid down both the jeans and his boxers, making his dick spring up like an actual spring. You didn’t help the gasp that left your throat and he only fake laughed, enjoying your reaction more than he should. “maybe you should think about it again, baby”, the confidence in his tone triggered you more than you expected. He’s indeed big, well maybe, too big but you can’t back out now. You’ve come this far, you need to win this game. You grabbed the base tightly and gave it a slow stroke all the way up to his tip, that was already swollen, but he was too dry to pump properly. Your spit landed on his slit fast, only for you to smear it with your thumb over the entire reddened tip. “Shit”, his eyes never left your hand as it stroked him slowly, getting the spit over the length until it was ready to work as lube. Your hand worked up and down, increasing the pace as you did, but other than the curse he let out previously no other sound or word was heard from him. Only heavy breaths and tensed muscles proved that someone was playing with him. You held on his bare thigh to keep your body steady and pumped him faster but the spit was long gone, “blow me”.

Every time he speaks, it feels like you can’t do anything else other than obey, and that’s exactly what happened now again as you wrapped your lips around the tip, licking it with your tongue. He hissed and, maybe, you’re almost there, almost at making him let all the sounds out. You tried your best to deep throat him but you only gagged from the first try and you hadn’t even taken all of him yet. So staying at known waters, you bobbed your head fast going till midway and holding the rest of him with your hand, until he backed his hips up going deeper than you were prepared for and your eyes watered instantly. Everything around you disappeared for a second and when you felt a strong hold on your hair, you came back tightening your lips around him as he held your head steady in a messy ponytail he had created with his hand. His body was almost up, thrusting in your mouth with no mercy, lowkey loving the sounds made by his dick getting shoved in your wet mouth. You moaned at the abuse of your throat and the vibrations sent to him made his eyebrows furrow and thrust faster as you tried to keep your kneeled body up by pushing down at the mattress. He thrusted and thrusted and tears started sliding down your cheeks, indicating that you’re almost out of oxygen. Your breathing was sporadic, not being able to inhale properly until he grunted so loudly that made you snap out of everything and, finally, listen to his needy voice “you’re taking this dick better than anyone else, fuck”

He throbbed and immediately pulled out, making you fall on his thighs. Everything was spinning around you for some moments and you coughed trying to catch your breath. Your hair fell all over your face when he detached his hand and you felt some wet strands sticking anywhere they touched. Weakness was the first thing you felt once you caught your breath, but you did realize what he had told you, making your drenched in wetness panties feel almost uncomfortable now. You were needy, you needed him to make you feel good. You needed to know if he was as good as everyone claimed he was, but you shouldn’t look desperate. “Fuck”, you whispered coming in your senses for good now.

“About that…”, your body was on the pillow and under him again in a matter of seconds “you didn’t make me come, so I guess I’ll have to fuck you if you wanna win the game”, he rolled his eyes like you failed him but his actions said otherwise. Yunho slid his hands under your shirt, only to find your bare breasts already exposed “you’re not wearing a bra? How did this pass unnoticed by me the entire night?”, he raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised, but the smirk was still there.

However, you didn’t wear one only because you wore an oversized piece of clothing tonight and your breasts are too small for anyone to realize you don’t have a bra on under such fabric. That’s already been your biggest insecurity, you didn’t need him to mention your breasts in a situation like this. Your breathing hitched and your eyes flickered between his own as he fiddled with them. You were quick to cover your breasts with your hands above the t-shirt, pushing his own away but then he looked in your eyes again and you swear to any God, you saw some…emotion? “I like small boobs anyways…they’re way cuter”, he stated after a bit, like he spoke facts but you couldn’t bring yourself to let go of them. You didn’t want him up there again and, maybe, he realized as he didn’t dare to touch them again. He is…respectful?! He started kissing your abdomen here and there until he reached the hem of your pants and as his lips went lower and lower, so did your pants along with your panties. You don’t know when they reached your knees or when he slid them completely off, but you do know how good his lips feel on your thighs and on the inner part of them and now on your…clit. “ohmygod-“, he flattened his tongue and you spread your legs to give him more space to do as he wished “so needy”, Yunho chuckled and sucked on your clit making lewd sounds fill the room. You whimpered and as he kept sucking, you felt a knot on your stomach getting tight “oh shit, yes-”. He hummed and before parting his lips from you, he licked your entrance collecting some of your silk on his tongue and swallowing it. “mhm better than I expected”, he commented to himself as he stood up from the bed fast, leaving you confused until you saw him taking a small square package from his jeans’ pockets and ripping it open before sliding a condom on his length.

He came up, close to your face again and his eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips as he spoke “be a good girl and make me come…remember, I’m the one making you win this game so behave and don’t you dare fall for me”

“I wasn’t planning to, I want this to be over as much as you want”

He cocked his brow and ran his tongue over his bottom lip in disbelief “it didn’t seem like this a minute ago”.

“it didn’t seem like you wanted this to be over either when you throbbed and pulled out of my mouth”, you cocked your brow too. Did he really think you wouldn’t notice he almost came in your mouth? You might not be as experienced as him or have a dick like he does, but you’re not this naïve. You were ready for a harsher comeback but your mouth fell on a silent scream and your eyes shut close fast before you could hear what he said. He shoved himself in you with a groan and your head pinned to the pillow “oh shittt-”

“I could come…but I didn’t. I know you want me inside you…look at you, you can’t even take it all”

“fucking try me”, you said through greeted teeth and when he pushed further you regretted talking before thinking “fuck ohmygoddd-”. He’s big, especially in width, maybe more than anyone you’ve had before or so you thought at the moment. Your fingers dug into the mattress, eventually holding on the sheets on each side of your body and when he bottomed out, he grabbed your cheeks to make you face him again “you better take me well”, he said and pulled out fast before snapping his hips against yours “fuuuckkk”. You weren’t even used to his size yet but he thrusted in a pace that had the skin against skin sound echo in the room like a rhythm.

“you’re so fucking tight”, he almost growled and your eyes shut tight at the feeling of being filled to the hilt. Pleasure took over your body quickly and his breathing got heavier and louder making you look at him. Yunho’s head was bowed forward, his eyes on how he disappeared in you but the glistening wetness on his forehead caught your eye. You weren’t the only one sweating at the penetration, he tried his best to bear the new satisfaction that was taking over his body slowly and the popping vein on the side of his neck, admitted it.

You didn’t control the loud cry that fell from your lips when he managed to go faster and the smirk that got smudged on his lips again, drove you insane. “oh fu-uck”, his brows furrowed and his head snapped back. He sounds so good. Your body started moving along with his thrusts and high pitched moans filled the room after every shove of his dick in you “f-fasterr”. Only when the headboard knocked on the wall behind you, you realized how hard he was thrusting and the next second his hands grabbed your waist to move you as he wished. You could only feel the sweet abuse of your hole but when he tightened his fingers you noticed how big his hands were. So big, he could almost move you easily with just the grasp of his fingers around you. The air in your lungs got knocked out with every shove and your breasts -even though tiny- bounced too.

“Spread your legs”, he snapped suddenly. You only did as much as you could “more”.

“MORE”

He sounded mad and suddenly both of his hands grabbed your ankles and held them up, spread as much as he wanted, forcing his dick harder in your hole. “ohmygod Yunho-”. He went so deep you thought you saw stars and you tried to hold on the sheets harder but failed miserably.

“you know my fucking name after all”

“fuck that’s iit”, his balls hit your ass with every thrust and he hissed at how much deeper he could go in the new angle.

“say my name”

“ ddon’t stop- yess”

“say my name”

“fucking make me”

Yunho’s hands were off your legs in a second and his body above you, almost crushing you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and brought you up on his lap fast before getting off the bed. You had no idea what was going on but the movement made you wrap your legs around his waist and your hands around his neck for safety. “you’ll scream my name, want it or not”. Your bare back froze from hitting the cold wall so fast and his hands went on your ass now to bounce you up and down on his dick like a puppet. “ohmy fuckin godd-”

‘this little pussy’s swallowing me s-so good”

Everything spinned and your hair got all over your face again but you were holding on him for dear life. Your eyes rolled at the back of your head when he hit the spot and as you didn’t control your mouth muscles anymore, he crashed his lips on yours swallowing the next loud moans. “that’s it yesyesyes”. You let his lips go but felt his eyes on you as you couldn’t keep your own open for more than a second. He groaned loudly and you realized that the Jeong Yunho is right in front of you, looking at your fucked out features and being the reason behind them. You tried to collect yourself as much as possible. This is the only chance you have to make him lose his mind and you’ll grab it. “ffuck me har-der”, you stared into his eyes like this was a challenge “is that all you got?”

“you little-”, He pressed his body against yours, sandwiching you between him and the wall and snapped up with effort.

“harder”

He pounded into you mercilessly and you lost track of everything. You were so close. The overdose of satisfaction almost choking you, but he was driving you to a bliss so sweet that you’d never wanna leave again. “shit-” he jerked and his tip hit your g-spot especially hard “ohmygod Yunhoo-”

“lou-der”, he couldn’t even speak the words properly but his pride was so big, he couldn’t end it there.

“Yu-unho don’tt stop-”

“I’m gon- coome fuck”, his knees trembled and the knot in your stomach couldn’t take it anymore. His grunts were loud and got mixed with needy moans as he came but he kept thrusting as fast as he could. His face was all scrunched up and let his head fall on your shoulder muffling incoherent syllables against it. His sweat got on your shirt and he kept throbbing and thrusting as he filled the condom. Your hand reached for your clit and just as you circled it twice, your abdomen flexed like you pressed the switch and your orgasm reached you with loud cries and sporadic breathing. Your upper body trembled and you felt him tightening the embrace to keep you steady as he slowed down, trying to catch his breath still against your shoulder. Your head rested on the wall behind you and after closing your eyes, you felt Yunho dragging himself out. You hissed because of the sensitivity but he was slow and then he moved your bodies letting you fall on the soft mattress.

“you won the game”, he said staring at the condom after sliding it off. You’ll probably have to clean it with some water before keeping it as proof.

“I’m glad”, you raised your head only to get the view of his naked body standing tall beside the bed and you pressed your legs together, narrowing the knees at the recent memory of him being inside you, but then you spoke words you wished you didn’t have to “this was only a one time thing, for the game. Let’s forget it happened”.

“yeah, let’s forget it”. Something felt like shattering inside him in a million, tiny pieces. He knew this was the first time he ever felt something, almost real, for someone…

—————————————————

you can read part 2 here

#ateez #ateez yunho #jeong yunho #yunho smut #yunho angst #bad boy! Yunho #ateez smut #ateez angst #kpop scenarios #kpop fics #anon I used the gif you talked about in the request I think huhu #I apologize if this isnt good #bias tag: ♔

[sunflowerandco]

Entranced

One-Shot

A/N: Hi!!! taking a break, but I queued this one shot I wrote a couple weeks ago. I hope you like it!

Rating: T

Summary:  Courtney's beliefs on hypnotism are challenged when she gets hypnotized into pursuing her growing feelings for the rebellious delinquent of their friend group. [Requested]

          Geoff approached their table with their respective drinks in his hands. He handed them out in the order he called them out in.

         "Okay, Long Island iced tea for Bridge, rum and Coke for DJ, red wine for Courtney and two Blue Moons for me and Duncan for whenever he shows up." DJ raised the question. "Where is he anyway? The hypnotist is coming on stage soon."

         "He had an emergency client at the shop. Something about a failed brake? Anyway, he'll be here soon."

         "You can't tell me you guys actually believe this stuff." Bridgette shook off Courtney's doubt.

         "We do! Too bad your boyfriend isn't here to agree with you." Courtney crossed her arms at Bridgette's comment.

         "Duncan is not my boyfriend!"

         "I didn't say a name." Courtney couldn't say anything and decided not to dig the hole she was in even deeper.

         The show started, and the hypnotist, David, brought out a few people from backstage fifteen minutes into the show. He performed a few acts; the first being David making a woman afraid of the word 'balloon'. The second person was brought into a trance and left craving their least favorite food at the sound of a snap. Courtney remained unimpressed and assumed all his tricks were the product of good acting and practice. She rolled her eyes at the last act and the pure theatricality of the last woman clucking like a chicken across the stage as laughter filled the bar. After she ran off backstage, David called to the audience for their participation.

         "So, anyone wanna take a stab at it? Any doubters?" There weren't many people eager to try public humiliation until Bridgette yelled out while grabbing Courtney’s shoulders from behind.

         "She does!" Courtney turned to face her.

         "What?! No!" If there was one thing Courtney hated, it would be having no control of how the public perceived of her. Still, Bridgette persisted and had the assistance of DJ and Geoff now.

         "Come on, Courtney! I thought you didn't believe in it!"

         "I don't, but-" Courtney tried to make her case, but was cut off by the audience's cheering. David reached his hand out to help her get to the stage. Bridgette swore she heard a death threat from Courtney before she gave in and made her way up. There was a chair ready for her facing the audience to which David gestured for her to sit.

         "Now, remember this can only be done at your most relaxed state." She looked up him; her lack of belief resting on her face. He continued. "So, take a deep breath, doe eyes."

         She used those same eyes to roll them at him before taking a deep breath. He held a pendulum in front of her face and the chain with one finger. "All you need to do is follow the motions of this pendulum. Only focus on this object..." Courtney's eyes moved back in forth, mirroring the object before her. The faces she once saw clearly in the audience faded before her as she slipped into a deeper state of relaxation. Before she knew it, the only voice she could hear was David's. She followed every step he had told her.

         "Now, close your eyes. and repeat after me."

         Every time he spoke, she echoed his words.

         "I was wrong."

         "I was wrong."

         "David was right."

         "David was right."

         The crowd filled with laughter as he continued to prove her wrong, and Bridgette was only glad Courtney wouldn't remember this.

         "I will never doubt the power of hypnosis again."

         "I will never doubt the power of hypnosis again."

         David moved on to seal her fate and tried to keep her focus. "Now, can you still hear me?"

         Courtney sat still. David continued. "I want you to think of the person that attracts you the most. The person that makes your heart race at first glance."

         Courtney's mind faltered but still followed instruction.

         "From now on, at the sound of a bell, you will have the urge to kiss that person when you're in the same room. This urge will dissipate after you kiss that person, and the sound of bells won't affect you any longer."

         David continued to give her instruction. "At the snap of my fingers, you will return to us in a relaxed state, and no memory of this conversation."

         David snapped his fingers quickly and Courtney opened her eyes slowly. She felt like she had just woken up from a cat nap. She stretched her arms out before remembering she was on stage. She jumped from the seat and David only gestured to the stairs leading to the bottom of the stage.

         She walked back to their table still confused as ever as her friends suppressed their snickers. Bridgette playfully questioned her, but Courtney didn't answer out of pride. "So, do you believe in it now?"

         In a matter of perfect timing, Duncan rushed to their table from the door and sat down in the empty seat next to Courtney's. He greeted them as he sat down. "Hey guys. Princess. What'd I miss?"

         They looked at each other with all-knowing expressions in an unspoken decision that it would be funnier if he didn’t know what happened. Geoff, the loudest of the three, tried to suppress his laughter as he handed him the bottle, he ordered for him. Duncan furrowed his brow, grabbed it, and used his keys to pop the top off. He looked to Courtney for an answer. "What's wrong with them?"

         Courtney wasn't ready to admit David's line of work was potentially legitimate and that she was the lab rat in the test of faith. She assumed that's why they were laughing, anyway. So, she just shrugged her shoulders while trying not to make eye contact with him. Their conversation ceased when David called for the next participant and Duncan turned his attention to the stage.

         The rest of the night went on with Bridgette, Geoff and DJ making hints only they'd understand, and for the night Courtney and Duncan's joint confusion left them on a team of their own. Duncan didn't mind the excuse for them to share glances every now and then without her pushing him away.

                                                        ***

         Courtney stared up at the elevator dial as she waited for it to reach the lobby. After a long day at the firm, all she wanted was a night in her bathtub and bed. She heard someone enter the building from the blaring sound of the buzzer to let guests in. The person entering found the audacity to stand right next to her, shoulder to shoulder. She was annoyed at first but caught a whiff of his cologne and recognized the scent. Before she turned her head toward him, she heard his voice, and it echoed throughout the empty lobby.

         "Hey, Princess. Long day?"

         "Yes, Neanderthal. And I wish you'd stop calling me that. " Duncan smirked at the opportunity to ignite the flame inside of her. He loved seeing her nose scrunch at his words knowing there was no real annoyance behind the guise of her expressions. He thought it was cute and it the most common reaction to get out of her.

         "But it's just so fitting, babe."

         "It is not! What are you doing here anyway?"

         "Geoff and I are hanging out tonight. You're not the only tenant here." Courtney's attention shifted to the elevator dial when she heard it reached the lobby, and the bell ringed. Courtney's eyes widened and her mind felt lighter as if all her thought prior to this moment disappeared. She remembered where she was when Duncan gestured for her to go into the elevator with his hand.

         "You first, Princess."

         Courtney looked up at him and the first thing she noticed was his lips moving. They were forming words, but she was more focused on the shape as the sound drowned out. Were they always that pink? Her confusion increased when she felt her heart thump loudly in her chest and she quickly looked toward the elevator doors. She walked inside while he followed behind her. He pressed the tenth floor for her and the eleventh for him, the doors closed, and the elevator ascended to their floors. He whipped his head in her direction when she yelled out.

         The rush of her thoughts only compelled her to do one thing, and it felt increasingly difficult to push it away with him around, and the face she resisted to look at to stop her from feeling anything she couldn't control. Still the words echoed in her head one after the other.

         Kiss him! He's right there, and we're finally alone!

         She held her face with her hands and screamed.

        "No!"

        Duncan got closer to her, and that only made it worse for her. He held a genuinely concerned expression on his face.

        "What's wrong with you? Are you scared of the elevator?" She didn't want to explain nor could she, so she went along with his assumption. She nodded in fear of opening her mouth to hear an uncontrolled thought escape from it. She groaned loudly as she tried to subdue her mind's determination for action. Duncan instinctively held her as he tried to keep her from lowering onto the floor, and her arms wrapped around his upper body. Courtney couldn't resist the need to face him as his grip tightened; her composure slowly coming back to her caused her to stand a little straighter, but her breath couldn't catch up with her when her studying eyes shifted from his lips to his eyes. They still sought after hers to reassure her.

        "It's okay, Courtney. Nothing's gonna happen to you." His words slowly softened the intensity of her thoughts. She remembered feeling safer, and what she wanted didn't sound so bad after all.

        Duncan's voice trailed off, and she appeared to relax for a little before he realized how close their faces were. He savored in the fact that he was able to admire every feature without the barrier of their usual deal. He took in just how rounded and big her eyes were and every freckle on her nose. He allowed himself to focus on her lips and their fullness. They were painted in crimson and were... parting? He knew he wasn't just seeing things when he noticed them slowly inching closer to his. As much as he wanted this, he couldn't determine if this was something she really wanted. Everything was all happening way too fast.

        The bell went off again to signal they had reached Courtney's floor, all her need diminished, and her original thoughts piled on her like a ton of sand. She tried to remember getting into the elevator and into Duncan's arms. She enjoyed the feeling of being wrapped in him for a split second before realization hit. She pushed against his chest to separate them; a look of disbelief portrayed on her face as she pretended her heart didn't skip a few beats in between.

        "What are you doing?!"

        "What am I doing?! You were the one freaking out! I was just trying to calm you down because you wouldn't stop yelling!" Courtney held no regard for what he said as embarrassment took over her body. She readjusted the bag on her shoulder while she looked down to avoid eye contact with him again.

        "I don't need you protecting me!" He couldn't say anything else because she stormed off to her apartment letting the doors close on their conversation. Duncan felt frustrated at first, hell, even angry, and confused all in one. He was only given a mere amount of time to process the fact that she was actually leaning in to kiss him. He was wrapped up in frustration like a ribbon, but then it hit him.

        Courtney wanted to kiss me. That is, before she pushed me away for no reason. The thought chimed in his head repeatedly and he smiled to himself when the question that plagued his mind finally had an answer.

                                                        ***

        The moment in the elevator couldn't leave Duncan's mind. What he assumed was a confirmation of her reciprocating feelings made him feel compelled to talk to her about it and get their feelings in order. He buzzed her apartment and made his way upstairs. The tiniest of nerves got to him on the way up. She didn't have to pursue anything, but he still needed clarity from her.

        Courtney was brought back into a trance and took on the same mindset she had in the elevator. She knew she had to answer the door and in her tranced state she hoped it was the person her mind was hellbent on seeing. The trance stunted her speed by keeping her focus on the feeling her had in the elevator, but she quickly snapped out of the haze when the doorbell rang once more. She proceeded like normal to the door to unlock it to see Duncan standing in her doorway. She was confused but seeing him even in an uninfluenced state made her heart race as his arm hovered over the doorframe. She secured her robe as she greeted him and tried to keep an unfazed tone. "Duncan, what are you doing here? Are you here to apologize?" She still had a brief memory of them in the elevator. She wasn't entirely angry with him, but he indeed caught her off guard that day.

        "I wanted to talk to you. Mind if I come in?" Courtney widened the door to let him inside and led Duncan to the living room. Her heart had no plan of soothing to its normal pace as Duncan sat down next to her on the couch. He placed his elbows on his knees and looked toward her before speaking.

        "We need to talk about what happened in the elevator the other day. I don't know what happened to you at the end, but you tried to kiss me." Courtney wouldn't believe him or anything that made her face her feelings.

        "I did not try to kiss you! You were simply holding onto me and I pushed you away. Anyway, you need to go. I'm expecting Bridgette over any minute now."

        Duncan felt anything but encouraged by their exchange of words. He shook his head in frustration at her disbelief. "Fine. If you wanna keep living with selective memory, then by all means-" He was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Courtney turned to him in vehement intent as if a switch had been flipped in her head. The thoughts that raced through her mind previously in this trance came back to her. This time they grew stronger, and she didn't feel compelled to fight against them anymore. They sounded like that of a schoolgirl crush. Duncan's voiced faded slowly into the background.

        "Are you not gonna answer the door?"

        Kiss him! His lips are right in front of your face and he's right here on your couch!

        Drunk on her pervading thoughts, she slowly inched next to him; seeking her hazy ambitions. This time, Duncan was even more perplexed at the situation and he couldn't understand the sequence of events Courtney brought to their circumstance. Before the madness, he understood their relationship to an extent, and all of it managed to derail in a matter of two days out of utter confusion. She got closer to him, holding her hand to his face. "Courtney, do you not remember what you just said, like, two seconds ago?"

        Bridgette rang the doorbell again, and Courtney immediately slipped out of the trance once again.

        “See? I knew you wanted to kiss me.”.

        “What the hell are you talking about?”

        Duncan stood up from the couch; his brain was tired of the mental gymnastics at this point. “Okay, now you’re making me feel like I’m crazy-“

        “If the shoe fits, wear it.” Courtney opened the door to find Bridgette outside. She was ready with questions after hearing them yelling from the other side of the door.

        "What's going on in here? What are you guys yelling about this time?" Courtney led her to her living room and gestured to Duncan before she explained her side of the story.

        "This Neanderthal thinks I want to kiss him! He keeps up coming up with these stories that didn't even happen."

        Duncan offered his side this time. "They DID happen. And every time I try to tell her, she acts like she doesn't remember!"

        Bridgette sighed and looked at the both of them. Bridgette answered Duncan, not eager to explain to them without creating this awkward moment of realization for Courtney. "Because she can't remember them."

        Courtney looked at her incredulously and crossed her arms. "What are you talking about? You believe him?"

        Bridgette continued and tried to keep her tone calm as Courtney's intensified. "The hypnotist gave you the urge to kiss Duncan at the sound of a bell."

        Duncan and Courtney let out a simultaneous “What?!”

        Courtney surprised tone didn't match Duncan's humored one. She fumed at the thought of her friends causing all this humiliation she couldn't even remember for the past three days. “Why would you guys make me want to kiss Duncan?!”

        “The hypnotist told you to think of the person you’re most attracted to, so we didn’t choose him. You did.”

        Courtney eyes shifted to the side while her ears burned cherry-red at the fact. She looked down so she couldn't face either one of them.

        "Oh." She didn't argue back, letting Bridgette finish her explanation.

        “Yes. And it’ll only end once you actually kiss him.”

        Duncan added on to the conversation with growing frustration. “Which she has been trying to do until you came in!”

        She turned to face him, her face still bright red as ever. “Shut up!”

        “Okay, then. I’ll leave. It's not like you didn't want to do it before he hypnotized you.” Bridgette made her way toward the door and Courtney yelled out for her.

        "Wait! Can you ring the bell so I can get rid this stupid trance?" Bridgette nodded and closed the door behind her.

        "So, ready to admit you have the hots for me?"

        "Even if I did, why would it matter? At the end of the day, you wouldn't last long enough dating me."

        "Would it kill you to have a little faith in anything?" He turned to face her. "I'll be the first to admit it: I like you, Courtney.  I like you enough to come back here. I-I like you enough to " Bridgette rang the doorbell, and Duncan called out behind the closed door. "We're not ready!"

        Bridgette yelled back. "Sorry! Can't hear you."

        All the build up from the last two trances returned to the forefront of Courtney's mind. She looked up to see him in front of her, and her eyes fixated on his lips again. In one gesture, Courtney grabbed his face and placed her lips on top of his rather forcefully in quick motion. She felt herself being brought back to reality and out of the trance she was put under by David, but when she pulled apart from him the craving never died down. She was fully aware of exactly what she wanted. Courtney looked into Duncan's eyes for a second and noticed the seriousness of his expression. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again with the same force. His eyes shut instantly at the collision, and his arms pulled her in closer to him. Her lips began to overlap his in her desperate need to taste him, and Duncan smiled into the kiss while running a hand through her hair. Courtney sighed while they continued, and he swore he heard a moan escape of out her mouth. They were finally able to give into the thoughts of each other that persisted often in the night. He was as spellbinding as she imagined at this, and she gasped when he ran his tongue on her upper lip. She gave him the access he needed, and the feeling shot to her core.

        It was everything he could've wanted to happen between them. He wished for more opportunities like this one as he pulled her in closer to the point where their bodies were pressed against each other. As much as he wanted this to go on, her words still played over in his head. He broke them apart; their breaths trying hard to catch up with them. He looked at her as he posed the question; his arms still held her around her waist. "What about what you said earlier?" Courtney shook her head to dismiss his doubt. She was too enthralled by him to keep up the façade she maintained around their group of friends.

        "Forget what I said. I was just too scared to admit that I like... you?" Duncan smiled at her revelation and playfully poked fun at their predicament, still satisfied with the outcome.

        "So much you had to be hypnotized to do it?" Courtney shut him up again when she attached her lips back to his in an intoxicating pace, and her hands made their way through his dark hair. The weight on her shoulders completely lifted at the confession; she felt happy to feel weightless in Duncan's hold. They held little regard for Bridgette's questions from the other side as their pace escaladed slowly.

        "Do you guys really still need me to stand here?"

        "Guys! Hello?!"

#duncney #td courtney #duncney fic #td duncan

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Shaw’s 2020 Birthday R&S

🍒Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for an R&S which has not been released in EN!🍒

[Prologue]

The birthday event begins with MC in an antique store, in search of a moderately priced antique. She had asked Shaw for help since she’s been having difficulties finding one

Unexpectedly, Shaw gives her the keys to an antique store the next day, telling her to take whatever she wants

Even though MC knew early on that Shaw used to have a mentor who owned an antique store, she still feels strange about it - she’s unable to associate antiques, which are filled with rich history and culture, with Shaw

She wonders if Shaw visited this antique store regularly in his childhood

She notices that a drawer is open:

There are several yellowed exercise books lying inside, and “Shaw” is written on the bottom right corner of the covers in pencil.

MC: Could these be Shaw’s exercise books when he was young?

Curious, I take out these “major discoveries” from the drawer, my mind whirring with countless questions.  

At the back of my mind, I have a feeling that this place has a special meaning to Shaw.

MC: Maybe, for Shaw’s birthday…

While I’m thinking, something else in the drawer attracts my attention.

There are three copper coins, the colours antique, under sheets of writing paper. Covered in dust, they seem to be calling out to me voicelessly.

~

[Chapter 1: Exam Results]

At 4pm on a Friday afternoon, the math teacher wraps up her final point and closes the lesson plan.

The black board is decorated with the homework for the weekend. The teacher pushes up her spectacles. There is a big stack of exam papers on the table. “Last week’s exam scripts have been marked. Come and take them when I call your name.”

“This time round, most of you have improved. Only one student did not pass.” She takes up the exam script at the very top, flips it open, her eyes sweeping across the last row of the classroom, stopping at the seat at the very corner.

“Shaw.”

Hearing his own name being read, Shaw unwillingly stuffs the interesting comics underneath the table, taking his time to stand up. At the same time, the whole class cannot help but turn around and look at him evenly.

Sensing the surprised and teasing looks in their eyes, Shaw instead raises his head high and walks forward, stuffing a hand into his pocket with a devil-may-care attitude.

Taking the exam script from the teacher, Shaw stands in place, flipping through the script to look at the questions he got wrong.

Well, he did get more questions wrong than expected…

But math itself as a subject is annoying. It’s fine if he doesn’t do well.

He folds the exam script, folds it again, and again, before stuffing it into his pocket, turning around to return to his seat.

The teacher’s eyes unhappily trail behind Shaw, before she once again talks in a serious tone. “This time, everyone has to have their parents sign the exam script. I’ll check them on Monday afternoon.”

Shaw raises his eyebrows in mild disdain. It’s just a signature after all.

The old man copies the calligraphy of the Tang and Song dynasties so perfectly that even experts cannot tell. A mere signature wouldn’t be difficult.

He retrieves the stack of comics from underneath the table and puts them into his bag. With sufficient preparation for the end of school, he waits for the end-of-class bell to sound.

~

[Chapter 2: After School]

Entering June, the cicadas grow increasingly chirpier.

Over 60 years old, the antique shop shopkeeper sits on a rocking chair, fanning himself while checking Shaw’s homework. The prescription of his reading glasses is too shallow, and he has to squint. “The way you write this… Why does it look like a dog crawling. It’s so crooked.”

Shaw takes an eraser to erase a sentence he has copied wrongly. He cleans it till there is not a trace of it left. In an elevated volume, he answers, “It doesn’t matter if the words look ugly as long as I didn’t write it wrongly.”

While saying this, he feels through his pockets and takes out two exam scripts. “My teacher says this one needs a signature.”

Taking the script from him, the shopkeeper laughs until he rocks back and forth. “Kid, it’s fine if you don’t score well, but your luck couldn’t be any worse. Even if you take wild guesses, you couldn’t have gotten such low marks.”

He sits upright, sighing a few times. He folds up his fan and takes out a ball-point pen from his front pocket. With a practiced motion, he signs them.

He sighs deeply. “Shaw, since I’m not your parent, I shouldn’t be teaching you anything.”

Shaw had just closed his pencil box with a “pa”. Hearing his mentor sigh, he takes out his exercise books from his bag again, before returning to a state of studying. “All right, all right, I know what you’re going to say…”

“I won’t talk about big life lessons. Your school teacher would have talked about it more than I have. From today onwards, apart from the homework your teacher has given you, you are to write two pages worth of math questions, and copy a short essay every day. Only after you’re done will I teach you my craft.” He stands up, holding a tea cup and walking towards Shaw. “Whether you agree or not, give me an exact answer.”

Shaw doesn’t make a sound but merely furrows his eyebrows.

The shopkeeper laughs. “Just look at your capabilities - even a math question can stump you. If you can’t handle this small difficulty, how can you think of yielding something big?”

“I’ve never found math difficult. I simply don’t like math.” Shaw sets aside his exercise paper and takes out a brand new sheet. “Next time, I’ll let you sign an exam script that has 100 marks.”

“Wow, look who’s ambitious.”  

“Hmph, this is nothing.”

~

[Chapter 3: After School]

There is only one class on Wednesday afternoon. After school, Shaw carries his bag and runs towards the shop.

Once he enters, he sees his mentor eating some kind of medicine – small white and yellow pills in his palm.

“Why are you here at this time? Oh it’s… I forgot, it’s Wednesday today.” The shopkeeper talks while he turns around to walk into the kitchen. “Put down your bag and wash your hands. I bought a big watermelon!”

Shaw knows the old man has high blood pressure, some heart issues… He doesn’t have a concept of these things, but knows that it isn’t something good.

Without a sound, he puts his bag down and takes out his exercise books and practice questions.

“Don’t rush to do your homework, come eat some watermelon first.” The shopkeeper puts half a watermelon into Shaw’s arms and guides him to the outside of the store, bringing two small stools over for them to sit.

The watermelon, which was just taken out of the fridge, glistens with water droplets. The red flesh has a spoon stuck in it. Shaw scoops a big chunk from the middle. It’s very sweet.

The shopkeeper is also holding half a watermelon, but eats very slowly. Noticing Shaw staring at him, he sighs and shakes his head. “I’m old, so I can’t just eat these cold things…”

While saying this, he looks towards the drawer inside the store. “Your mentor is 62 this year.”

“When people become old, they love to talk about reason. They don’t want you to walk the crooked path they have because it’s a waste of time. You’re still young, so you think you have a lot of time to spare, so you don’t notice. I want to teach you that this is wrong. You need to spend the time of walking down a crooked path to do other things.”

After saying this, he points towards the whole street lined with antique shops. “You can’t just look at these. Learning calligraphy and painting today, and tomorrow jade, and thinking you’re living a serious life. Spending months and years to take care of this palm-sized shop – You can’t live like this. You are my disciple, and I will teach you all my skills. But apart from this, you still have to learn other things. Whatever you can learn, learn it all, and learn it well.

“You have to look at the big world, craft a career, aim higher, be more forward looking…”

He looks at Shaw affectionately. “Put in more effort, learn all my skills, and then get out of here!”

Shaw turns towards the watermelon and lets out a glum “humph”. “You’re old, but I’m still young. I still can’t differentiate plus minus multiply and divide. You’re old so you should be the one putting in more effort to live for a long time, so I can take my time to learn all these things.”

It’s summer, so the night comes late. The clock already signals the time as 6pm, but the light has not yet dispersed.

Shaw puts a brush back into the drawer, takes off his gloves and wipes the sweat off his forehead. “Old man, I’m hungry. Why not let me join you for dinner?”

In the kitchen, the shopkeeper is washing vegetables. He takes out a small box from the fridge, pulls back the curtains and returns to the shop.

“I didn’t cook your portion, but you can eat this if you’re hungry.” He removes the cover of the small paper box, and Shaw’s eyes widen.

“What, you think I wouldn’t remember your birthday?” The shopkeeper retrieves a cake from the paper box, and removes the plastic surrounding it. “Once you’re done eating, go home quickly!”

Shaw takes a spoon, muttering in a small voice, “It doesn’t matter if I go home late anyway.”

“Today is different. A child’s birthday is the same day as a mother’s suffering… But you’re too young and still can’t understand this. On other days it’s fine, but today is different…” The shopkeeper holds up his tea cup and goes to the counter.

[Note: The actual phrase is: “儿子生日母亲的苦日”, which doesn’t have a direct English translation. The meaning is that the day a child is born is also the day the mother suffers in childbirth to bring him into the world]

“I don’t know why adults don’t have an issue with you hanging out here all the time. But I can tell that you wear clean clothes every day, and that your shoes are polished. These are because of your parents. Let this old man add one line of reason – if you’re angry with your parents, you’ll regret it eventually.”

Shaw lowers his head, biting the spoon and says evasively, “No one’s angry with them.”

“You don’t call this being angry? It’s not that I’m picking on you, but boys should manage their tempers better. If you’re unhappy, you have to say it straight out, don’t just keep it boiling in your heart without a sound and then wait for someone to come coddle you. With your personality, in future, you’ll become a person who never speaks from the heart. Even when you’re with someone you like, you’d put on a front – That wouldn’t be good.”

“Old man, what are you thinking all day long?” Shaw retorts, not bothering to clean his mouth which has been dirtied with cream. “I will never have someone I like. I play soccer with a few guys in class, and they spend the entire day talking about who they like. It’s so annoying.”

The shopkeeper laughs at how Shaw says this with an air of righteousness. “Which is why I say you’re still young.”

Shaw digs into his cake and lets out a “hmph”. “I’m not young. I just haven’t grown taller.”

The shopkeeper sips his tea. “Guys do take longer to grow. Maybe you’ll be taller than me in two years.”

“Two years is way too long,” the plastic spoon dangles from Shaw’s mouth. “The best thing would be to wake up one day and suddenly be taller. Mm… I want to grow to this height. No.”

He stands on a chair, using his hands to gesture until he is satisfied. “At least here.”

The shopkeeper responds with a sweeping gaze, “That’s 180cm though.”

“180cm is very good.” Shaw sits back on the chair contentedly. “I’ll make a wish to grow to 180cm.”

~

[Chapter 5: Fate]

The shopkeeper looks at the clock on the wall, and slowly puts down his teacup.

“Since it’s your birthday, I’ll read your fortune.” He pulls open the drawer and takes out three old copper coins.

Shaw finishes up the last bite of cake and throws the packaging into a bin. “You’ve already read my fortune many times and the results are always the same. Yet you’re doing it again?”

The shopkeeper looks slightly down, but his voice remains calm. “I have nothing else to do anyway.”

The first throw, one heads and two tails.

The second throw, one heads and two tails.

The third throw, two heads and one tails.

…It’s really not much different from the last reading.

The shopkeeper shakes his head, his hand ready for the fourth throw. The copper coins fall on the table with a jingle, and a combination which has never been seen before appears – all three are negative.

“Wow, there’s a change!” The shopkeeper says in a higher pitch than usual.

In the middle of downing his drink, Shaw almost falls off his chair at the shopkeeper’s sudden outburst.

The jingles from the copper coins continue. The final two throws are no longer the same ones as before.

Shaw looks at the coins. “What does this mean?”

“It means that in the future, you will definitely not always be alone.” The shopkeeper rubs Shaw’s head with a bright smile on his face. “I was always worried about what would happen to you, with such a stubborn personality, if I weren’t around anymore…”

“Of course I wouldn’t always be alone. I’m not alone now.”

Shaw puts the three copper coins in his hands, looking like he doesn’t take the reading to heart – He has his family, pretty good friends, a few friends from the neighbouring class who buy tidbits with him. His life will continue this way.

Even though it’s a little boring, but he wouldn’t be alone.

“Also, old man, you won’t have any problems, and will definitely live for a very long time.”

Shaw speaks, and softly repeats the sentence, “You will definitely live for a very long time.”

The dusk has begun to settle outside. The shopkeeper holds the copper coins between his fingers, and gently sighs. “That’s why I say you’re still young.”

~

[Chapter 6: Birthday Present]

After packing his bag, Shaw looks at the clock on the wall – he should reach home by 7pm, just in time for dinner.

“You’re leaving already? You don’t want your birthday gift?”

The shopkeeper appears from behind the counter, tossing his gaze to the cupboard. “It’s been there for a whole day and you still haven’t found it yet.”

Usually displaying antiques, the drawer now has within it a box wrapped in colourful paper. Shaw curiously walks over and rips off the packaging, revealing a small wooden box.

A dark brown Rosewood bracelet rests in his hand.

In his eyes, this is something only an adult can have.

At his age, he would have received books, stationery, toys or models – none of which he likes.

He is always treated like a child, but he has grown up since a long time ago.

“This bracelet isn’t something expensive, it isn’t that much of an antique, but it is made of quality Rosewood.”

“If you’re bored, you can play with this, and learn to manage your temperament. You’re still young, so it’s fine if you’re still impatient and stubborn. But if you continue with this little attitude of yours, you’d lose out eventually.”

“In this line of work, you need to have patience. One, only when you manage your emotions would you remain focused. Two, good things come to those who wait.”

“The change in your life is also something you will have to wait for.”

These words completely fly over Shaw’s head. He puts the bracelet onto this wrist, coils it around multiple times until it can stay on.

“In future, no matter what you face, you have to be calm, and be patient.” The shopkeeper gently taps Shaw’s head, and frowns. “Have you committed all this to memory?”

Shaw rubs his head, his eyes still trained on his present, completely engrossed with it. “Ahh – yes I remember, I remember!”

“What do you remember?”

“Remember… that I have to hurry home for dinner!” Shaw turns around and grabs his bag, disappearing out of the shop. Before that, he raises the hand that dons the bracelet and waves.

The stars flicker, and the light is reflected in Shaw’s eyes. His eyes are smiling.

#mlqc cn #mlqc #mlqc shaw #love and producer #mlqc spoilers

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate Chapter 19

The portal snapped closed behind them sending the trio spewing over the hard granite floor. Dust and grit curled up into billowing clouds sending the three into a fit of coughs and splutters. Jaskier poked his head up between a pair of legs and one hand that frantically twitched at the side of his neck.

‘Whose ever knee that is, while that is very pleasant, I am not sure Geralt would appreciate either of you doing that.’ Jaskier bit out, worming his way out from the bodies.

‘I forgot how low the floor was in here’ a muffled groan forced its way out front somewhere beneath the flailing limbs, a white-haired head popped up gazing around the battered room.

Vesemir had his blade raised and thrust in one of the bodies face before he even recognised the blossoming young woman and her annoying bard. Typically, the Witchers stronghold was only occupied during the most barren winter months, when work was made difficult from the weather. Most creatures limited their attack in the colder weather, drowners trapped by thick ice, wreaths. Kilmore and ghoul attack slowed to the point there was very little money, and it made more sense to hole up in the warmth of the great hall with food and ale sharing stories of the beasts and women they had met in the months of isolation on the path. But for Vesemir the appeal of riding another two months was unappealing, and there was much to be done at Kaer Morhen, the place had fallen into disrepair and could stand to have two months patch up before the others arrived. So, the flash of light and the three sprawling bodies was unexpected.

Cross-eyed, the bard stared down the blade of the Witcher, who grunted down in annoyance.

‘Vesemir long time no see, how are you? You old….Witcher.’ Jaskier smile nervously up at the gruff man.

‘Vesemir!’ Ciri greeted, standing up and pulling the bewildered former kitchen maiden with her.

‘Ciri! My girl, you’ve grown’ he pulled the slim girl into a bear-like hug lifting her off the grown entirely. ‘And who is this?’ Vesemir puffed out, catching a glimpse at the cowering girl edge herself toward the bookcases.

‘This is Adva…student of Triss, currently first of Yennefer’s hit list, suspected mermaid and Geralt’s soul mate, like actually soul mate.’

Blinking across at the older man, terror surged beneath the brunette skin. The gaze was heavy and piercing as the man all but dropped Ciri to her feet to look the mermaid up and down. Anxiety was back, and she felt like she had back in Brightwater under the scrutiny of Cersi, Tradi or the Vivian. It made her realise how bare she felt in the flimsy clothing Ciri lent her.

‘We need help…figuring out the mermaid and soulmate part.’

Ciri pulled back from her former teacher and smiled at the nervous girl, who eyes now focused solely on her ragged boots.

‘Well… I think we are going to need more chairs in the library. Anyone you annoy Yennefer enough to get on her hit list is always welcome here.’ Vesemir greeted, pulling Adva and Ciri toward the library.

‘Tell me everything. Bard bring three more chairs from the celler.’

‘Brilliant just brilliant’ Jaskier sighed as he made his way through the vast stronghold.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Geralt could not close his eyes; every time he did, he saw Adva being huddled into the portal in the strong embrace of Jaskier. Her retreating figure was etched into his mind for the past three days. The tightness of Ciri blouse over her breast and stomach, the lacing at the top of the shirt could not fasten so in an attempt to make them fit she had pulled the sleeve down into a peasant blouse, exposing her neck and that spot in which he buried his head in it during their night together, the pure scent that intoxicated him. Her hips had strained against the tightness of the dress, Adva hips the more shapely then his young ward, soft and supple, his hands still burnt in remembrance of how his hand buried into her ample hips as he ground into her feeling the wetness against me.

Scrunching his eye shut, he was forced to relieve that look on her face, the sadness and misery. He wanted to talk to her explain, but as soon as he advances towards, she flinched and retreated behind Jaskier. A furious range formed inside him, Jaskier, the man he had to save so man times who stuck his nose in one to many times, he had dragged her off for him, his little flower, his love, his siren, HIS MATE. Blood dripped from his hands as eight half-moons cut pieced his golden skin, the warm liquid dripped over his fingers and splattered noiselessly against the dirt way he lay. He could not bring himself to care or even feel the mild pain; he felt nothing, just the burning desire to regain Adva, to have her in his arms and wearing his mark as soon as possible. Without her, near him, he felt weak, near collapsed when she had abandoned him, but at the same time field with rage, he laid waste to the Garden, burnt the roses and reduced the fountained to a pile of stones. Before climbing on the back of Roach and riding day and night though forest, bogs and towns to reach his Witchers home, stopping only long enough for the horses to rest and Yennefer to reapply the paste to the runes on his skin. The fever still gripped him, the balm now lasted only a few hours, but he refused to let them stop for the briefest moment to reapply the substance. Instead, he had to feed the need to be close to her; so he rode on closer and closer to Kaer Morhen. As soon as they passed the town of Bastion, he could smell that scent on the wind, apples, and the sea. It calmed and excited him; a pang of anxiety took hold of him. It was something that he never felt before, a panic that gnawed at him for the inside out. He needed to get to her, to explain, to talk and to comfort.

Being told she was not human and possibly a mermaid in the span of a few hours was a shock. Geralt blink and he saw her distress flash against his eyelids, the tears. It broke him, and he wanted to comfort his mate, but it was Jaskier who swooped in. A silent growl shook his chest as he dug his fingers deeper into his palms, the blood flowing more freely, oozed onto the mud. At the minute, he couldn’t care less about any of them, Jaskier, Triss, Yennefer even Ciri could all go to hell, he could carry Adva away to live in a cave for all he cared as long as he had her. Geralt never thought he was a possessive man, but by the gods, he wanted to have every inch of her and give himself completely over to her. The overwhelming feeling pounded against his temples, and the sharp ache cut through his head as he was brought out of his musing by the harsh whispers behind him.

‘You have never loved him. You just love the idea of someone being there. You treated him more like a lapdog than a lover.’ Triss snapped.

She poked at the fire angrily as glared at the Yennefer, who in her usual fashion wore a plunging neckline that dipped down to her navel, it was tight and revealing and not a travelling dress, but it not sure practicality was what Yen was going for.

‘Don’t you think I deserved someone.’ Yennefer half whispered; half yelled.

‘Of course, I do. But you were horrid to her. You know what she reminded me a lot of you when you first came to Arteuza. Lost and scared searching for a place. She even had her own Tisssisa in Tradi and Cersi, a bully who prodded and poked, filling you head with the position. But you managed you had the power and support to getaway. She did not. Have some sympathy.’ Triss glared into the crackling fire.

‘I sacrificed my motherhood for that. You have no idea what I have surrendered.’ Triss growled.

‘You sacrificed nothing. You gave it away.’ Triss countered, giving her a pointed look. ‘You wanted power and don’t try and kid yourself. I love you like a sister, but sometimes you can be so obtuse.’

Yennefer was becoming increasingly hostile as the days went on, switching from lost little girl to savage man-eating banshee. Every jab and goading comment ground down on the Witcher who pensively look deep into the horizon but Triss knew Geralt; his body was rigid and tense, he didn’t eat or sleep just stare into the fire or huddle up with his back to them for the few brief hours he let the horse rest. And there was only so much more he would be able to stand before he snapped, and she fears that Yennefer would be on the receiving end of that or worse it would get Geralt off in an unbound rage, and he would do something that he would forever regret.

‘You seriously believe Geralt belong to her.’ Yennefer stood and pace in front of the fire, casting a frantic shadow against the trees.

‘That your problem, you think Geralt belong to someone. Adva genuinely cares for him. And she did not cast him out over his doing the right thing. That right he told me…honestly, you have no idea how spoilt and nasty you sounded.’

‘Well, to me, she couldn’t get away from him fast enough.’ Yennefer smirked at her; it was her character smirk, the one she used when she was right.

‘That because she thinks Geralt prefer you over her, and she doesn't want to be blasted through the floor again.’ Triss ranted, in a hoarse tone. ‘You draped your self over him, what was she to think.’

‘If she were truly his mate, don’t you think she couldn’t be apart from him. Even if I were draped all over him, do you think he has really changed? He’d have a different woman in his bed every night; she would be pandering after him. Trust me; I spared her the hurt. I bet she had already moved on to Jaskier…’

‘Enough’ Geralt roared, bolting up in bed. ‘Don’t you two have anything else you can talk about.’ He snapped and stood.

Two of the two women, he loomed menacingly over them, his body stood to his full height as he glared at them with dark eyes. His sword was clutched tightly in his hand, glistening murderously in the moonlight. Trails of sweat mixed with the blue rune and melted down his skin, it was hard to see any of his bronzed skin beneath the mess of sweat and paint. The fever seemed to take hold on his with a vengeance, his breath was coming in heavy pants, as he looked at both the woman.

‘Geralt…we didn’t…’

‘She wouldn’t do that….not with Jaskier, she needs me’ Geralt gritted out. Triss took a step back, the frantic look in his eyes scared her.

‘Please…. she could barely look at you when they left. Could not help but notice she seemed really attached to Jaskier, they have the whole of Kaer Morhen to themselves…lots of room for screaming. I bet she is currently in one of those lush four posters spread open and Jaskier buried deep into her pussy.’

Yennefer laughed. The sound tinkled against the trees and into the night air, it was the only sound that would be heard apart from the occasional crackle of the fire and a distant owl hooting. Triss honestly could not comprehend what was happening in Yennefer head, if she really understood what was happening if she truly believed that Geralt wouldn’t actually hurt her. That he could do serious harm to her with his blade or signs. Part of her wanted that, it ashamed her to say, but Yennefer had been taking every opportunity to push the Witcher to his breaking point, she took great pleasure in it. Yennefer was hurt, and that made her deadly. Still, Geralt wasn’t his normal passive self, who let her push and ordered him about, he wasn’t that lonely puppy craving attention and companion anymore, he had love, or would have true love soon with someone that was wholly different for the mage, someone who was his and his alone.

What happened next surprised Yennefer but not wholly Triss. Aard, the telekinesis push erupted for Geralt’s hands, sending them flying backwards. The purple eyes mage hurtled backwards, through the fire and hit a nearby bolder with a sicken crake. Triss was lucky that the full force of the blast was direct at the other mage, she only caught the edge of the blast sending her stumbling into a pile of leaves and rotting vegetation was cushioned her fall. In horror, she watched as the Geralt leapt over the fire, sword raised, and he swung. She couldn’t bare to watch, screwing her eyes she waited. The sounds a metal hitting stone echoed in the clearing. Then a deadly silence. Peaking out from behind her corkscrew curls, the blade was inches from her face her violet eyes staring wide at the sliver of sharped silver.

The silver-haired Witcher growled and grunted like a rogue animal, terrified and panicked. ‘Never…never would she bed with another…. She is MINE!’ he roared.

‘HOW DARE YOU ATTACK ME! AFTER ALL, I HAVE DONE FOR YOU!’ Yennefer howled sending out a wave of fire out, knocking her attacker off her.  

Groaning in pain, he rolled out the way of another blast before twirling to his feet, with all the grace of a dancer. The sword hummed as he twirled the heavy blade, the wind screamed as it cut through it. Yennefer raised her hand before her as Geralt stood, budging muscle strained against his armour, eyes fierce and deadly. Plenty of times Yennefer had seen the fierce warrior beat down floes with nothing but his trusty sword but never had she been on the receiving end. Magic would be useless, and Geralt could inflict significant damage if he didn’t kill her.

‘Geralt…Stop! I am sure Yennefer was just being Yennefer. Adva is just confused right now. Finding out your part mermaid and a soulmate to a Witcher in the same day as behind attacked by a crazy Mage is hard to get your head around. You two are soul mates, meant to be. She just needs time to understand and get her head around it all. I am sure she is holed up in one of the rooms waiting for you, alone.’ Triss cried as she jumped in front of them. ‘You need to calm down…please. For Adva.’ Triss called, softly

The three stood tensely for a moment, both women's eyes on him as he glanced between the two. Panting hard his eyes bleed black, hands tightening on the hilt of his blade.

Snort pushed itself through his nose as a ‘Fuck’ howled passed his lip as he threw down his sword. Spearing one last glance at the mages, he disappeared into the forest.

‘That little bitch has done something to him. Geralt would never…’ Yennefer huffed, brushing the dust of her dress.

‘When are you going to accept you have lost.’ Triss rolled her eyes as she picked up the silver blade, sliding it back into his bindle on Roach, before sitting back down near the fire and waiting for his return. ‘Rest up; we will be riding on as soon as he gets back. We need to get to Kaer Morhen as soon as possible.’

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

This originally wasn't gong to be a chapter but I felt like it needed to. Someone messaged me on tumblr about why Geralt didn't chase after her through a portal, from what I remember from the books and games Geralt hated portals and only uses them when absolutely necessary so I thought it was very Geralty plus those two need a little time apart. And there will be plenty of time for Geralt to chase after her *drools* can you imagine being chased by jealous Geralt. What did you think? I wasn't sure about the fight but Yennefer was being very annoying. Plus things Geralt and Adva life is hotting up and they have a lot to pick through so it gonna be interesting. And Vesemir! The love I have for that man! Please leave a comment!

@fandom-lover-4  @sageandberries-png @wastingmypotential @luxyash @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @broco8 @introvertedmouse @threepupsinapuddle @pastelblogsposts

#geralt imagine #geralt x reader #witcher geralt #geralt smut #geralt of rivia #Geralt #geralt x smut #geralt x oc #netflix the witcher #witcher netflix #witcher 3 #thewitcher

[goldencuffs]

heyyy......how about babysitter laurent and dad damen?? 😝😝

The dining table is a mess. There’s coloured paper scattered over its surface, red paint smeared across the apron, and dried glue on the right leg. The floor is worse: loose, tiny pieces of confetti and bits of glitter are strewn over the tiles like a kaleidoscopic painting.

Damen closes his eyes briefly in exasperation as he takes it all in. It’s been a long day, filled with lacklustre product development, incompetent staff, rude clients, and an uncomfortable, silent dinner with his in-laws.

 Jokaste, in her silk blue dress, assesses the mess with flinty, cold eyes.

 “What the fuck is this?” She makes for an intimidating figure, despite the flush in her cheeks betraying how intoxicated she is.

 Damen touches her arm: a small, fleeting gesture to keep her from saying anything else.

 Laurent, standing in the middle of the mess, is the epitome of guilt. He keeps wringing his hands together, and he can’t keep himself still, shuffling on his feet in agitated movements. Like Jokaste, his cheeks are flushed red, but he’s much more unkempt than her; even from here, Damen can make out the glitter stuck to Laurent’s forehead.

 “I’m so sorry,” Laurent says. “I’m going to clean everything –”

 “Where’s Theo?” Jokaste interrupts. Damen hates this habit of hers; he can’t even count how many times she’s done it to him over the years, and it drives him nuts every time.

 Laurent pushes back his hair. His fingertips are green. “I sent him to bed.”

 On a different night, this news might have made Jokaste melt; Theo is two and has been increasingly difficult during his bedtime. But Jokaste is in a combative mood tonight. She’d been particularly vicious on their way to her parent’s place and had only grown more irritated as the night wore on.

 Damen knows her next comment won’t be pleasant. He feels his usual protectiveness towards Laurent and turns to her.

 “Why don’t you check on T? I’ll make sure everything gets cleaned up down here.”

 Jokaste hesitates; Damen knows, after years of being married to her, that she’s debating on whether having the last word will be in her favour.

 Ultimately, she decides it won’t be. She turns back towards the staircase and heads upstairs without another word.

 In a quiet voice Laurent says, “I really am sorry.”

 Damen sighs. He takes another look at Laurent’s furrowed eyebrows, his pink, pursed mouth and feels some of the tension bleed from his shoulders.

 Shrugging off his blazer and loosening his tie, he keeps his smile genuine and wide. “It’s okay,” Damen says. “Knowing my son, this could have been a lot worse.”

 Laurent’s body seems to loosen. He ducks his head shyly and nods. “He was actually very good today.”

 Damen snorts. Theo, lately, has been impatient and cranky all the time: a true poster child for the terrible twos.

 “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says in an undertone, and Laurent smiles, looking for the first time, relaxed.

 When Damen heads over to the inbuilt pantry to hoard the cleaning supplies, Laurent says, “No, please. You go upstairs Damen; I can do this myself.”

 “You’ll be here all night if someone doesn’t help you. It’s fine,” he adds, when Laurent opens his mouth to protest.

 Amongst amicable conversation, they get to cleaning. The damage isn’t as bad as Damen initially thought; the paint is watery and comes off with a half-hearted swipe, and vacuuming the confetti takes less than a few minutes.

 As they reorganise the papers, Laurent crowds further into his space, until their elbows are touching, and the line of Laurent’s thigh presses up against Damen’s. Damen glances down at him, captivated by the shimmer dancing on his face, and swallows.

 Laurent has been their regular babysitter since Theo was just six months old. Back then, he’d been a shy twenty-year-old college student, who could hardly look into Damen’s eyes. Damen had hired him because he was the younger brother of one of his long-time clients, but over the years, Laurent has shown characteristics Damen highly values. He’s kind, empathetic, incredibly loyal and smart. The way Laurent treats Theo is enough for Damen to like him; Theo thinks Laurent is the best person in the world, much to Jokaste’s consternation.

 So, yes: Damen has always liked Laurent. Recently though, their dynamic has changed to this: to sure, but fleeting touches, heated glances across the room, and texts sent late into the night.

 Nothing so far has been too scandalous; from an outsider’s perspective, the way he and Laurent interact is still innocent.

 But Damen knows it isn’t, because whenever his phone chimes at three in the morning, or whenever Laurent walks into his house wearing shirts that show off too much of his collarbone, he feels like he’s on fire. He feels like he’s losing control. It’s dangerous.

 It had started a month ago, when Damen had offered to drive Laurent home on a rainy night. Laurent had invited him inside for drinks and Damen had said yes.

 Several hours later, drunk and sated, Laurent had said, “You know the only reason I agreed to babysit Theo that first time was because I thought you were super hot.”

 Stupidly, Damen said, “I thought you were too.”

 Laurent gave him a long, measured look. Underneath it, there lay a margin of surprise. “Thought?” said Laurent, shifting closer on his terrible, sagging couch. “You don’t think so anymore?”

 Damen eyed the paleness of Laurent’s throat, the pink across his cheeks and said, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

 The surprise took over Laurent’s face. His mouth, darkened from the wine, grew slack, and his cornflower blue eyes widened. He leaned even closer. Damen did too.

 Then, his phone had rung, and Damen felt a huge, overwhelming amount of guilt as he’d read his wife’s name across the lit screen.

 He should have stopped it then. Instead, Damen found himself constantly checking his phone for messages from Laurent or calling him in the middle of the day to plan outings together.

 Last week, they’d gone to a new, fancy restaurant out of town for dinner. Damen had told Jokaste it was for a last-minute business meeting with an important client.

 Underneath the table, Laurent had hooked his foot around Damen’s leg and smiled.

 Damen couldn’t look away for the rest of the night.

 Now, the tension in the kitchen is pulsing. Damen is aware of the lack of space between them, the shortness of his own breath and the flush on Laurent’s skin.

 Laurent moves impossibly closer, until he’s nestled into Damen’s chest. He’s still rearranging the papers with ease. It’s a test, Damen thinks.

 Slowly, Damen steps back, just far enough to properly cage Laurent against him. Laurent’s back is to his chest, warm and firm. Damen moves his hands up to grip Laurent’s hips, and Laurent goes stills, his body tight.

 They just stand there for a moment, then two. In the silence, Damen can hear the sound of running water and creaking wood; Jokaste is getting ready for bed.

 Laurent shifts. It’s a deliberate movement. Damen grits his teeth as the curve of Laurent’s backside meets his groin. Laurent does it again, slower, and Damen closes his eyes.

 It’s wrong that he’s doing this, in the kitchen of his own home, with his wife and kid upstairs, but Damen can’t think of anything else besides Laurent in his arms.

 Laurent’s hair, so fine and golden, tickles Damen’s nose. It smells nice too, like coconut.

 The water is still running. Damen, emboldened with the fact that Jokaste willl not be out for a while, does what he’s been desperate to do for a while: he carefully kisses the unblemished side of Laurent’s neck.

 Laurent drops the papers.

 He whirls around so fast, Damen almost loses his balance. Laurent’s eyes are wide in anticpation, and in excitement. It’s exhilarating that Damen can read him so well.

 Laurent grips the collar of his dress shirt; it makes Damen stumble forward, his thigh slotting in between Laurent’s legs.

 Laurent gasps, and Damen kisses him.

 It’s not a chaste kiss. Immediately, Laurent opens his mouth, fingers digging into Damen’s hair. Damen kisses him hard and open mouthed, hands tight and unyielding as they hold onto Laurent’s waist.

 Damen pins Laurent further into the lip of the table, Laurent’s hips moving in tiny, jerky movements. It’s so obvious he’s inexperienced, and for some sick, twisted reason, it lights a spark of arousal in Damen’s gut.

 Laurent tastes like vanilla cake, Damen thinks, as he licks into Laurent’s mouth. His mouth is sweet, completely at Damen’s mercy. If Damen bent Laurent over the table and fucked him right now, Laurent would let him.

 The thought makes Damen dizzy. Of course he can’t do that, but it doesn’t stop him from lifitng Laurent’s shirt, exposing his pale, flat stomach and digging his fingertips into the skin there.

 Laurent moans into his mouth, hands clenching onto Damen’s curls even tighter.

 Jokaste’s voice rings from the staircase. “Damen?”

 Heart stopping for a brief moment, Damen pulls back. He almost groans at the sight of Laurent, whose lips are wet with Damen’s spit.

 It’s a miracle Damen’s voice sounds normal as he says, “Yeah?”

 He waits for the guilt to overcome him. It doesn’t.

 “Has Laurent gone home yet?”

 They’re still standing too close. It’s recklessly stupid. If Jokaste were to duck her head, she’d see them clearly.

 Laurent’s fingers finds his. His thumb traces over Damen’s ring, over and over.

 Damen swallows. “No,” he says, looking right at Laurent. “I’m going to drop him home now.”

 Laurent smiles.

#this was supposed to be a drabble.......its 1.6k #i was going to release all the prompts at once but seeing how this took me 6 hrs it might be a while #anyway hope you enjoy??? idek what this is lol #captive prince #my writing #also someone tell me why the read more link isnt working Tumblr is so annoying 🙄🙄🙄🙄 #my fic

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

S.T. REWRITE - S2:E8; Chapter Eight, The Mind Flayer - [Pt. 2]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

An unlikely hero steps forward when a deadly development puts the Hawkins Lab on lockdown, trapping Will and several others inside.

||3rd Person POV||

The once pristine and orderly lab had become a desolate wasteland in a matter of minutes. Blood painted the walls and bodies were scattered among the labyrinth of halls. Buckled down in the heart of Hawkins Lab, Owens scatters a map, pen in hand. The others quickly close in around him as he draws out their escape plan.

"Look, this is us," he circles a corner on the map. "and this is the nearest exit. But even if we somehow make it there, there's no way out."

Hopper's brow furrows, his grip on the flashlight grows subconsciously tighter. "What do you mean?"

"The locks are fail-secure."

"Fail secure?" Joyce asks.

"If there's a power outage," Owens says, looking around at the confused faces. "the building goes on lockdown."

"Can it be unlocked remotely?" Bob asks.

"With a computer, sure, but somebody's gotta reset the breakers."

Hopper inches closer, growing ever restless. "Where are the breakers?"

"Breakers are in the basement," Owens returns to the map. "three floors down."

Not wasting another moment, Hopper spins on his heel and stomps for the door.

"Hey, where are you going?" Bob calls after him.

Hopper gives him an incredulous look. "To reset the breakers."

Bob scoffs worriedly. "Okay, then what?"

"Then we get out of here."

"No, then the power comes back on. If you wanna unlock the doors you have to reboot the computer system, and then override the security codes with a manual input."

"Fine," Hopper sighs. "How do I do that?"

It's Bob's turn to look incredulous. "You can't. Not unless you know BASIC."

"I don't know what that means," Hopper asks shortly, growing increasingly stressed.

"It's a computer programming language," Mike replies, jumping in.

"Teach it to me,"

Bob scoffed shortly, dawning an uncharacteristic mocking tone. "Shall I teach you French, while I'm at it, Jim? How about a little German?"

Everyone listens, taken aback at his unusual behavior and the man turns to Owens.

"How about you, doc?" He asks, growing urgent. "You speak BASIC?"

Sheepishly, he shakes his head, suddenly finding the floor particularly interesting. "No."

Dreading the answer, Bob reluctantly accepts and scoffs nervously, nodding his head.

"Okay, I got this," he mutters nervously, turning to Hopper repeating the words more assured. "I've got this."

"No," Joyce's voice cracks, and she envelops Bob in a worried hug. "Bob."

"It's okay," Bob gratefully accepts the tender hug before looking into her eyes. "It's gonna be okay. Remember, Bob Newby, superhero."

||Reader's POV||

We carry on over another small hill through the trees and the pads of my feet, ironically enough, feel as if they are on fire. I keep glancing at my shoes for any sign of distress even though I know it's because I've been walking all day. And truthfully, I'm unsure how much more walking I can take.

I let out my umpteenth sigh, keeping my eyes trained on where Steve is stepping to avoid tripping on any more roots. Another side effect of walking all day, my reflexes have dulled considerably.

"How much longer?" I ask.

Steve huffs, using the bat to swipe away some low hanging branches in our path. "Jesus, if one more of you shits ask me that again,"

"Sorry, you're majesty!" I groan sarcastically, throwing my head back briefly in frustration no doubt earning a few surprised glances.

I'm able to see the clouds of branches above us sway in the wind, parting ever so to reveal the inky night sky and I calm significantly. My anger dissolves a bit, enough to feel a small pang of guilt for snapping at Steve. Especially since he was helping Dustin, and all of us, actually.

I look back down at the forest floor, a tad embarrassed.

"Sorry, really," I mumble, and I catch Steve's hardened glare soften a bit over his shoulder. "It's just,"

I pause, glancing back at the night sky once more, and I feel another soft gust of wind snake through the trees and hit my face and I feel soothed. The stars always had a way of calming me. It awes me, something about the vastness of it all, and just how complex and simple it all was, all at once.

Reassured, I continue. "My feet are killing, and the junkyard took a lot out of me. You've been super helpful, so it's not fair to you to-"

"Shut up," He hisses, suddenly.

"What?"

"I said, shut up," he repeats, voice lowered and eyes focused ahead.

I look to the others, Max merely shrugs with an odd look, Lucas readies the wrist rocket and Dustin seems to be the only one the honed in on the situation.

I fall silent, my ears straining and I'm able to make out a familiar voice over the rustling of the trees as Steve pulls away at more branches.

"Who's there?" It calls. "Who's there?!"

Steve is the first to break through the woods and we all pool out at his side. One of the first things I notice is a security booth and a familiar car parked beside. It takes me a moment to identify the two figures across the clearing, but the moment it registers, they speak, confirming my suspicions.

"Steve?" They ask in perfect unison.

"Nancy?" Steve asks.

Nancy and Jonathan stand across the small stretch of grass, and I can't help a confused smile.

"Jonathan?" I break out into a brisk walk, ignoring my aching feet and the duo makes their way towards us. "Nancy!"

"Y/n?"

"It's so good to see you!" I give Jonathan a quick side hug, relieved to see the familiar face of a Byers. "What are you guys doing here?"

I pull back, smiling at them both but it quickly deflates when I think of Will. I look to Jonathan worriedly.

"How's Will?"

I can hear the others making their way towards us, but I'm more focused on the unusual behavior. He begins shifting on his feet, his previous look of confusion towards me and my unfamiliar garb melted away into that of concern.

"We're looking for him, and Mike." He gestures to Nancy and glances at Dustin and Lucas. "Wait, they aren't with you guys?"

None of us have time to answer before a string of hideous screeching echoes out from the lab.

An all too familiar pit burrows in my stomach, I can feel it taking root at the new information. Will couldn't go missing again, he just couldn't. But if the Upside Down was involved, which I know for a fact it is, then it can't be good.

||3rd Person POV||

A golden yellow beam of light bounces down the stairwell in tune with Bob's ragged breathing and the squeak of his shoes against the polished stairs. His heart is racing wildly, and never once did he imagine he would ever find himself racing through Hawkins Lab, gun in hand, to escape an infestation of interdimensional monsters. Heck, he couldn't he even picture himself with a gun! Good thing Jim was able to give him at least somewhat of breakdown on how to use one, and for now that would have to do.

But he reminds himself of the danger, the danger Joyce and the others as well as himself. He reaches the basement and almost instantly he is enveloped in a blanket of steam from the heaters, and the poor lighting gives off the illusion he has been swallowed by a thick layer of smog. It does nothing to ease the sweat percolating on his skin no more than the distant beeps of the alarm echo in his mind serving as a harsh reminder.

He stalks carefully through the mist, checking his corners to the best of his ability for his first time and he can feel every nerve stand on edge. It's only proven by the shaky beam of light streaming through his flashlight.

A harsh and sudden hiss goes off above his head and he nearly jumps out of his skin. The gun and light come to aim shakily at the source of the noise and he feels the wave of relief crash over him as he sees it's merely a pipe, clouds of steam pooling from a small valve.

He takes a long deep breath, his aim returning to his path.

"Keep it together, Bob." He mumbles.

It's not much longer before he finds himself at the breaker room, and he is relieved when he hears the click of the door as it swings open unlocked. But it vanishes almost as soon and he jumps when his flashlight finds the bloodied remains of two bodies on the floor.

Bob does his best to collect his gasps, but he finds it a difficult ordeal. His grip on his flashlight, and his gun, tighten and he is sure to shut the door behind him before stepping further into the room. It's quiet and unnaturally still apart from the blood pumping in his ears, it only grows worse as he navigates around the fallen men. Finally, he turns the corner finding at long last what he had risked his life for. The breakers.

Labeled on a plastic tag, the words, MAIN POWER caught his eye and he knew for sure he was in the right place.

"Okay, here we go,"

Taking a deep breath, he flips the first switch and he is suddenly bathed in light. It's not long before it spreads throughout the entire lab. With every lever he pulls, the lab steadily comes to life, including the surveillance room.

The others perk up when the florescence flicker on above their heads. Mike is the first to step up to the monitors as each screen comes to life. At its center, the breakers in the basement where Bob Newby stands.

||Reader's POV||

"What do you mean? Haven't you-?"

"I haven't seen him, or Mike since Friday!" I plea.

Everything was a mess, everyone had begun talking over each other in a big huddle and no one could get a clear word in edgewise. That is until Nancy broke free from the circle.

"The power's back!"

My eyes fall past the gate and treeline to see that she's right, the building had lit up completely.

I quickly fall in line with the others and it's as if a small race broke out for who could get to the security booth first. Jonathan did, and he wasted no time hitting the button. I could hear the rapid clicking from where I stood at the front of the car, and I quickly looked to the gate expectantly.

Nothing happens.

The clicking continues and we all watched confused and increasingly worried as it remains perfectly still.

Another screech echoes in the distance and I can feel my anxiety blossom from the pit in my stomach. I begin subconsciously bouncing on the balls of my heels and I look around at the others for any ideas.

"Guys...?"

I meet eyes with Dustin and he looks as if he's grown ever more impatient, and my anxious state is his final sign. He kicks into gear, heading for the booth.

"Let me try--"

"Hang on--" Jonathan tries.

He's cut off by Dustin who weakly shoves him back with a frustrated whine. "Let me try, Jonathan!"

I watch deflated as my brother does nothing but wear out the button, and I roll my eyes with a deep breath. I feel a pair of eyes on me, and I look to find Max glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, concerned. She looks away when she knows she's been caught. I look down at my hands and realize not only am I rocking back and forth on my heels but I'm also desperately wringing my hands.

I note the silence in the air, I look back at Dustin who watches the gate expectantly, an exasperated Jonathan standing behind him. The silence lasts not a moment longer before Dustin begins shouting.

"Well, son of a bitch! You know what..." he grumbles, returning to the button with even more fervor.

I try to calm myself the best of my ability, taking slow deep breaths but it only helps so much. My eyes return to the sight of the lab, and I can't help but fear what lies ahead.

+++

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[notcanoncompliant]

Flight (And What That Means To You)

Merry Christmas to @darker-soft-starker! <3

@starkersecretsanta

(I read your prompt and my brain took off, totally deviated from the rom-com feel, I hope you still like it!!)

warnings: mild violence, anxiety attack symptoms (kind of)

****************************************************** 

The Prompt:

Canon Divergence AU - Tony and Peter are neighbors. Tony is not obscenely rich, just a regular Joe, maybe a cop or something and lives across the hall from Peter's apartment. Peter is still Spider-Man and regularly gets caught by Tony limping back to his apartment bloody and beaten, peter gets stuck to his doorknob and there are a lot of awkward moments etc

And away we go...

******************************************************

Like many important things, Tony’s life resets with a ‘bang’. 

On his back, ears ringing, staring up at inky-grey smoke that eats up whatever view there had been of the stars, he takes ragged half-breaths and wonders if he’s done enough, if this was the right way for him to go. When his vision tunnels and his consciousness begins to recede, he still doesn’t have an answer.

*

You’re lucky. 

It’s what everyone keeps telling him. Lucky he was far enough away from the blast that he didn’t lose any pieces, lucky his vest held up just enough to keep the shrapnel from burying itself in his chest.

Lucky.

He might be, but it’s hard to feel it when he still hurts like there’s a baby grand parked on his ribs. Harder still when he wakes up, over and over and over, with the taste--the grit--of sand and copper in his mouth the echo of too-hot sun on his skin or the stinging, freezing cling of ice water on his face (in his mouth, his eyes, his stomach, his lungs--he can’t, he can’t, pleasenomorehecan’t).

It takes him four days to wake calmly enough he doesn’t bolt upright, doesn’t frantically pull off sensors and yank the drip out of his arm, doesn’t get held back down and sedated.

It takes four days for him to get his hands on a notepad and a pen.

When he does, he draws a metal behemoth shooting into the open sky.

He has no idea what it means, but he feels free.

*

‘Indefinite medical leave’ should’ve been a punch to the gut, a slap to the face. By the time they’d gotten around to giving him the mandatory psych eval, though (and it had gone as swimmingly as expected), he’d been out of the hospital for three weeks, and well-acclimated to feeling like he’d taken a fist to the stomach.

Before, he might’ve argued, fought, done his best to prove that he could still be an asset to the team, that his mid-forties are practically his prime, god damn it! 

He doesn’t, though. None of it seems as important as it used to.

Being taken off the force is the least of his concerns, not when the tug to vent the dreams (visions, almost) onto paper-canvas-something is so strong he shakes with it.

The dreams are wild. Vivid and jarring. He draws bits and pieces of them all. 

He’s got the time to do it, now. 

*

Rogers is the first to stop contacting him. Barnes follows suit. 

Clint hangs on a little longer, but ultimately stops coming around after the first month.

Rhodey doesn’t feel like a loss, for all that he and Tony have undeniably drifted apart. Rhodey’s got his family; Carol and the kids. He has time for coffee, for a quick chat sometimes. He doesn’t ask after the dreams. Tony doesn’t blame him.

Nat sticks around a little longer. Stops by every couple weeks. Comes in and drinks his crappy instant coffee and looks at whatever he’s working on. Sees him go from pencil sketches to paint. 

When she sees his latest piece, she arches a brow at him.

It’s a glove, she says, flatly. The hint of good-natured amusement sparking in her eyes is nice, even if it’s not enough to counteract the rest of her reaction.

She’s a better liar than the others, because she lies with her whole body, her whole self. It’s only because Tony knows where to look does he see the wariness in the way her glance keeps flicking back to the canvas, catching on the bronze shape, on the spots of bright color that contrast so sharply.

The visit ends more quickly than usual (and they were never long to begin with), the redhead gone after a well-crafted excuse and a lingering hug. Tony knows he’ll see her again, but it still feels like a goodbye, of sorts. 

He’s not bitter about any of it, doesn’t blame or begrudge his team for not staying; their jobs, their lives didn’t end when Tony took that blast, when a cut-and-dry shipyard raid (as cut and dry as any raid can be) went a little sideways.

And, if he’s being honest, the relative handful of times he’s seen any of them after his retirement (after four months he’s given up calling it ‘leave’, given up assuming he’ll ever even try to come back), there’s something hanging silently over them, dragging between them. 

The feeling of distance (and slight relief when they part) is mutual, Tony thinks.

*

There’s one constant, outside the dreams. One figure flitting in and out of the corners of his days, his nights, his mind.

His neighbor, Peter, is a mystery. A gorgeous, twenty-something, world-weary mystery who’s eyes flicker too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body whenever Tony opens the door to find him standing there at completely ridiculous hours.

(Not that Tony’s got a healthy circadian rhythm to disrupt, anymore).

It feels less like random kindness and more like he’s been assigned security detail, the kid’s greeting and polite inquiry--How are you today, Mr. Stark? (because he can’t get the kid to call him ‘Tony’)--accompanied by eyes moving too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body, checking for damage, before he’s off again to do whatever it is he does.

Tony’s not really sure what to do with it at first, how to respond. He’s not used to being watched over, is typically the one doing the watching, the protecting. It’s especially difficult the first couple of times, because the kid--Peter--always looks a little worse for wear; favoring one or more of his limbs, and at least one visible, fresh bruise, small scrape or cut marring his features.

He does him the courtesy of not asking about them, because Peter doesn’t ask invasive questions and obviously tries very hard not to look past Tony and into the apartment, important concessions to Tony’s privacy. It’s only fair to let Peter have his, feels like an even (if increasingly painful) trade-off.

He also doesn’t want to do anything to risk losing this. He’s glad his ‘detail’ keeps showing up. Keeps existing. 

*

After a while, it becomes routine. Once a day, Peter knocks, Tony opens, and they have their exchange. It’s...a spot of light in Tony’s world, even if it feels sort of heavy.

The lightness is due in part to the way that, regardless of apparent injury or hour of the day, Peter always offers Tony a genuine smile, even if it’s also quick or small or tired.

Sometimes, though, the smiles are more grimace than anything else. There are bands of steel behind those ones, and Tony wonders how (why) this kid got so strong, and why it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone telling him he doesn’t have to be. On those days, Tony thinks about inviting him in, offering to take a look at the injuries; he’s got first aid training and still keeps his own supplies in his place.

(He doesn’t ever offer to drive Peter to the hospital; the option never seems to occur to him until after Peter’s already vanished, down the hall or into his own apartment across from Tony’s.)

There’s something that stops him, something beyond the respect for Peter’s privacy. Something about the faint blush that appears on Peter’s cheeks sometimes during their short conversations, something about the way his own eyes sometimes drift over Peter’s form in return.

*  

He wonders, sometimes, what Peter would think of the paintings. 

He's imagined it a few times; showing him, watching him see them. He doesn't know if Peter's into art at all (not that Tony even really is, not in the technical sense), but it wouldn't really matter; Tony's fantasies don't usually revolve around the younger’s critique of his work.

More than anything, he wants to see Peter in his minimalist-but-cluttered space, sitting on his couch or leaning against his kitchen counter, propped against the windowsill, a mug of something hot in his hands and a truly relaxed smile on his face.

Sometimes the fantasies are less innocent, but...something in him just wants to see Peter safe.

*

“Okay, we need to talk about this.”

They’re standing in Tony’s doorway, another ass-crack-of-dawn ‘status check’, and there’s blood actually trailing down from Peter’s left sleeve, dripping off the kid’s fingers.

Peter fidgets in place. “...About what?”

In spite of his concern, Tony nearly snorts a laugh at the completely terrible evasion. 

He reigns it in, arches his brows. “You’re getting you on the carpet.”

The kid shoots a quick glance downwards at his hand, blanching slightly. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s--it’s really nothing, I just--”

“‘Nothing’ is a papercut, Peter,” Tony snaps. “Putting aside the bruises, fat lip, and the fact you’re obviously favoring your right leg, you’re standing here with blood running down your arm. That’s not ‘nothing’.”  

He’s tired and frustrated and afraid, finally venting these feelings after weeks of this, weeks of wondering if Peter’s just going to stop showing up, weeks of being on edge between visits even if they come like clockwork because he just can’t lose these moments, he can’t--and he doesn’t realize he’s moved forward into Peter’s space, how close he is until he finishes speaking. 

Peter’s staring at him with saucer-wide eyes, a pink stain on his cheeks, his slightly wheezing breath fanning across Tony’s chin.

Tony backs off quickly, hands in the air. “Fuck, I’m sorry--”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, and Tony watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “You--I’m okay. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am. You don’t need to worry about me Mr. Stark.”

The determined set of Peter’s jaw is both compelling and frustrating, and Tony just barely manages to muscle back his urge to argue further.

“Just...I’m here,” he says, finally. “If you need to talk. If you need anything. Please.”

Something desperate and pained slashes across Peter’s features, and then it’s gone. The younger man nods, short and tense, turns and disappears into his apartment.

Tony stares at the closed door for another moment, before stepping out and shutting his own door, heading down the hall. 

Air. Air will be good.

*

Air is good. It’s always good. Always helps after the dreams, chills away the sweat, clears his head.

It doesn’t do quite as much, now, when his worries are linked to reality instead of a dreamscape, but it feels good nonetheless. 

He stands on the roof of the complex, high up, until the edge of the sky begins to change color. Like he does every time he comes up here, he thinks about his favorite of the dreams, the brief period when his nights were filled with the exhilaration of flight.

He hopes Peter has somewhere like this, that he has something good to return to, his own version of reaching the sky.

*  

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good..."

Wind. Reddish puffs of dust in the air, unnaturally colored sky--everything is wrong, everything is ending, failure, failed, no--

"I don't wanna go, please--I don't wanna go!"

He can't lose him, he can't lose the kid--it's his fault, Tony's fault--he shouldn't have been here, he shouldn't have--

Tony bolts upright, gasping past the taste of dust in the air--gritty on his tongue, in his throat, burning his eyes.

With a clumsy, half-conscious drive, he drags himself up off the couch to the easel, practically throwing the painting of the glove (gauntlet) to the side and slapping a blank canvas up.

He doesn't start this one with a pencil sketch, no swipes of graphite or charcoal. The paint ends up on his bare hands, coating his fingers, and then he's frantically tracing and contouring a face, neck, shoulders, craggy grey rock and more of that reddish dirt--shades of beige and brown, orange and red and blue, grey and black twisting (crumbling) away.

Time is nothing, a non-entity; all Tony knows is the need to touch, to hold, to stop the inevitable--

When it's finished, the energy drains with disorienting suddenness. It's difficult to keep his arms extended, so he doesn't; he pulls them towards himself, hunching over with a sob and burying his trembling, paint-tacky hands in his hair.

The dreams have only ever been abstract; images in a mental blender. Vague human shapes and random objects, landscapes--weird, vivid amalgamations of feelings and colors and sensations. Tasting the dirt, feeling the loss; those things are par for the course.

But none of the people in them have ever had a voice; no one has ever said a word.

He couldn’t make out clear features of the face, even staring head on...but the voice that still rings in his head sounds a lot like Peter’s, and now that the frenzy is over, it’s almost paralyzing.

After an indeterminate number of minutes, the dream fades in the way dreams do, and he uncurls with a heaving sigh and stands, drags himself to the kitchen counter to make coffee.

He's already painted it out, it’s usually enough, but when he sits back down in front of the easel, he feels sick, anxious. His hands are unsteady, knuckles white where he grips the handle of his mug, the liquid inside it rippling slightly. 

Patches of the paint are still shiny-wet on the canvas, and part of him wishes it would stay that way, something about the wetness making it seem alive. It's blurred, as though he’s looking at the image from behind frosted glass, but there’s an obvious shape, the body of the owner of that heart-rendingly familiar, rasping voice. It's faceless; a kernel of (relative) normality he clings to, so he can try to convince himself this painting doesn't feel like the manifestation of his greatest failure, of a grave error that doesn't really belong to him but still spreads, aching, behind his ribs.

He's sore everywhere--his shoulders and neck from being hunched over, his arms from being held aloft for far too long. His hands ache, too, and they’re dry, paint cracking and peeling in an ugly neutral blend of the colors he'd smeared on his fingers.

He showers, manages to get the paint out of his hair. 

But he can’t watch as the color flecks and melts (disintegrates) from his hands and disappears down the drain. 

 *

Every day.

Every day for the last four days. 

The dreams and the art are a cycle: he dreams, he draws, he gets a few days respite while he finishes the piece...and then he wakes again from a new nightmare or dreamscape and starts over. 

He’d finished the first painting the same day...but he keeps having the same dream. Keeps hearing Peter beg to stay, keeps feeling the body in his hands crumble away to nothing. The taste of dirt in his mouth won’t leave, isn’t touched by coffee or food. He’s got five variations of the same painting piled in the corner of his apartment, and he’d been sure that if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to live the same horror over and over and over.

So he’s doing something.

He’s maybe ending this vicious repetition, but he’s also making up for the way he’s been ending their conversations more quickly, the way he’s been holding back and hiding, pretending he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt on Peter’s face when Tony’s the one who evades, bids farewell and closes the door.

He’s the one knocking, now.

“Mr. St--Tony?”

Seeing Peter like this--standing there in a t-shirt and boxers in the doorway of his apartment, less bruised than normal, looking confused and alive, he looks amazing--blows whatever plans Tony had away, ash on the wind. 

He doesn’t think, just sighs Peter’s name and pulls the younger man forward into a tight hug, buries a hand in his hair, presses his face in the softness, too, everything in his head spinning with relief and joy and a painful kind of apology--

--before he notices how stiff Peter’s gone in his arms. 

Probably because, in the months since they’ve been doing this, they’ve never actually engaged in physical contact...or had a real conversation beyond the single argument those days ago. Peter doesn’t know about the dreams; he doesn’t know anything, and Tony must seem like he’s having a mental break.

Before he can make himself let go, though, Peter’s arms snap up to wrap around him, tight, so tight it makes Tony’s ribs ache.

It ends too soon, Peter pulling away to stare at him with suddenly wet, red-rimmed eyes and hope so sharp it hurts to look at.

“Are you--do you know? Do you remember?”

Cold trickles down Tony’s spine.

He knows, without a doubt, he should. He should remember, and he doesn’t. It feels like another failure that he can’t say ‘yes’, that he can’t bring himself to answer that hope with something other than tense silence.

His heart breaks when Peter steps back after a few seconds, looking embarrassed and a little panicked.

“Never mind, I’m sorry--”

“Wait, no,” Tony blurts, barely resisting the urge to pull Peter back in. “Don’t--Look, I can’t...I don’t know what you’re talking about, but maybe you could tell me? I just…” He sighs, frustrated at himself, at the feeling that he’s missing something huge and that huge thing is Peter-shaped

“I just need to be around you for a little while,” he finally says. “Is that okay?”

He’s sure he’s going to get a door shut in his face; Peter’s expression is torn, aching, and Tony wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.

But he’s lucky. 

“Um, yeah,” Peter says carefully after another long moment, something like resignation coloring his tone. “Come in, please.”

*

The layout of Peter’s apartment is a mirror of Tony’s, but significantly less cluttered. Pretty minimal, actually, less like a choice in aesthetic and more like he’s only just moved in: a futon and a desk for furnishing, a small microwave and coffee pot on the counter, no pictures on the walls or taped to the fridge. 

Tony’s not judging, can’t; he’s never lived particularly extravagantly either, and his studio only looks lived in because of the art supplies taking up a good third of it. 

As for the lack of personal touches, of photos, memories...If anything, it makes Tony feel a further sense of closeness, of camaraderie. He doesn’t have pictures up either, not anymore; can’t look at the ones of he and the team, of he and Rhodey through the years. Not since everything changed.

The futon draws his gaze, again, still pulled down flat, like Peter’s just woken up, or had just laid down for bed. Tony stares at the pillow and rumpled, pulled-back comforter, and feels a twist of guilt (not enough to leave, but it’s still there).

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Peter’s saying as he closes the door and moves to stand a little off to the side. “I wasn’t expecting company at...um. Whatever time it is.”

Cracking a joke would be ideal to diffuse the tension, or maybe even giving a generic, polite response (‘it’s fine’, ‘I don’t mind’, or, ‘you have a lovely home, literal man of my dreams’), but when Tony pulls his gaze from the futon, Peter’s lips are curved in a tight smile, his stance awkward, yearning, like he’s trying not to approach Tony, but he wants to.

“Can I touch you again?” Tony asks. 

He realizes how it sounds as soon as he’s blurted it out, and as he watches Peter blush, lips parting in silent surprise, he wishes he meant it that way; that he was only trying to finagle his way into further messing up Peter’s bedspread, wanting to touch for a reason so mundane as arousal, instead of out of the powerful desire to reassure himself of Peter’s continued existence. 

Before he can apologize or rephrase, he’s got an armful of shaking, but warm and solid, Peter.

Peter’s face--his cheeks, his nose, his lips--are warm, pressing into the bare skin at the junction of Tony’s neck and shoulder, a sensation that takes Tony’s breath away more so than the return of the tight bands of Peter’s arms, one low around Tony’s waist, the other angled up between his shoulder blades. 

Fabric tightens across his shoulders and a little at his neck, like Peter’s gripping a handful of his shirt, and Tony feels more than hears the younger speak. 

“Yes, please. Touch me.”

Tony swallows thickly and hugs Peter back. The ‘thank you’ is burning in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out...so he lets it. Breathes it strained and hollow into Peter’s hair, the kind of ‘relieved’ that hurts so much worse before it gets better, and Peter shivers in his hold.

It shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t feel better to hold Peter, this virtual stranger, than it does to even think of being near his family, his old friends (his other friends, other; they’re not gone, they’re just...distant--not gone, not gone, not wrong), but it does. It feels right, in a way nothing else seems to feel anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, “I’m so sorry, Peter, I’m sorry…”

He’s sure he’s holding on tight enough now that it has to hurt, but he can’t make himself stop. His hand ends up back in Peter’s hair, fingers twisting into the soft brown curls, his other hand gripping at the back of Peter’s thin, worn t-shirt, and suddenly he needs more. Needs more proof, needs more confirmation that he’s not dreaming, that Peter’s not going to crumble apart in his arms. He’s just not sure how to say it, if he can--

He flinches when he feels Peter shift, feels him nosing at his throat, feels lips parting.

“I miss you,” Peter whispers, ragged and strained, breath warm against Tony’s skin, and it doesn’t make sense, but it does.

*

The fading bruises on Peter’s skin taste the same as the pale, unblemished places, are just as soft when Tony’s lips and tongue brush over them, and this isn’t what he’d meant to do, but it’s what’s happening now and neither of them appear inclined to stop it.

They should be talking; Tony should be wondering about the question Peter asked when they hugged for the first time. He should be panicking about how Peter apparently knows him enough to mourn him (he’d said ‘I miss you’ the way Tony talks to his mother, like he was talking to a gravestone) even though Tony had definitely never met him before he left the force, before the dreams. Would’ve remembered a face like his (an everything like his, really).

But they’re not talking. Instead, he’s tangled with Peter on the futon, dragging his lips from bloom to bloom of fading green-yellow-purple down Peter’s torso, his scalp tingling with every reflexive tightening of the fingers in his hair, the disbelief and awed arousal on Peter's face as much an aphrodisiac as the taste of his skin, the texture of it under Tony's hands.

Every motion feels like something slotting into place, the restless places in Tony's mind settling a little further, the empty spaces filling with heat and emotions too big for how little he really knows this person--this beautiful, strong, wonderful being.

Tony’s not panicking. He’s not wondering. He still doesn’t know how this is happening, still doesn’t know Peter beyond the last few months, barely knows him now, but nothing has felt this easy, this right, in a long time.

When Peter spills, warm and liquid, over where their hands are wrapped together around their twin hardness, Tony swallows Peter's soft gasp, kisses him and groans Peter's name as he finds his own release.

*

There are things he needs to say, things he needs to show Peter, the way he knows there are things Peter needs to show him, tell him.

The enormity is there, a strangely relieving weight, blanketing as they sink into each other in soft, post-coital haze.

It's complicated. It’s bigger than the dreams, bigger than anything Tony can fathom.

But when Tony fades, curled together on the futon, Peter's head under his chin and one of Peter’s hands resting on his sternum…

He dreams of flight.

***

#starker #starker secret santa 2019 #tony stark x peter parker #ironspider #nff #tony stark #peter parker #starker fic #multiverse au #canon divergence au

[gaytoxe]

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193772

the last warmth i cannot feel

Momota doesn’t feel anything but exhaustion and annoyance when he notices Ouma of all people standing in his room, an unreadable expression plastered on his face. He’s more tired each time he comes back, and the coughs that erupt from his lungs like restless magma in a volcano grow worse, taking their tolls on his body. 

The last person he wants to see is Ouma, the one who can see through each and every heroic word that he throws at him, hoping to throw him off of his scent of desperation, but he doesn’t receive the choice, because he knows Ouma won’t let go of little mistakes like Saihara would, returning back to the norm of their friendship because it’s the convenient thing to do for the both of them.

No, Ouma is nothing like Saihara; not even close, because Ouma won’t let him get away from the repercussions, even if they benefit him.

“Some friends you have,” drawls Ouma, eyes fixated on the blood that drips from Momota’s chin. “Still haven’t figured out that poor Momota-chan is ill. The dependency you share is tragic.”

Momota’s eyes flicker with fury, and if it wasn’t for his body beginning to burn itself out, he would’ve been able to give him a fiercer gaze, but he’s exhausted, too weak in the knees to force the muscles to contort.

“You’re—“ he sputters, splattering blood into the hand that clutches his mouth and digs into his cheekbones— “—you’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Ouma snorts. “We both know those motivational speeches of yours that seem to suffice for Saihara-chan and Harukawa-chan are coated with honey.” Interlocking his hands behind his back, he slowly approaches him before grinning right up at him, eyes boring straight into his.

“Tell me something, Momota-chan.” The hush of a whisper that escapes his lips as he leans up to his ear sends a chill down Momota’s spine. “How long do you plan on lying to yourself?”

And as much as he wants to blurt out that he’s wrong, that he isn’t lying and that he’ll somehow get better, his arms refuse to lift with the rest of his numb body, mind puzzled on whether it’s because of the pink splatter on the floor or the fact that he’s right.

-

Momota somehow isn’t surprised when he sees Ouma in his room again, hand tracing the edges of his bed and stopping when they reach a tiny patch of dried blood, eyes fixated on the pink color that pops out from the sheets, and instead of saying anything, Momota just flops on to the bed. His eyes blur in and focus on the ceiling, lungs struggling to circulate air through his blood, ugly blotches of fuzz appearing in his line of vision every few moments.

“To hell with whatever you’re trying to plan,” he grunts finally, breathing growing heavier and heavier the more he lays there. “I don’t.. want shit to do with it.”

Ouma’s smile doesn’t waver, and his eyes remain on the bulging pink in his hand, not even gazing up when Momota sputters hacks into his hand.

“Clocks are ticking with time that you clearly don’t have,” Ouma tells him, squeezing the edge of the sheet in his palm as the blood stained patch bulges out. “And time that Saihara-chan nor Harukawa-chan have, either.”

The way their names slip off his lips and hang above Momota’s head in the air as if to taunt him makes him grit his teeth.

“I’ll make time,” he tries to say, but the confidence he aimed for is far from its target, instead barely scraping the underbelly of exhaustion and desperation that hides beneath the cracking and crumbling mask he dawns.

“Oh, Momota-chan,” Ouma drags out innocently, as if talking to a child, but as Momota’s eyes shift to meet his, expecting some kind of emotion, they’re swirling with a thick vitality that trickles down his throat and pricks every bone and vessel in his body. “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to piece together that hero’s mask of yours when your lungs are cracking it for you.”

His words hit every nerve and more, and the words that Momota wants to fire back lodge themselves in his throat, thickening the air around him and causing the difficult task of breathing just to continue moving to become increasingly harder and harder. Vile, he thinks, swallowing hard against his urge to hack up blood. The fact that Ouma knows exactly what he’s thinking and what he feels is humiliating but strikes an unknown chord inside him, as if he knows the difficulty of masks more than anyone. And that would be true, because in the purple, endless swirling irises that are set on him, Momota sees something; something the unsettling churn in his stomach is telling him to confirm.

He thinks, no, he knows, that his will, no matter how strong, won’t be enough to protect the people he cares about, no matter how much he wants that to be the reality of his superhero, comic book-esque story. His journey is one of shame and jealousy, nothing like a hero’s of any sort, because he can’t be the heroes he reads in books and watches save the day in movies.

He’s human, and the fact that he and Ouma both know this truth is somehow relieving amongst the frustration that boils inside his bloodstream. He wants to think it boils for Ouma, for all of the evil things that he’s done, and yet, while that doesn’t feel right, he ignores it, because it has to be true.

-

Momota is curling away from Ouma when he enters the bathroom on the frigid tile, skin stained with pink blood, with his words still on his mind from then, in his room. Does he know what that feels like? he thinks, eyes fixated on the light’s reflection in his disgustingly vivid pink liquid.

“When you were in my room..” he trails off, head slowly turning to face him, anger fading away from his irises. “Did you understand what that was? My “hero’s mask”, you called it. Do you.. know what that’s like?”

Something flickers in Ouma’s eyes for just a moment as he sets down a medical kit by his own feet, and while his first reasoning for this flash of a change is the burning light above them, he knows that it’s something different. A shared pain of exhaustion and want to get all of it over with and finally lay your head to rest on the hydraulic press.

“Don’t mistake cunning for understanding,” seethes Ouma, resting his palm against the wall, expression unwavering. “I’m not oh-so-heroic Momota-chan who wants so badly to be the guy who helps everyone out without a scratch that he ends up sabotaging himself and all that admire him, acting as if he’s all high and mighty when he doesn’t believe a single word that he spouts from that stupid mouth of his.”

Momota pauses and recoils from his words, swallowing the pain and digging his nails into his palm. He wonders if he’s avoiding answering it directly, instead throwing him off by jabbing where it normally hurts him the most, and imagining the unexplored territory of the emotions and thoughts Momota has never thought about belonging to Ouma is spinning wheels of regret in his chest.

“Maybe not the same as me, but,” he protests, attempting to sit up and ignoring the pain that shoots through his body and strains his voice, “you know what it means to hold a mask close to your face, don’t you?”

“Know what it means?” Ouma repeats, and he laughs a cold, hardened laugh. “I’m not desperate to use these lies for everyone’s benefit like you, Momota-chan. Even if we were cut from the same cloth, you and I have vastly different roles to play in this, so let’s keep you in the spotlight as the hero in this story. It’s the one I like best.”

“You—“ he tries, trying to deflect the truth of it as he averts his gaze, but Ouma stops him.

“Are you still trying to paint me as the villain, or have you finally begun to realize I haven’t done anything to cause the tiny cracks and severs in that little mask of yours?”

Momota’s lip quivers, and he wants to say that he’s wrong, that he’s the reason his blood boils furiously, but when he replays the humiliating memories in his head, Ouma didn’t do a single thing to provoke him to freak out during Gokuhara’s trial. It was his own vile, his own jealousy and fear that the people that clung to him for guidance wouldn’t need him anymore that drove his decisions. Saihara wouldn’t need him anymore and would finally leave him in the short time that they knew each other, and envy gurgled in his throat, leaving a gag worthy aftertaste on his taste buds.

Ouma had never been the villain in the hero’s story that Momota wanted to have; not even for a second. The wolf devouring the sheep in the pasture lay dormant in himself, for he was the sheep and the wolf in one lonely vessel.

He is his own demise, swirling inwards with each dying breath he takes and each fuzzy patch that slips into his vision every now and then.

When he finally meets his eyes again, he doesn’t know the look he’s giving him until Ouma drawls, “Don’t give me those pitiful eyes now, Momota-chan. After all, I am the villain,” and somehow, Momota can taste the ting of sadness that comes with saying these things, slipping down his throat and remaining in the back of his mind.

“How do you live like this?” he chokes out, throat dry and itchy as he heaves himself to his feet and coughs into his elbow.

“I don’t have to for much longer,” Ouma replies, facing him with a smile that seems triumphant on the surface but is something new beneath it when Momota focuses enough, “now that we’re in this plan together.”

-

Thinking about the things that he doesn’t know about Ouma and all the things that make him want to delay the lowering of the press makes him hesitate after helping Ouma under the small space and on to his jacket.

“What are you waiting for?” Ouma’s strained voice echoes throughout the hangar, a pained smile on his face. “It’s getting harder to move, so.. hurry up.”

Momota’s heart almost shatters at his words, desperately swallowing saliva down the desert that is his esophagus to get himself to say something instead of watch the life gradually fade away from Ouma’s purple irises.

“I keep thinking,” he says finally, “about how we treated you.. how I treated you. And I don’t know what you’ve been thinking or feeling, but there’s some kind of twist in my stomach that tells me you aren’t what I kept telling myself you were.”

Momota averts his gaze. “I thought I knew what you are, Ouma,” he tells him, eyes growing glassy, “but the truth is, I don’t, and I’m sorry I ever thought I did. And maybe, somehow, I keep thinking we could have been something nicer if we weren’t stuck in this god awful place.”

Ouma lets out an exhausted laugh, eyes slowly shifting to meet Momota’s. “Perhaps,” he mumbles, falling quiet when he notices his eyes that are pricking with tears. “Don’t tell me you’re going to cry over me now, Momota-chan,” he whispers, a gentle scoff escaping his lips that are curled into a melancholy smile as his tired eyes gaze at Momota’s mauve stained glass irises.

Momota hates how hopeless and fucked this plan is, how he can see the sadness in his eyes when they meet and bore into each other, sharing an inexplicable pain that threads them together and connects their hands together. Ouma’s hand is cold, devoid of warmth, and he feels like screaming out, letting the riled magma in his lungs burst and erupt. He barely feels human, and the more their eyes remain locked, the harder Momota wants to grit his teeth and embrace him to find the humanity he can’t see in his eyes.

The swirling oceans of violet that crashed against summer beaches in his eyes are now laying under a thin layer of winter ice, devoid of the fire Momota once saw in them and grew to wish to see behind the occasional flickers of stilled waters bathing under the sun. The lips once curled into a smile of devious intent now hold a faint smile colored with exhaustion and pain, tinted with a melancholic pale, and the fingers always pressed to those lips are almost as white as his bedsheets, stripped of their color and tipped with a frigid blue.

Momota’s fingers roam his arm, hoping to find some kind of warmth to surprise the nerves in his body, and when he doesn’t, his forehead sinks to press against the surface of the cold machine, knowing that this will be the last burst of human touch and warmth Ouma will ever feel and that he’s lucky it’s not his.

#oumota #kaito momota #kokichi ouma #ndrv3 #my writing