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aparticularbandit · 2 years

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Finding Family: Part Two: Chapter Six

Summary: When America begins universe-hopping again to try and find her moms, she realizes that’s too much scope for her. She looks for smaller scope, and instead she finds Wanda.

AO3

Denny’s menu is impressively not what Wanda wants. Nothing looks good. Their bacon is beef, which would be nice if she wanted bacon, but she’s never been particularly interested in it. She doesn’t eat ham and doesn’t trust their sausage. Everything else is high on sugar.

And the worst of it is that she’s just. not. hungry.

…and that the menu is sticky from dried maple syrup (or what she hopes is dried maple syrup). She lifts her fingers and stares at their tips. Ick.

The waitress sets a full pot of coffee on the table, along with three mugs. They’re not white mugs. Wanda isn’t certain if they’ve never been white or if they intentionally got coffee mugs that already look stained. Either way, she isn’t interested in them. Wong takes one of the mugs and pours himself a cup while the waitress looks from Wanda to America expectantly. “What would you two like to drink?”

“Do you have any hot chocolate?” America asks. She looks up at their waitress, hesitates a second as she takes in her golden curls and bright features, and then seems to shake it off. “I’d love some hot chocolate.”

“Oh, honey, we’re just out.”

America scowls and stares at the menu again. “Don’t know why I’m surprised,” she mutters under her breath. “Do you have any almond milk?”

“No,” the waitress says, “but we have Coke products and a wide variety of smoothies and milkshakes….” She hesitates and tucks an errant golden curl back behind one ear. “Sorry, you probably don’t want milk. I’m just the silliest goose.”

“Oh, I like milk, I just don’t like it first thing in the morning. Doesn’t sit well.” America kicks her sneakers along the floor. Carpet. Which is probably all full of more maple syrup stains and more stickiness and Wanda just isn’t going to think about any of that. She could fix it all with a wave of her hand. She won’t. “Orange juice is fine.” America’s tone says that it is not fine, but she’ll make do.

The waitress writes that down on a notepad and then looks at Wanda. “And you, miss?”

There’s something odd about being called miss by a woman who looks like younger than she is. Wanda quickly reads the woman’s name tag. Dottie. Her head tilts ever so slightly to one side. “Have we met before?”

Dottie blinks. “Oh, no, miss. I’m certain I would remember you if we’d ever met. You’re kind of—” She quickly covers her mouth and gives a little cough. “We haven’t met.”

“Hot mom vibes.” America makes as though to nudge Wanda with her elbow and then seems to think better of it. Probably a reaction to the whole don’t touch me and being thrown off of the porch. Or almost thrown off of the porch. Good. At least she’s learning.

“I’ll have an herbal tea, please,” Wanda says, folding her menu and offering the waitress a smile. “You don’t happen to know which kind it is, do you?”

“…no-o-o?” Dottie makes the word lengthen, and as it lengthens, it grows higher in pitch. She makes a panicked look over to Wong, who is sipping his coffee and not making a sound. “I know it’s not peppermint because we only use that in the winter with the hot chocolate, and I know it’s not pumpkin spice because that’s only for the fall up through Thanksgiving. Maybe strawberry? Or lemon?”

Wanda nods. “That’s fine. I’ll take whatever you have.”

Dottie writes that down. Before she leaves, she asks, “Are you ready to order, or do you need to look at your menus a little longer?”

Wanda doesn’t need longer. She’s not hungry. Looking at food she doesn’t want doesn’t suddenly make her want any of it.

Wong places his menu on the middle of the table. “Chicken porridge. No salt.”

“Really?” Wanda asks. “I figured you for one of the fried rice options.”

Wong meets her eyes steadily. “I don’t want rice for breakfast.”

She can’t tell if he’s joking. She was joking. She thinks he must have taken her seriously. Not that she cares.

“I’d like some of the Pancakes Puppies to start,” America says. Then her eyes narrow, and she looks up at Dottie. “They’re not actually puppies, are they?”

Dottie stares at America. She blinks twice. Then she gives an awkward look over to first Wong and then to Wanda. Neither of them suggest that she not take America seriously. “N-n-no,” she stutters. “We don’t cook dogs here. Um.” She glances back to Wong and Wanda for support and gets nothing. “They’re just little balls of pancake batter covered in cinnamon sugar.”

“Why are they called puppies then?”

“I…I don’t know. I’m just a waitress.” Dottie tugs her lower lip between her front two teeth. “You said to start?”

“Oh, right.” America grins. “And then I’d like some smothered cheese fries and a Grand Slam Slugger but with the banana strawberry chocolate chip pancakes instead of the normal ones. Can I do that?”

Dottie nods slowly as she writes it all down. “It costs extra.”

America’s face goes white. She looks over at Wong, who just shrugs. Wanda strongly begins to suspect that neither of them have any money and that she’s going to be left with the tab. She just as strongly suspects that, if Wong does have money, he won’t spend it on her. He probably wants her to pick up the tab. Petty punishment for killing a lot of his trainees. She supposes that she probably deserves that.

Wanda sighs. “It’s fine.”

America’s grin returns. “And for dessert—”

“Maybe we wait for dessert until after you’ve finished all of that,” Wong interrupts. He looks up and meets Dottie’s eyes. “Growing girl. Eyes bigger than her stomach.”

Dottie smiles at him easy. “Oh, don’t I know it. I was just like that when I was her age.” She gives America a fond look. “We can discuss dessert later, okay?”

America scowls. “Okay, but I know what I want, and I know how much I eat.”

By then, Dottie has already looked away and is staring at Wanda expectantly. “And you, miss?”

“Just the tea, please.” Wanda folds her menu and places it with the others’.

“You can’t just not get anything,” America says, staring at her with wide eyes. “We’re at a restaurant. I’ve only ever seen you eat ice cream, and I didn’t even really see that. You have to eat something.”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “Oh, to live for months on nothing more than ice cream.” She glances up at Dottie. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You should listen to our daughter, honey,” Wong says, ignoring the sharp look Wanda gives him. “A little food would be good for you. You’re so thin as it is.”

Wanda grits her teeth together. She glares daggers at Wong. He continues to ignore her. Then she takes a deep breath and glances up at Dottie. “Is there a way,” she starts, sighs, presses her fingertips to her forehead, and then starts again, “Is there a way to order French toast without the Slam bit?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dottie says, “but, um.” She glances down at her notepad. “You can substitute French toast for the pancakes on the Grand Slam Slugger, and then you can get the banana strawberry chocolate chip pancakes as a separate thing. But then it’s a whole meal, so you’ll get more eggs and bacon and sausage, so you might as well just…order the French toast…meal.”

“I don’t want the meal,” Wanda says, slow. “I just want the French toast.” She doesn’t even really want the French toast, but she doesn’t feel like using magic to make America and Wong stop giving her a hard time about what she does or does not eat – or to make Dottie just go away – would be particularly beneficial to this conversation. Still, her fingers clench and unclench, and she feels an ache to just make it so.

“If you keep the eggs,” Wong starts.

“I don’t want the eggs—”

“—then I’ll take the bacon and sausage,” he finishes as though Wanda hasn’t said anything at all. “Is that better?”

Wanda takes a deep breath in and lets it out. “It’s a compromise,” she says, slowly, and then looks up at Dottie. “If you will just keep the French toast and eggs on a separate plate, that would be excellent.”

“Don’t you mean eggs-cellent?” America gives them all a bright grin, one that is met with no responding grins and only a groan, if anything at all.

“I can do that.” Dottie finishes writing everything down on her notepad, reads it through once, and then gives a little nod. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” She gathers their menus and walks off.

As she does so, America leans forward, propping her elbows on the table, and asks, “So why are we at a restaurant if you’re not hungry?”

“You were hungry,” Wanda says, switching her glare from Wong to America. “You were whining. We’re here for you.”

“Oh.” America blinks. “I just assumed, you know, morning. Everyone’s hungry in the morning.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“But you got food.”

“That I did not want.” Wanda glares at Wong. “This is your fault. You and your inability to teach her anything—”

Wong refuses to take that without comment. “We teach her—”

“Yes, you taught her how to make a magical gateway,” Wanda continues with a wave of dismissal, “but you didn’t teach her its name or the name of the sling rings you use to make them.”

America’s eyes light up. “I was right!”

“You were?” Wanda asks, gaze returning to America. “About what?”

Under her gaze, America shifts and looks away. “Nothing.”

Wanda doesn’t press her further. She’d suspected that America was lying during that conversation, but now she had proof. Not that she’d needed it. There was enough that the girl didn’t know that they’d needed to have this conversation anyway. Of course, it would probably have been better if America wasn’t here, but she’ll make do.

I can take advantage of this.

As America looks away, Wanda gestures to her. “You see what I mean? She knows nothing.”

America’s head snaps up. “I know some things! More than you! You’ve only been to two universes, and I’ve been to—”

“You know nothing of our universe, where you are living. That’s the problem.” Wanda stops herself from continuing and nods past America, where their waitress, Dottie, is approaching. America glances back, sees the waitress, and her eyes widen. She sits back down in her seat and says nothing.

Dottie holds a tray in front of her. Her eyes shift between the three of them when she notices they aren’t speaking, but then she continues as though nothing’s the matter. She places a glass of orange juice in front of America. “Here you go.” Then she places a cup of hot water in front of Wanda with the tea bag on the saucer just beneath it. “I thought you would prefer to steep your own tea.”

Wanda nods. “Thank you.”

Then Dottie pulls a platter covered with what are not aptly named Pancake Puppies and places it in the center of the table. They look just like the Cinnabons that they sell at Taco Bell, which Wanda has seen from the many, many times that Sam flew off just for his personal addiction during their time at the Avengers Compound. She’d tried Taco Bell once. It wasn’t good. The Cinnabons were okay, and these puppies or whatever they are look to be less good because instead of having the cream cheese stuffed inside them, there’s a little dipping sauce cup full of it instead.

“I assume these are for the table?” Dottie asks as she flattens the tray against her. “Do you need plates for those, or...?”

“Nah, we’re good.” America reaches across and takes the plate, scooting it over to her. “They don’t want any of these.” She pops one into her mouth and visibly relaxes. “Mmmm.”

“Oh. Okay.” Dottie smiles in a way that seems forced. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with your meals.”

Without a second thought, as soon as the waitress is gone, Wanda reaches over and snatches one of the pancake nuggets. She gives America a look and pops it into her mouth. It’s just as horrible as she thought it would be – far too sickeningly sweet to have much real taste – but the look of frustration on America’s face is worth it.

“Quit stealing my food!” America holds the plate closer against her. “Get your own!”

In all of this time, Wong has said nothing, has only seen the exchange between the two, has only listened to what the witch has to say with little interference. He still believes that she is wrong. He and the other teachers have been teaching America some basic, good sorcery skills. But he also sees some wisdom in her words. If America is meant to live here, on Earth-616, then there are some basic events she needs to know – and some information she needs to retain.

“What we call the gateways isn’t as important as knowing how to make them,” Wong says slowly. He leans forward, clasps his hands together around his mug, and rests them on the table. His gaze moves to America. “In your time universe-hopping, did you encounter a being known as Thanos?”

America shrugs. “Heard of him. Usually he wasn’t a problem.” She looks over to Wanda. “Does this have to do with that Snap thing you were talking about earlier?”

Wong’s eyes widen, and he turns to the witch, whose head tilts as her brows raise. “I see your point.” He leans back in his seat. “But Kamar-Taj is not equipped for teaching current events. I could find someone to teach her, but….” His voice trails off as their waitress returns, this time with another tray full of more food.

It has been five minutes at the most. The Pancake Puppies are all gone. America wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks up at Dottie. “More food?” She hasn’t swallowed. Her mouth is still full.

As Dottie places their different platters in front of them, Wanda turns back to Wong, and as soon as the waitress is gone again, she continues, “It’s much more than current events. I’m not sure she knows how to live around people. And from what I’ve seen, Kamar-Taj is full of people who are much older than she is. I’m sure mentors and teachers are great, but America should be with her peers.”

Wong begins to rip the sausage links and bacon he’d taken from Wanda’s food and drops the pieces into his porridge. “I’m not sure what I can do about that, and I’m not sure why you care.” He doesn’t glance up, instead carefully putting more meat into his bowl. “You wanted to kill her a few months ago. Why does it matter to you if she fits in around here?”

The witch takes a sip of her tea. She glances over to America, who has checked out of the conversation and is much more involved with eating the massive amount of food in front of her. It’s as though America hasn’t eaten anything in days, even though she knows that can’t be the case. There must be plenty of food at Kamar-Taj. Perhaps it’s all like what Wong has.

America stops eating long enough to look at Wong’s porridge and grimace. “That looks like gruel.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Wanda says immediately.

America shoots Wanda a look. “You’re not my mom. You’re not either of my moms.”

“I don’t want to be.” Wanda sighs. She turns to Wong and meets his eyes. “I don’t care if she fits in. I care that she doesn’t know who the Avengers are.” She hesitates and looks down into her tea, tapping the mug with her rings. “Who we were.”

Wong doesn’t say anything to that. There isn’t really anything to say to that.

The problem is that in his absence of words and America’s focus on her food, there’s only silence. Not that there can really be silence in a place like Denny’s. There are other people eating. There’s the clatter of forks on plates, of a spoon tinking against the edge of a coffee mug. People talking around them, although none of them really pay attention. (Wanda picks up a bit of their mental states and then shuts it off because she’s not really all that interested.)

Wong eats slow, but Wanda eats slower, if she can be said to eat at all. It’s possible that all she does is cut her French toast into pieces and then push them about her plate. America finishes before either of them do, and while her first thoughts are to the possibility of dessert (and something with chocolate in it), she’s tired. She hasn’t slept. Her eyes are heavy, and the Denny’s chair isn’t the most uncomfortable place she’s ever napped. By the time Dottie returns, she’s dozed off, a bit of drool dripping from one corner of her mouth.

When she’s satisfied that America isn’t listening, Wanda ask, not turning to him, “Do you know why I read the Darkhold, Wong?”

Wong stops with a spoon halfway to his mouth. He slowly sets the spoon down. “Because you wanted your children back.”

“No.” Wanda’s lips twitch into something like the beginnings of a smile and then disappear. “Do you know what happened in Westview?”

“I know that you changed an entire town to fit what you needed at the time. I’ve heard that you might not have been in control.” Wong doesn’t look away from her. “Why do you ask?”

Wanda hums, and her tone is light as she says, “I met another witch in Westview. She used runes to hone her magic, something I had never seen before, and she had a book that taught magic.” Her head tilts to the side, but she continues to look at America, or just past her. “Tony Stark locked me in the Avengers Compound because I couldn’t control my magic. You and your sorcerers must have known I existed, but none of you ever made contact with me. The Darkhold mentioned the Sorcerer Supreme, and you knew that it existed and how it was crafted. You could have found me. You could have helped me. But you didn’t, and I had to learn to use my magic the best that I could. And even then, it wasn’t always right. Sometimes it acted in ways strange and foreign to me. And then here was this book, that taught magic, that apparently had an entire chapter just dedicated to who this other witch claimed I was.” She shakes her head and almost laughs. “I wasn’t trying to find my boys. I was trying to learn better control.”

Wong hears the accusations in her words. He takes a sip of his coffee, finishes it, and pours himself another mug. “We knew you existed, Wanda. The Ancient One intended to try and contact you, once we learned about what happened Lagos. But we had our own problems we had to deal with, and when the Ancient One was free to contact you, you had disappeared, a fugitive. We didn’t know where you were or how to contact you, even if we wanted to.” He looks into his mug. “Then the Ancient One died and Stephen took their mantle. He didn’t know anything about anything, other than what he needed to know. And you were gone.”

Wanda tilts her head to one side and looks over to him. “Those are very good excuses.”

“Not an excuse, only an explanation.” Wong took another sip of his coffee. “I won’t leave America with you. You won’t be a good teacher.”

Then it comes again, that almost laugh, that almost smirk of a smile. “I wouldn’t have suggested myself. I know I’m not a good teacher.” Wanda continues to tilt her head as she looks at him. “I have someone else in mind. Someone you will like far better.” She quiets as Dottie returns.

Dottie begins to pick up their used platters and place them on her tray. She gives America a fond look that somehow seems feigned. “It looks like someone didn’t make it to dessert.” One hand reaches out as though to tousle America’s hair, but at the strong look she gets from the other two, she stops. “Sorry. Old habits die hard.” She reaches into her apron and pulls out a little black wallet-shaped folder. “Here’s the bill.”

Wanda gives the folder a look as Dottie walks off, and Wong takes it with a sigh. “I was going to make you pay.”

“I know.”

Wong puts a black card in the folder and crosses his arms. “Alright. Who is this teacher you’re so sure will help America?”

The witch glances down at her tea and gives it a little smile. “The man my brother died for.”

Clint Barton doesn’t have a job anymore. He doesn’t want a job anymore. That was the entire point of retiring after the war with Thanos. He doesn’t like who he became to survive – more than survive. He’d wanted something he thought he couldn’t ever have again, and here it was, with him, all because someone who deserved better sacrificed herself. He lives with the weight of that every day. He hates the weight of it.

There’s a lot to do at the farmhouse. It’s actually a farmhouse now, with chickens and sheep. He doesn’t know how to do retirement. He knows how to spend time with his family, how to love his wife and kids, and apparently how to adopt people who have been idolizing him for almost as long as he’s been in the public eye. Someone who must not have gotten Snapped like so many others had, someone who didn’t follow his actions through the Snap.

He’s busy. It’s easy to be busy here. It’s…it’s nice to have a familiar, normal sort of busy. He likes it.

He does not like it when he hears his name yelled from outside of the barn and one of his children comes running in with wide eyes, followed by Kate Bishop and, worse, he does not like the statement, “You’ve got company.” He’s not supposed to have company. Not ever. Not again.

And the company he sees when he walks out of the barn make him wish that he had a bow strapped to his back and arrows hidden in his boots.

Clint moves as far towards the people in front of him as he can, as though that will protect the people behind him. He knows better than to think there’s any protection here at all. But knowledge and hope can be two very different, very dangerous things.

“Wanda,” Clint says, cautious as anything. “I wasn’t expecting a visit. You’re not here to kill my kids, are you? Hear you’re in the business of killing kids now.”

He sees her laugh. It isn’t at all like the laughter he’d seen in the compound, when she’d shared one of those old-timey sit-coms with everyone. She looks up, brushes hair out of her face, and meets his eyes with her brilliant green ones. “I haven’t killed any kids except my own,” she says, bitterness lacing her tone, “and everyone says they didn’t really exist. So no, Clint. I’m not here to kill your kids.”

Clint doesn’t say anything to that. There really isn’t anything to say.

Instead, he keeps an eye on her as she scans the area. Her eyes light on Kate Bishop, and then she smiles. Wanda turns just enough to meet his eyes. “I see you’ve started adopting strays.”

“I’m not a stray—”

Clint holds up a hand to cut Kate off. It’s never worked before, so he’s surprised that it seems to work now. Or maybe one of his kids is holding her mouth shut. That would probably be better. “One. One stray.”

The dog comes out then.

“Okay, maybe two strays, but he’s hers.”

Wanda nods once, but the smile hasn’t left at all. “How would you feel about adopting another?”

#bandit fic #finding family with wanda and america #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #america chavez #wong #mcu wong #mcu #queue #clint barton

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andypantsx3 · 4 years

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if i could keep cool | 5

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 20,322 words / 6 chapters

summary: A villain attacks Shouto Todoroki’s apartment and kidnaps what he apparently believes to be Todoroki’s secret lover. The bad news—for both you and the villain in question—is that you’re just there to clean the place. That’s how it starts.

tags: romance, reader-insert, accidental sugar daddy shouto, misunderstandings

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

You spent the rest of the weekend freaking out about how handsy you had been with Shouto.

Not only had you stuffed him into the hat and the sunglasses, not only had you curled tightly into his politely offered warmth, but then you’d literally held his hand the entire way to your apartment. You’d been too drunk to be self-conscious about what you’d been doing at the time, but once sober, you were embarrassed to realize you’d been clinging to him like some kind of beer-and-yakitori-filled limpet.

You kept replaying the whole walk home in your head, reviewing the absent way you’d played with his fingers, how you’d mused on how warm and large his hands were. Then he’d very obviously tried to offload you as quickly as he could at your door, insisting that you go inside when you continued to hang around him, and he’d literally pushed you inside at the end of it.

God, you could just die.

Shouto, for his part, seemed pretty unbothered by the whole thing. He texted you a couple times over the weekend, as if things were completely normal, but you still dreaded the moment that Tuesday rolled around.

How were you supposed to look him in the face after making such an obvious fool of yourself? How was he being so chill about things? Maybe he was just used to everyone in a thousand mile radius making an immediate mess of themselves for him. But still, it was embarrassing that you were one of them.

Tuesday evening did roll around, however, and soon enough you found yourself tentatively cracking open the door to his apartment. You sent up a silent prayer for him to not be home, but your hopes were immediately dashed when you caught sight of his lean form stretched out on his couch, a book in hand. His head raised when he heard the door, and a small smile curled his mouth when he caught sight of you.

Your heart thumped very deliberately in your chest as if to call attention to the fact that you were even more of a lovestruck idiot than you’d been willing to admit.

You tried to ignore your entire body and the way it felt like every fiber was waking up and bending towards him like flowers in the sun, stepping carefully through the door and closing it behind you. As you did, an appealing but unusual scent met your nose, and you glanced around in confusion. What looked suspiciously like cookware and spices littered his heretofore completely untouched countertops, and you felt an eyebrow raise. Was he...cooking?

“Something’s wrong,” you blurted immediately.

Those heterochromatic eyes snapped to your face and he leaned forward in concern. “What?”

“You’re cooking,” you said. “You’ve never cooked one single time the entire time I’ve worked here. Your countertops told me so.”

He let out a soft laugh, relaxing back into his couch. “There’s a first time for everything.”

You eyed him suspiciously. Was he okay? Had he been attacked or something? Was there such a thing as a villain with a quirk that made people cook things?

“What’s the occasion?” you asked carefully, watching him for any sign of a quirk’s influence.

He gestured you over to his living room and you went to him slowly. “I thought we’d hang out again.” He still pronounced the phrase like it sat uneasily in his mouth.

You stared at him. He wanted to hang out? “Shouto...but...my shift.”

He directed you to a chair across the coffee table from him. “I have to leave on a mission for a week tomorrow morning. I...wanted to spend time with you before I left.”

A weird mixture of concern and warmth washed over you. Okay, that was super cute, but that didn’t explain the complete absurdity of him suddenly reneging on what you strongly suspected was an unbroken streak of over two decades not cooking a single thing. Was the mission he was going on super dangerous? Did he think he wouldn’t come back from it? Was he crossing experiences off his bucket list before he went?

Your concern must have read on your face because he leaned forward, one cool hand taking yours. You almost jumped out of your skin with surprise.

“It’s not any more dangerous than my everyday work,” he said in that deep tone.

You frowned. That honestly wasn’t saying much, all things considered. His job literally involved fighting super villains.

“I just...thought it would be nice,” he said, and you thought you read a note of self-consciousness in his tone. You frowned.

What the hell did he have to be self-conscious about? He wasn’t the one who’d made a complete and utter fool of himself Friday night. You were honestly surprised he’d let you into his apartment at all, after what had happened.

But maybe...this was his way of telling you it didn’t matter? He was clearly making an effort to be nice--maybe he wanted to try again? If he really did, if that’s what this was really all about, then you could do that. And this time, you would keep your hands to yourself.

“What are you making?” you asked, your curiosity getting the better of you.

Shouto leaned in conspiratorially. “Vegetables.”

You let out a shocked laugh. “No way.”

A small smirk pulled at his mouth. “I don’t know how you usually make yours, but a friend had some suggestions.”

You looked at him curiously and he pulled out his phone, clicking into a chat and sliding it across the coffee table to you.

You glanced down at the messages, one eyebrow lifting when you saw a series of really good-looking recipes featuring roasted fall vegetables, then choked on a laugh when you caught sight of the other messages interspersed between the recipe links.

Do you seriously not fucking know how to cook a vegetable, icy hot?

[Honey Roasted Carrots with Yogur…] > http://bit.ly/9iJZ5jt

Fucking useless.

[Grilled Zucchini and Feta Toasts w...] > http://bit.ly/8oKZ5jf

Here, dipshit: [Charred Vegetable Medley with Burrata…] > http://bit.ly/5oDF4fi

If you food poison her, I don’t give a shit.

Don’t text me again.

“These look really good, but, um,” you chuckled, “your secret lover seems a little displeased.”

Shouto’s mouth curled. “He’s the jealous type.”

You laughed. “And when he’s clearly the superior chef, with recipes like that. I talk a big vegetable game, but I can’t give you what he can.”

Shouto huffed a laugh. “Anger issues and insults?”

You grinned back at him, then jumped when a timer went off in the kitchen.

“Stay here,” Shouto commanded. A cool hand pressed you down into a chair, and then he was gone.

Your eyes followed him as he made his way to the kitchen, tracing over the lines of his broad shoulders. He’d chosen another soft sweater today and he looked so fucking good, so absurdly domestic as he pulled vegetables out of the oven and looked them over. It was clear he had no idea what he was doing, and that somehow made everything ten times cuter, the sight of him way too much for your poor heart to take.

He was too easy to picture as a boyfriend trying to do something sweet for his girlfriend, and your teeth ached with the thought of it. You wondered if this was how he was going to treat his lover, when he eventually got one for real. That girl was going to be so damn lucky, she had no idea.

Shouto wandered back over with plates loaded with vegetables, two wine glasses, and a bottle of something dark and red.

You eyed the bottle carefully. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t get handsy this time, and it was hard enough to keep your cool around him when you were sober. You didn’t know if you trusted yourself with a glass or two of wine in you.

“Uh, this looks really good,” you said, examining your plate for a distraction. It looked like Shouto had made every single one of the recipes Bakugou had sent him, and they honestly didn’t look too bad.

Shouto adopted a carefully blank look, like he was trying not to look too pleased. “We’ll see if that impression lasts. This is the first time any of my kitchenware has seen action.”

You laughed. “I trust you. Besides, I’m not hard to impress. In freshman year I once ate nothing but instant ramen for six weeks straight.”

He smirked and moved to pour the wine. You opened your mouth to stop him, lest you drink too much and get a little too hands on again, but you froze when you caught sight of the flowers at the center of his coffee table. The bouquet from Friday stared back at you.

Heat flared in your cheeks when you realized he’d kept it. The flowers definitely were not nice enough to fit in with the rest of his modern apartment, and the edges of the petals were looking a little more obviously wilted now, but he’d kept them. He’d found a vase and put them in water and set them out on his coffee table, and that was so embarrassing and so, so cute.

Shouto caught you looking. “I really did mean that I liked them,” he said evenly.

“I’ll get you something nicer,” you suddenly blurted, eyes still locked on the bouquet. “When you come back from your mission. If you come back safe.”

He looked at you curiously, eyes fixing on you unblinkingly. “You sound concerned.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. I--” have the world’s fattest crush on you “--care about you.”

Shouto’s eyes darkened and he considered you for a long moment. “I care about you, too,” he admitted quietly.

You put a hand to your face to make sure it wasn’t actually on fire, and you leaned forward to help yourself to the wine so you didn’t have to look at him. Fuck it. You would just have to watch your hands extra carefully.

“So, uh, where’s the mission?” you asked hurriedly, suddenly desperate to move the conversation along. You needed to put a ton of words in between Shouto and what you’d just admitted, give him as little opportunity as possible to think in any more depth about what you’d said. It was cute that he’d returned the sentiment, but he did not mean it in the same way you did.

Shouto gave a vague answer, looking apologetic that he couldn’t share more, and your gut twisted at the idea that he’d be somewhere far away for over a week while you had no idea where he was. He looked uncomfortable with the idea as well, and you immediately steered the conversation back to more positive waters, starting up a stream of compliments over the vegetables that had turned out actually pretty good, especially for his first time cooking anything.

You had to stifle a laugh at how hard Shouto tried not to look smug.

As they always did, the hours slipped away easily with hardly any sign of their passing, and before you realized, it was well past when your shift was supposed to have ended. You and Shouto had talked yourselves almost all the way to midnight.

“I’ll help clean up before I go,” you announced, standing up and bringing plates into Shouto’s kitchen. He followed you closely, warm at your back.

“Let me,” he said quietly and you looked up at him, smiling.

“I literally came here to clean and then didn’t do shit,” you informed him. “Besides, you can’t clean up. You have to supervise to ensure the safety of your countertops, remember?”

He smirked. “How could I forget?”

You grinned and turned back to the sink, powering through all the dishes and stowing the leftovers away in tupperware. Shouto watched you hawkishly as you wiped down the counters, and you laughed.

“You can’t protect them from me while you’re gone,” you intoned, turning to him. “You might as well say your farewells now.”

His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to you. You took a step back in surprise, your hip bumping the counter.

“I seem to recall bribery works quite well,” he said, his voice dipping lower. Your skin prickled at the sound. “What would you have me offer this time?”

You stared up at him, fighting down a shiver. He must not have realized how close he’d stepped, but he was near enough that you could feel the heat of him and smell that cologne again, that clean scent that made your head spin. After a couple of glasses of wine, you were helpless to fight the way your eyes were drawn to his mouth. Every nerve ending in your body snapped to attention.

You leaned forward, feeling dazed. Then you froze when you realized what you were doing. Jesus Christ, you needed to be arrested.

“Uh, consider the vegetables payment enough,” you said quickly, gazing up at him with wide eyes.

Shouto watched you for a long moment with a strange little smile playing about his mouth, then stepped back, letting you go. You breathed a quiet sigh of relief while simultaneously mourning the loss of his proximity.

He turned and grabbed up the extra food to press into your hands, then called an agency car for you as he always did, and walked you down to the lobby of his building.

“Please stay safe,” you said to him as you lingered in the doorway, hating the way your voice sounded a little desperate.

He smiled, and before you knew what was happening, his arms went around you, pulling you into his chest. He was so warm and broad and hard with lean muscle, and he smelled so, so good. You couldn’t suppress your full body shiver.

“I’ll stay safe,” he said into your hair. “If you keep my countertops safe.”

You couldn’t help but laugh into his sweater. “It’s a deal.”

He kept you pressed to him for a few moments more, and you tried to be subtle about the lungfuls of air you were taking, the way you were memorizing the feel of him to replay over and over in your brain for the literal rest of your life. Eventually, one of the security officers coughed, and you jumped back, shame-faced.

“I’ll see you in a week,” Shouto promised.

You smiled. “See you in a week.”

Then you turned and walked to the car. You could feel a pair of eyes hot on your back, following you until the car pulled away and turned out into the night.

The rest of the week passed fairly uneventfully. You ate, slept, wrote a paper, and clocked in to your usual Thursday shift at Shouto’s apartment, trying not to feel too disappointed at how empty it felt without him there. He hadn’t told you much, but you had gathered that his assignment had taken him outside of the country, and this meant that you hadn’t received any texts from him in days.

You tried to keep yourself distracted all through the weekend, getting a leg up on all the finals work that was starting to pile up, putting in a ton of hours at the fancy coffee shop with your laptop and several americanos that were (to your fond exasperation) still completely paid for.

It was only when Monday rolled around that something went completely and utterly wrong, and not in any way that you would have ever expected.

When you walked into lecture that morning, you immediately felt like you were being watched. A quick check in your periphery confirmed that a couple groups of students were casting subtle glances in your direction, and excited whispers began to pick up around you. You quickly ran a hand over your face to see if you’d accidentally gotten toothpaste on yourself, and glanced down at your clothes to make sure no coffee had spilled.

Nothing came to your attention, so you settled into your seat, wondering.

Lecture passed slowly, and as the minutes ticked by, you felt more and more pairs of eyes fix themselves on you. When class ended, you watched in bemusement as everyone turned to watch you leave, and you launched yourself out of the room as fast as you could, heartbeat picking up.

What the hell was wrong with people?

Almost as soon as you’d managed to duck out of the building, your phone rang with an unknown number. You stared at it blankly, considering hanging up, but a feeling of foreboding pressed down on you with a sudden urgency. What if something had happened to Shouto?

“Y/N,” a woman on the other end of the line said briskly, as soon as you picked up. “This is Shouto’s manager.”

Your heart leapt into your throat, but before you could gasp out a question, she was talking to you urgently. “I need you to head home as quickly as possible, and don’t talk to anyone on your way.”

“What?” you asked wildly. “Is everything okay? Is Shouto hurt?”

“Shouto’s fine,” she said, then paused. “You haven’t seen the news, then.”

“No?” you frowned. A pair of passing girls stopped short when they caught sight of you, and your sense of confusion magnified twofold.

“You’ve been outed as Shouto’s secret lover,” his manager sighed.

Your heart stopped. What?

“Excuse me?” you asked.

“Someone got a couple shots of you on your date the other week, and a few more in the lobby of his building,” she explained. “That, and you match the description of the woman the villain took from his apartment when he’d claimed to take Shouto’s lover hostage. News outlets will be tracking you down any minute.”

You glanced up, only to find the entire walkway of students frozen, watching you. Your eyes widened and you quickly turned on your heel, picking up into a brisk jog towards your apartment.

“It wasn’t a date though!” you hissed into the phone, anxiety washing over you. “It’s not--they can’t think that Shouto would--with me--!”

Shouto’s manager made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Whether you are or aren’t, it certainly looks like you are,” she paused for a long time, then added somewhat hesitantly, “And as soon as you get home, I need you to delete your twitter account.”

Your limbs iced over. Oh fucking hell--she’d found your twitter account? You launched yourself into a faster run, tearing down the city blocks towards your apartment.

“Oh my god, how did you--? When did--? I am so dead if anyone finds that,” you puffed as you ran, “Has anyone else found it yet or just you?”

“Not yet. It will take the media a few hours to track down all of your information but, having reviewed the contents myself, I think it’s safe to say you’ll want it removed.”

You cringed. You didn’t know how she’d found it, but you hated to think of Shouto finding out exactly what was on there. You hoped she kept things to herself.

“I’ll delete it,” you promised as you rounded the corner into your neighborhood, ignoring the stitch that was making itself known in your side. You needed to hit the gym more. “But what do I do about the secret lover thing? They can’t think that Shouto would actually date me.”

“You do nothing,” she commanded, a pit formed in your gut. “We’ll ignore it, and eventually they will lose interest.”

Your stomach churned. It had already been months since the kidnapping and they clearly hadn’t lost interest yet. You hated to think of Shouto trapped in an even more vicious cycle of gossip all because you couldn’t keep your damn hands to yourself. God, what the hell had you gotten him into?

“That’s not fair to him,” you said, slowing to a walk when you saw a crowd of people lingering around your apartment. You picked up several cameras, and your insides twisted nervously when you realized what was going on. They’d already found your apartment.

“Shouto’s a big boy, he can handle himself,” his manager explained, but you heard her only dimly, as if through water. A plan was suddenly forming in the back of your mind as you considered the crowds milling outside of your apartment. “We’ll come up with a plan later, and--”

“No,” you said, biting your lip nervously. “I think I--I think I know what I can do. I’ll just tell everyone the truth and then they’ll leave him alone.”

"Absolutely not," Shouto's manager said, sounding weirdly like your mom just before she was about to ground you. "You have no experience with the media, they will eat you alive."

You considered this. "But what harm is there in just telling the truth? It's not like you have to have experience for that."

"No," she said, like that would settle things. But you just watched the swarm of people, the feeling getting stronger. You'd gotten kidnapped, you'd suggested the izakaya, you'd held his hand. Shouto was in this situation because of you, whether you were to blame or not. You had to fix things.

“Y/N,” his manager called from the other end of the line, but you weren’t listening. You quickly ended the call, then logged into twitter, clicking into settings and immediately hitting delete on your account. You would not survive if the entire world found out just how thirsty you were for the man you were about to set the record straight on. You ran a quick hand through your hair, making sure that you didn’t look completely embarrassing, and straightened out your clothes.

Then, squaring your shoulders, you walked up to your building.

Immediately, you were swarmed with cameras, all manner of microphones ramming you in the chin and elbows.

“Y/N,” a woman shouted, her eyes bright with excitement, “How does it feel to be Shouto Todoroki’s secret lover? Why did you hide your relationship for so long?”

You’d anticipated the question, but you still couldn’t help the way you stared at her. “Um, I’m not sure if I’m qualified to answer that. We’re not, um--it’s not like that.”

Wow it was hard to talk in front of a camera. Your face heated.

She seemed to ignore you. “Why have the two of you been spotted together on multiple occasions, holding hands and hugging? You seem fairly close to me.”

You cringed. “T-that’s my fault. I drank a little too much and Shouto was helping me home. The hug was just between friends.”

“Todoroki took you home when you were drunk? Did anything happen?”

You gawped. “No, of course not! What are you--? Are you kidding me?”

“A man takes a woman home late at night, and you insist nothing happened?”

Your temper flared. You didn’t like the things she was insinuating about Shouto, and it was already embarrassing enough that nothing had actually happened. He all but thrown you inside to get away from you.

“No,” you said acidly, “It’s not like that for him. Shouto doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“And yet he was holding your hand?” the woman prompted.

Was this a fucking jury trial? Why the hell did she have so many questions? The words bubbled up out of your throat before you could stop them.

“No, I told you it’s not like that! Shouto has zero feelings for me and he was just being nice. If you want a story, you’re going to have to look elsewhere because there is no way on earth Shouto Todoroki would so much as glance in my direction, and he shouldn’t be put on trial for things that a drunk friend did. If Shouto has a secret lover, then that’s news to me too.”

The woman paused, then a grin spread across her face. “You say Todoroki has no feelings for you, but I notice you’ve not made the same claim. Could this instead be a case of unrequited love? Tell me, do you have feelings for a certain pro hero?”

It was a testament to how overwhelmed you were feeling, how much your brain was spinning, how unequipped you had come to lie, how completely and utterly stupid it was for you to have done this in the first place that the words that came out of your mouth next were not “no,” were not “are you kidding,” were not anything that gave you the safety of plausible deniability.

Instead, you opened your mouth, and in a move that would make you cringe until the literal day you died, you said: “Uh--wouldn’t you?”

#shouto todoroki x reader #bnha #todoroki x reader #fanfic #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader #shouto todoroki

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curls-cat · 3 years

Text

Sugar/Spice; Snips/Snails

for @grimmtober day 1: Candy! Also on AO3 and ff.net under the same name. but I can’t link it if I want this to show up in the tags. :/ AU: Sabrina grows up in Ferryport Landing.

There’s a boy in the woods. Sabrina sees him, even if none of the grown-ups do. He’s bigger than she is, with curly gold hair like hers, wearing a big green hoodie. He keeps looking at her through the trees and grinning. There are fireflies around him, even during the daytime, even now that summer’s all the way over.

Sabrina knows better than to go outside herself. Mamma and Daddy and Granny all say it’s too dangerous, that she’s too little and sometimes people are mean and might hurt her. And even when people aren’t mean, the woods is really big, and she could get lost so easy. Mr. Canis could find her, but someone mean might find her first.

But there’s a boy in the woods. And there aren’t a lot of other kids in Ferryport Landing. Especially not ones she can talk to (in preschool there’s Bella and Natalie and Toby and Wendell, but only Wendell is allowed to be her friend. And everything else is secrets, secrets, secrets—don’t tell anyone about Mr. Canis, Sabrina, or about what being a Grimm means, or about why you’re extra excited to get to first grade and see Ms. Snow). And all Sabrina’s Halloween candy disappeared last night.

Sabrina wanted to be Alice in Wonderland for Halloween, but her parents said No and Granny said Politics and didn’t explain what that meant, so Sabrina was Stephanie from Lazy Town instead and had to wear an itchy pink wig the whole night and none of the grown-ups knew who she was supposed to be. And now all her candy’s gone and nobody believed her when she said she didn’t eat all of it.

So the next time the fireflies come out, when it’s just starting to get dark and the shadows from the woods reach all the way to the house, Sabrina follows them. They’re pretty, even though up close they’re too big to be lightning bugs, and they glow too bright. She didn’t really think they were bugs.

She follows them as they dance between the long shadows of the trees. She didn’t have time to put on her shoes before she left, so her socks are getting wet in the grass. It’s gross. They lead her right to the edge of the woods, and then they scatter.

Sabrina is, for a moment, alone in the gathering dark of the woods. Nearly all the leaves have fallen, and it’s gray and brown and so, so quiet. No birds or bugs. No Mamma or Daddy or Granny calling for her to come inside. She can see the house through the trees, and it looks warm and safe and like it’s calling her back.

“Scared?”

Sabrina spins around and pulls her hands up the way Ms. White taught her—you have to protect your face—and sees the boy, sitting in a tree a few feet above her. Up close, he’s different than she thought. Still a boy, still a kid like her, but older. Taller. And dirty. He’s holding her candy in his hand. She knows it’s hers because it’s still in her plastic jack-o-lantern with her initials on the bottom in her very own handwriting.

“I’m not scared of you,” she tells him.

He grins, flashes too-sharp teeth. “Sure. That’s why you jumped a mile high when I said something, little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl!” she says, even though she is, and she knows it. “I’m a big sister!” She balls her fists tighter. “And that’s my candy.”

“Finders keepers,” he says. He unwraps a pack of oreos and pops them in his mouth. His fingernails are too sharp, too.

“You’re rude,” she says, but she puts her fists down. He doesn’t seem mean, just… messy. And gross. And mean, but she said that already.

“So’re you,” he says, and hands her a pack of Starbursts.

Sabrina accepts her candy, unwraps it. Inside there’s two pink ones and an orange one. She wrinkles her nose and eats the orange one. She’s not supposed to have candy before dinner.

She’s also not supposed to talk to strangers. Especially not strangers who are ab-so-lute-ly Everafters.

“Why’d you take my candy?” She sits on the ground. Her socks are already dirty, might as well get mud on her overalls, too. The boy won’t care. He’s dirtier than she is.

“I was hungry,” he says. “I just told the pixies to get me food.”

Not fireflies. Pixies. Sabrina squints at him. “You’re not supposed to talk about magic.” She doesn’t know what a pixie is, but she knows for sure it’s magic.

“I thought this town was full of magic,” the boy says. “A ‘haven for the homeless,’ that’s what your ancestor said when he convinced all of us to follow him over here. Or a prison, if you listen to anybody else.”

“There’s people, too,” Sabrina informs him. “Lots of ‘em. Normal people. Boring people. I have twelve in my preschool class. And they’ve all got parents. Some have brothers and sisters, too.”

The boy looks suitably impressed. Then he wrinkles his nose. “Boring,” he tells her. “I was hoping this place would be fun. But it’s got rules too, huh?”

“Everywhere has rules,” Sabrina says. “My daddy says they’re to keep people safe.”

The boy snorts. “To keep you from having fun, more like.” He pops a Reese’s into his mouth.

Something occurs to Sabrina, then. “How’d you know about my an-cestor?” The new word feels strange on her tongue. She thinks it means like your grandpa, but extra.

The boy nods in the direction of the house. “I watched him build that place. Slowed him down, too. Plus I’ve been watching.”

“I know,” Sabrina says. “I saw you.”

“What’s your name?” he asks. “Other than Grimm. Your first name.”

“Sabrina,” she offers readily. “What’s yours?”

He tosses her another pack of Starbursts. “Puck.”

Sabrina brings Puck food for a few days. She likes keeping him secret. Everyone’s busy with the new baby, and Sabrina loves Daphne, sure, but babies are boring and she doesn’t know why all the grown-ups care so much about someone who can’t even do anything. She also feels a little left out, maybe, and it’s nice having someone who’s hers. They talk. He’s a prince, he says. He’s exiled, he says. He’s famous, he says. He’s the coolest. He doesn’t have to say that part. Sabrina thinks so, too.

They spend afternoons in the cool dark woods, and Puck takes her flying, because he’s not just too sharp, he’s also got wings, because he’s a fairy, which Sabrina has never met before. They share her Halloween candy. He turns into animals, and he listens to her tell him about preschool. She’s learning to read, a little. She can read the street sign for their road. Puck thinks reading and books are boring. She yells at him about it.

That’s the other thing about Puck. If she gets mad at him, he doesn’t tell her to stop throwing a tantrum or go to her room like her parents, and he doesn’t start crying or tattle to someone like the other kids at preschool. He yells back. And then they’re friends again.

Mr. Canis is the one who finds out. He follows her to the woods and says, “I wondered where all the caramels went.”

“This is Puck,” Sabrina says. If a grown-up did have to find them, she’s glad it was Mr. Canis. He’s not a regular grown-up, not the kind who tells her what to do and gets worried or talks down to her. He just talks, and listens. Sometimes he says weird stuff, but other than that, he’s almost like a regular person. “He was hungry.”

“I know who he is,” Mr. Canis says. “I’ve been watching him.” He looks down at Sabrina. “What I didn’t know was that you knew him.”

“He took my Halloween candy,” Sabrina says. “Nobody listened.”

Mr. Canis doesn’t say anything. He looks Puck up and down.

Puck stares right back at him, then, at long last, says, “Don’t get mad at her.”

“I am not angry,” Mr. Canis says. “You should come inside and meet the family.”

Puck wrinkles his nose. “I’m not going to move back inside. I’ve finally broken out of being civilized.”

“I am not asking you to,” Mr. Canis says. “But inside there is food that will not rot your teeth.”

“Everafters don’t get cavities.”

Mr. Canis laughs. It sounds like a dog barking. It always does. “I can assure you we do.” He shows Puck his own too-sharp teeth, points at a shiny silver spot in one of them. “I had this filled myself.”

Puck’s eyes go wide, and his hand comes up to his face. He gives Mr. Canis another long look. “What kind of food?”

“Weird food,” Sabrina informs him. “Granny’s cooking tonight.”

Puck thinks for a second, then shrugs. He grins at Sabrina. “I like weird.”

Puck keeps living in the woods. Sabrina has to tell a grown-up before she goes to see him, now. The grown-ups all have a long conversation after Mr. Canis tells them she’s been going in the woods to visit a Strange Boy (he’s not a strange boy, she tries to tell them, but nobody listens). After, her parents sit her down and have A Talk with her about Danger and how Not All Everafters Are Nice. She listens, even if she thinks they’re coming at it wrong. Puck isn’t nice. She doesn’t want him to be nice.

They grow.

At age nine, Sabrina runs out of the house, ignoring the sound of her dad shouting after her. This time, at least, she’s wearing shoes. She heads straight for Puck’s trash throne. The pixies greet her on the way, rising out of the shadows of another gathering dark, as they always do. She appreciates it, though she barely needs it, can find her way to Puck without any help.

“What’s Hanky yelling about?” Puck asks instead of greeting her. He’s sitting, as usual, on his porcelain throne atop a mountain of broken furniture.

Sabrina throws him a bag of fun size Milky Ways—it’s the family’s Halloween candy, and her mom’s going to be mad that she has to buy another bag, but Sabrina doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything and it’s not like they’ll even be here in a few weeks and her parents don’t care about what she wants, anyway, so why should she care about them?

Puck catches the candy, opens it, and pops one, fully wrapped, into his mouth. He spits the wrapper out onto the ground a few seconds later, covered in spit and melted chocolate. He does this a lot. Sabrina always calls him gross and makes a stink about it. Today all she can think about is how she’s not gonna be able to see this anymore in a few days, because—

Puck notices her silence. “What, Grimm? Finally seen sense about ‘the environment’?”

Sabrina isn’t sure she wanted him to notice. She thinks maybe she wanted him to act like everything was normal and maybe then she could pretend it really was, for a bit. But she sort of also wants someone to listen, someone she can yell at who won’t talk about safety. Someone who cares about what she wants, even if he pretends not to, instead of pretending to when they don’t, like her parents.

“We’re moving,” she says, and she keeps her voice flat, even, because if she doesn’t, she’s going to cry.

Puck stops chewing and stares at her. “You can’t. There needs to be a Grimm in Ferryport Landing.”

“Not all of us,” Sabrina says. “Granny’s staying. But Mom and Dad, and me, and Daphne… we’re leaving. Dad says town is ‘too dangerous.’”

“This is about the stupid ‘Scarlet Hand’ or whatever.” It’s not a question.

“Did they talk to you?” Sabrina asks.

“Nah,” Puck says. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Sabrina says. Because they’re friends. He’s her best friend, better than Wendell, even, even though Wendell goes to school with her and they’re in soccer together and he gave her a valentine last year that he’d picked out especially for her, the only one in the pack with a lollipop and a sticker.

“I won’t join anything that I can’t be the leader of,” Puck adds, because he can’t just be honest, ever. That’s okay, though. Sabrina understands. Honesty is hard.

She sits down on the edge of the pool, feels rough concrete under her hands, looks at the murky water, the level dropped low enough that she can dangle her feet in and only the very bottoms of her shoes touch it as they sway back and forth.

“When?” Puck asks.

“By the end of the year,” Sabrina says. “Mom got a job, and Dad asked me if I wanted—” her breath hitches, half anger and half rage— “if I wanted to help him pick out an apartment. Like this was exciting.”

“You could run away,” Puck suggests.

Sabrina laughs without humor.

“Plenty of woods,” Puck says. “You don’t have to stay here. Hey, I know! You could go up to the asylum with the other crazy little girls!”

Sabrina halfheartedly throws a piece of concrete at him. It clatters down the side of his trash mountain nowhere near him and rolls to a stop nearly at her other hand, still resting on cracked cement.

“Mr. Canis would find me,” Sabrina says, at length. “And they’d just make me go, anyway.”

“How? The old lady can’t leave, and neither can he. Just run away again before one of your parents comes to get you.”

“And leave Daphne?”

The younger girl practically worships the both of them. Losing Puck is going to be hard enough for her, but losing Puck and Sabrina… It’ll break her heart. And there’s no question about bringing Daphne with them.

For a long time, neither of them say anything. Sabrina had sort of been hoping Puck would have an answer. A real one, one that would work.

“You can visit,” he says at last. “They can’t keep you away forever.”

“Yeah,” she says. Because Mom had said that, too. Said that they could come back on weekends and over holidays, as long as Granny said things seemed safe.

She looks up at the boy she’s known for half her life, who’s been her best friend almost as long, who she’s going to stop being able to see soon. He’s been exactly the same the whole time she’s known him. When she sees him next, she’s going to be closer to his height. She might even outgrow him.

She knew it might happen. They don’t talk about it, but they both know. Someday, Sabrina’s going to have to be an adult, and Puck won’t. She’s not sure she wants to be an adult, but she doesn’t think she wants to be stuck, either. Doesn’t want to be powerless forever.

There’s nothing else to do, though, so she rolls her head to look at Puck upside-down, who’s eating another Milky Way, and says, “Pass me one of those.”

There are Everafters in New York City, of course. Sabrina sneaks out over the weekends, meets Puck’s brother. Gets in trouble. Finds out the Scarlet Hand is here, too. Tells her dad, hopes it’ll get them moved home. It doesn’t, it just gets her in a different kind of trouble. She doesn’t care, keeps sneaking out to get in the right kind of trouble, the kind that means she’s part of her family, still sort of connected to Puck.

In three years, when the barrier comes crumbling down, and the Everafters start trying, really and truly, to take over the world, it pays off. Because now nowhere is safe. And she wants to tell her dad she told him so, but she’s busy trying to watch the news that her parents won’t let her see and find out if her friends are safe and everything is loud and angry and dangerous and she tried to prepare but it wasn’t enough.

They still make her go to school. It’s stupid. None of this matters, and she tells them that over and over, but they make her go anyway, and when she’s proven right because there’s a lockdown on the third day since the Everafters declared war, she’s just angry about it.

She’s hiding in the bathroom with two other girls who got caught between classes, and the other two are crying, when noises come down the hall in their direction. Sabrina looks around for something she can use as a weapon.

The door swings open.

Sabrina prepares herself for a fight.

She’s hit in the face before she can do anything, by a small projectile—a bullet? Since when do Everafters use guns? She’d have thought getting shot would hurt more.

She looks down. No blood on the ground.

Just a green skittle.

She doesn’t have to look up to know who’s going to say “Hey, Grimm.” She doesn't know what's coming next, but as soon as she hears Puck's voice, she knows the can handle it. Together.

#sisters grimm #the sisters grimm #sabrina grimm #grimmtober #grimmtober 2021 #puckabrina #if you squint. it's preslash

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ur-jinji · 3 years

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the fire ferret of fate

bolin x f!reader

summary: the story of a girl who manifested her soulmate as a child and a guy just looking for his ferret

prompt: the red strings of fate

a/n: this is for the second prompt of an avatar/tlok writing collaboration that @twilight-toph is doing! the masterlists for the collab can be found here :)

a/n again: also i totally didn’t get the idea off of practical magic aka the best witch movie ever to grace this world

When Y/N was eight years old, she dreamed of finding her prince charming.

She would have her parents read love stories to her every night. She remembered one myth that her mother once told her called the Red Strings of Fate, which entailed an invisible thread that connected one to their soulmate. She believed it to be true until she took the idea too literally, and was frustrated to find there was no red string attaching her parents together.

One night, Y/N had to the crazy idea to create her own soulmate. Her perfect match. She grabbed a glass jar and her mother’s herbs and spices. She collected everything and brought it into the dining room and stood on chair. She thought for a while, what her perfect match be like?

“His favorite color will be green,” Y/N manifested, picking up a random green leaf for her parents’ tea, dropping it into the jar. “And very handsome.” Another leaf went into the jar.

“Y/N? What are you doing in there?” Her father asked from the sitting area. He was listening to the radio, and she could faintly hear a Pro-Bending Tournament happening.

“Nothing!” She shouted to him as she picked up a random white powder from a bowl. “And he’ll be famous.”

She picked up a few red flakes from a tiny jar. “He’ll always have something red on him. Like the strings of fate.”

Y/N thought of what else he would like, scanning around the room. She noticed her cat owl, Mittens, looking up at her from under the table.

“He’ll have the cutest pet in the whole wide world,” The young girl manifested as she picked some sugar between her index finger and thumb, sprinkling it into the glass jar. “And he’ll love noodles!” She ran to the kitchen and grabbed a noodle from a large bowl that was meant for supper. She hurried back into the dining room and dropped the noodle into the jar.

“It’s perfect!” Y/N exclaimed. She closed the jar and shook up the ingredients. “Wait. I’m missing something.”

Y/N made her way back to the kitchen, leaving a mess on the table. She found a pitcher of water and opened the jar again. She catiously poured some of the liquid into the jar, trying not to drip it onto the floor, but failing. She set the pitcher down and closed the jar before shaking her love potion again.

“Mama, I made a magic potion!” She announced as her mother entered the kitchen, unaware that she was about to get in trouble for making a massive mess.

Ten years later, Y/N still remembered that night fondly. She kept the jar under her bed despite mold beginning to grow.

One chilly autumn day, she was dressed warmly. Her mother sent to the markets to grab a few things for dinner that night. She made her way through the streets of Republic City, smiling politely at the passing strangers. Eventually, Y/N found herself at the markets. She gently picked up a large, red tomato, inspecting it carefully. As she rotated it, she felt something on her leg, like tiny claws poking her through her pants. She looked down and saw a...rodent with red fur? She shrieked, nearly jumping out of her skin and accidentally dropping the tomato onto the pavement. The rodent flinched but continued to cling onto her clothes, and began climbing up her leg and into her coat pocket. Y/N froze, not knowing what to do. She saw it poke its head out, and look up at her curiously. The more she looked at it, it looked pretty cute. Actually, extremely cute.

“Hey! You’re gonna have to pay for that tomato!” The merchant suddenly yelled at her, pointing down to the tomato guts spread across the street.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am!” Y/N apologized, reaching into her pocket to where the thing was. She gently pulled it out, realizing it was fire ferret, before set it on her shoulder. It held one of her coins in its paws, which Y/N snatched and handed to the angry woman. The woman flared her nostrils at her and turned away. Y/N turned her head to look at the fire ferret.

“You’re in big trouble, sir,” She said sternly, but not being able to hold any seriousness. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Y/N stepped away from the tomato stand and continued down the street.

“Do you have an owner, buddy?” She asked the ferret, who simply squeaked in response. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

She made her to the next stand full of cabbages. She picked up two, paid for them, and the merchant for that stand thanked her before handing them back in a brown paper bag. The fire ferret chirped, sniffing down at the bag.

“No, mister, that’s not for you,” Y/N scolded quietly.

“Pabu!” A voice behind her shouted. The fire ferret on Y/N’s shoulder perked up before quickly climbing down her body, running in the direction behind her. She turned around and saw a guy who looks frantic and out of breath.

“Oh, is that little guy yours?” She asked as the man approached her. She instantly noticed his piercing green eyes.

“Yes! Thank you so much for finding him and taking care of him!” The guy said as the red fire ferret, she assumed who was named Pabu, jumped into his arms.

“He’s a mischievous little guy. He made me drop a tomato and then tried to rob me!” Y/N explained, breathing out a laugh.

“I don’t even know what got into him! We were reading today’s paper and he just took off! I spent, like, forever looking for him!” The guy said, giving really dramatic arm gestures. “And bad Pabu! We don’t steal from strangers!”

Pabu’s ears tucked back in response, seemingly ashamed of himself.

“I thought he was massive rat at first! He scared the hell out me,” She said, gaining a laugh from the guy.

“I’m Bolin, by the way,” He introduced himself. “You might’ve heard of me and my brother, Mako. We play for the Pro-Bending Fire Ferrets Team!”

“Oh, yeah! My father and I have listened to many of your matches!” Y/N said, smiling, and feeling a little starstruck. “And I’m Y/N.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Y/N,” Bolin replied while grinning, his emerald eyes sparkling. He held out his hand, which she took, and shook it firmly. “And you’ve already met Pabu.”

She smiled, reaching her hand out to pet Pabu’s red fur, who was planted firmly on Bolin’s shoulder.

“I have to repay you somehow! Would you like to accompany Pabu and I to Narook’s Seaweed Noodlery? They have the best seaweed noodles in Republic City!” He offered. Y/N felt her stomach grumble.

“Oh, wow. That sounds great actually,” She replied. “I just need to finish getting a couple things for my mother.”

“Of course, of course. We’ll tag along with you!” Bolin insisted. Y/N nodded eagerly, sending him a warm smile. He lifted his arm, offering it to her. She didn’t hesitate to wrap hers around it, and they began their walk down the pavement.

Pabu jumped over to Bolin’s other shoulder closest to Y/N’s and settled in between. As they made their to next food stand, her mind began to wander to the potion she made years ago.

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cowboy-anon · 3 years

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▶️ Apple :D go make some applepie :)

(yes my humour is very broken xD)

I swear this was supposed to be fluffy and short, but it got angsty and long instead. It’s so long it deserves a title AND I’m tagging people! Today Apple bakes a pie and we learn a bit more about Benji. 🍏 I’m not 100% satisfied with it but it’s still pretty good.

I should probably also note that everything I’ve mentioned so far is basically canon, besides a few minor details. Like, yeah, Jimmy’s canon, y’all.

CW: Broken whumpee, clueless whumpee, crying, food, implied captivity, neglect, pet whump, referenced past loss of consciousness, referenced past punishment, referenced past whipping, Stockholm Syndrome, unhealthy habits, yelling

Tagging: @sideblogformindtrash, @unicornscotty, @milk-carton-whump, @happy-whumper, @whumperfulart (Let me know if you want to be added or removed from this list! <3 )

Apple Pie

Apple doesn’t think your humor is broken at all, although admittedly he doesn’t get the joke. At the suggestion, he smiles. An apple pie would be a great idea to win back Master Clay’s affections, especially after yesterday!

Of course, to get his ingredients, Apple needs Master Clay to go to the store, and to get his ingredients on Master Clay’s list, he has to visit Benji. Apple hasn’t even seen them since their unconscious body was carried out of the extra bedroom last night. Still, Apple knows that for the next week, whatever Benji asks for, they’ll get. That’s how it always goes.

So Apple moves to sit up, but the instant he does, his back flares with sore, stinging pain. Ow, ow, ow! He freezes, biting back a whimper as his shirt settles against the raw skin. The sting fades into constant but bearable discomfort.

This time when he moves, he goes slower, and the pain feels like less. Apple feels overwhelming relief when he makes his way down the hallway and the hurt is tolerable.

Benji doesn’t talk, eat, or sleep much after a punishment, and this time is no different. When Apple nudges open the door to Master Clay’s bedroom, they’re laying on their stomach in the dark with the shades drawn, illuminated only by the haunting light of the TV. Master Clay always moves it for them on days like this.

They’re looking at the TV, red-rimmed eyes staring but unseeing at the colorful reality show playing on screen. When Apple sees them, he kind of wants to go back into the living room and wait until Benji’s okay again. He hates seeing them like this, so sad and quiet and small.

Maybe this treat will help cheer them up, too!

Apple pushes the door all the way open and crawls into the room, careful to shut it quietly behind him. “Benji?” His own voice is hoarse from yesterday, too, so he clears his throat and tries again a little louder when Benji doesn’t move. “Benji?”

Benji shifts on the bed, just enough for Apple to know they heard him. Apple crawls closer and kneels in front of them on the floor. It takes a moment for their red eyes to meet Apple’s, but when they do, Apple smiles.

“I need some stuff from the store today.” Apple grabs the pen and notepad sitting on Benji’s nightstand and offers it to them. “For an apple pie for Master Clay.”

Benji shakes their head slowly. Not now, Apple. He can see it on their face. They’re hurting today. Apple feels bad for pressing, but he’s sure Master Clay and Benji will both appreciate it later!

“Please? It’s only a little.”

Benji looks angry and exhausted all at once, and Apple thinks if Benji says no this time, he might just drop it. But Benji just sighs, then squeezes their eyes shut.

Rarely ever does Benji take a punishment worse than Apple, but this was one of those times. If the deep, bracing breaths are any indication, Benji’s thinking the same thing.

Apple doesn’t know what they’re doing until they let out a long pained hiss. Benji pushes themself up and moves around until they’re laying on their side and facing Apple. Benji takes the notepad, then motions with the pen. What do you want me to write?

Apple grins. Thank you, thank you, thank you! “Apples and brown sugar and cinnamon and a lemon. We need more flour, too. Oh, and ice cream!”

Benji writes everything down slowly, probably so they don't hurt themself more, and Apple watches mystified. Even though their hand shakes, their writing is still so pretty and swirly.

When they’re done, Benji peels the top sheet off the notepad, gingerly folds it up, and puts everything back on the nightstand. Then they settle back onto their stomach on top of the duvet.

From this angle, Apple can see the edges of angry red marks peeking out from the bandaging wrapped all around their back. Master Clay was kind to take care of Benji’s wounds like that. Maybe if Apple hadn’t tried to steal that apple, he would’ve gotten the same treatment.

When Apple looks back at Benji’s face, they’re staring at the TV again. He takes that as his cue to leave, being careful to shut the door quietly behind him.

***

When Master Clay returns with the ingredients, Apple is a little disappointed to find that he forgot the ice cream, but not ten minutes later, Master Clay passes through the kitchen grumbling about it. Apple’s pulling his ingredients together on the floor when Master Clay snatches his keys off the counter and leaves again.

Did Benji tell him that he’d forgotten it? Or maybe Master Clay noticed how disappointed Apple was and realized what he had forgotten! Regardless of the reason, Apple can’t believe Master Clay would drive all the way back to the store just to pick up some ice cream for him!

Apple feels a stab of loneliness every time Master Clay walks out the door, but it’s good that he’s gone. If he’s quick, he’ll have this pie done before he gets back. He can hardly imagine his surprise!

So Apple doesn’t waste any time. He mixes together all the dry ingredients for the dough and then cuts in the butter, careful not to overwork it before tossing it in the freezer. The apples are next. He cuts them nice and precise, and he makes sure the measurements are just right. Who knew that cooking show Benji watches would’ve come in handy like this?

Apple gets so into it that he starts to hum a little tune under his breath. He doesn’t remember what it’s called, but it’s soft and uplifting and he starts it over again as he lines the tin with the pie crust and layers in the apples.

Finally, Apple pulls together a streusel topping. It’s really easy, and it’s a touch of his own personal flavor since he’s not using the traditional lattice. By the time it’s in the oven, he’s forgotten all about his raw back, but he gets a harsh reminder when he leans up against the bottom cupboards while he waits. He winces and twists so that he’s leaning on his shoulder, not his back.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until the oven beeps.

Apple wakes with a jolt, frantically trying to orient himself with his eyes. Right, he’s in the kitchen, on the floor. When he looks up, there’s a pint of vanilla ice cream sitting on the countertop, half-melted but still ice cream.

Apple smiles groggily to himself and eases onto his knees. It’s hard reaching into the oven from here, but he manages it. He uses a dish rag to pull the pie out from the heat and sets it on the floor in front of him.

The smell is heavenly. It takes all Apple has not to dig into the pie right then and there, because he made the pie for Master Clay and Benji, not himself. He barely ignores the way his stomach growls when he catches a whiff of buttery crust and spiced fruit.

Apple cuts a big slice for Master Clay and another for Benji, he scoops a spoonful of ice cream on top of each, and then he crawls over on his knees with the two plates and spoons in hand back to Master Clay’s room.

Apple gives the door a gentle knock before entering just in case Benji’s asleep.

“Master Clay? Benji? I brought you some pie.” Apple doesn’t know if he’s just surprised or fully disappointed that Master Clay isn’t in the room with Benji, but he supposes it’s a mix of both when he sees Benji propped up against the headboard of the bed. “Master Clay…?”

Benji shakes their head, eyes still glued to the TV. Not here.

Apple lets the flutter of disappointment go and instead crawls over to the bed, placing one slice of pie on the blanket and offering the other and a spoon to Benji. “I brought pie,” Apple says again.

Benji looks from the TV to the pie, and for the first time all day, a ghost of a smile passes over their lips. Apple can hardly believe it! He did that! Only as quick as it comes, it’s gone and replaced with a far more somber look.

“Benji, are… are you okay?”

Benji looks like they’re about to nod their head, but they must think better of it because they get impossibly quieter and more withdrawn.

They silently take the plate from Apple and break a piece off with their spoon. Apple’s excitement comes back full force. Hopefully Benji’ll feel better once they’ve eaten!

Benji is about to take the bite when their hand comes back down to the plate and they whisper, barely audible, “I want to go home…”

Apple doesn’t know what to say to that. How could Benji want that? With everything they have—pretty clothes and tender touches and everything they could possibly want—how could they ever want to leave Master Clay?

“You don’t mean that,” Apple murmurs. “That’s just the punishment talking. You have everything here. You can have anything.” At that, Apple feels a pang of something in his chest, but he keeps going. “This is your home, Benji. Master Clay—”

Benji hurls his plate of pie at the wall with a crash.

“THIS ISN’T HOME!”

It’s so loud and Benji’s voice sounds so raw and tearful, and Apple doesn’t know what to do besides bow his head in submission. So he does. Because Benji yelled at him. They’ve never done that before, no matter how exasperated or angry they’ve gotten with him.

The room goes quieter than it’s been all day. Of course the people on TV would choose now of all times to have a quiet moment.

When Apple dares to look back up again, there are tears streaming down Benji’s cheeks. Apple can’t think of anything to say, so all he says is, “Enjoy the pie…” Then he gets onto his hands and knees and crawls out of the room again.

Behind him, Benji’s silent tears turn to sobs, and they continue to whisper, “I just want to go home…”

Apple shuts the door.

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

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Title: Keeper of Memories Rating: G Pairing(s): Implied Gerlat/Jaskier, implied Lambert/Eskel Characters: Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert Tags: Presumed character death Summary: Vesemir’s room was the largest in Kaer Morhen. Nowhere else was big enough to hold all the memories.

Written for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo to fill the ‘Stuffed Animals’ square.

It was no secret that Vesemir had the biggest bedroom that could be found in Kaer Morhen. Despite it having led to some fierce arguments at the time, he stood firm in the face of Lambert’s fury and logic. Vesemir took the largest room but he allowed Lambert and Eskel to take the largest bed. That wasn’t why he needed the room but he would never tell the others the truth. So he allowed his pups to think it was some kind of pompous, hierarchical bullshit. They didn’t need to know the truth. It was just a fact of their lives that Vesemir had the biggest room and nobody was allowed in there.

Another fact of life was that the great hall had three tatty, stuffed toys on the mantlepiece of the fire that was never lit. There was no point in wasting fuel on all the fireplaces so only the kitchen, bedrooms and dining hall was ever lit and kept warm. Those three toys were all but forgotten, part of the décor and ignored. Quirky but if that was what Vesemir found tolerable decoration during the year when his pups were out on the Path, nobody was going to question it. The two patchy teddies and the ragged rabbit never seemed to accumulate dust as the years went on.

There were winters where Geralt didn’t return. But Vesemir wasn’t overly worried, the songs about the White Wolf and his latest heroic deeds were sung across the continent. It was a comfort in a way, no matter where the Wolves of Kaer Morhen went, they always knew Geralt was well. That didn’t mean the other two had as much fame and fortune. If there was a year they missed coming home for winter, there was no knowing their fate. Sometimes, if they had the coin, they could send a letter home to reassure the others but that was a rarity.

If Lambert or Eskel didn’t make it, Vesemir had a long year ahead of waiting. So did the other wolves home for the winter. Not that Geralt had returned in a couple of years, too busy spending winters with his bard in Oxenfurt. Given that Lambert was a bit patchy and not too enthused with climbing the mountain to Kaer Morhen, he was more likely to miss winters. It was almost expected that he’d go missing once every few years and then return the following winter as if nothing had happened. With Geralt away too, winter was very quiet when it was just Eskel and Vesemir. They did their best to keep Kaer Morhen patched up, shared chores and had evenings of quiet companionship.

The following year Lambert wasn’t back. Geralt did arrive with bard in tow and there was song and noise and life in the old keep. It made life more interesting and winter passed in a pleasant blur.

Third year without any sign of Lambert and Geralt was back in Oxenfurt if rumours were to be believed. Winter was near silent by contrast to the previous one.

“There’s no sign of him,” Eskel said as he and Vesemir locked Kaer Morhen for the fourth winter without Lambert. War was ravaging the Continent, people were scared and antsy. A witcher who hadn’t been home for four years was unlikely to ever come back.

Nodding, Vesemir knew the truth. He didn’t want to believe it but to deny it was to deny Lambert’s rest. Together they built an empty pyre and lit it without saying a word. Once the fire was low, Vesemir turned to go back inside and, after a silent moment, Eskel followed. Rather than go to the dining hall where they’d pulled chairs close to the fire, Vesemir headed to the entrance hall. There, he picked up the old rabbit from the mantlepiece.

“You might as well see it,” he said to Eskel and they walked to Vesemir’s room.

On silent hinges the door swung open to reveal a room with a bed and shelves from floor to ceiling. Each of them was carefully lined with old stuffed toys, some barely recognisable from how often they’d been repaired over the years. Walking in, Vesemir put the rabbit on the shelf with the most space.

“Every recruit was made a soft toy to have for the first couple of weeks while they settled in,” Vesemir said. “Each shelf is a cohort. Though some do migrate if special bonds have been formed.”

Eskel thought of the two bears on the mantlepiece and knew they were him and Geralt. And he also knew that their bears would join Lambert’s rabbit on a shelf when the time came.

“Do you have one?”

Vesemir’s eyes drifted to a tatty toy on his desk. It may have once been a wolf but it had long since lost its ears and button eyes.

“They all have names you know.” Vesemir drew their attention back to the shelves. “I’ve kept their memories, written them down so even if they are no longer with us, they’re not forgotten.” After a moment’s hesitation, he quietly offered, “I know you and Lambert were close. You could help me write his entry.”

For the rest of the winter, Eskel spent a lot of time in Vesemir’s bedroom, learning all the names of long dead witchers, some of whom he vaguely remembered from his own training days. He read the stories that went with each name, tried to get a feel for the person they used to be. As winter drew to a close and the snow started to melt, they needed to make the newest entry.

“Lambert is-” Eskel cleared his throat, “was probably best summed up as a prickly ball of cotton.”

Thinking about him hurt. Remembering all his stupid things, like fishing with bombs had Eskel’s throat tightening as emotions overwhelmed him. “He wasn’t just a witcher, he was my partner,” he whispered and Vesemir set the quill aside to pull him in for a tight hug.

“I know. And I’m so sorry.” Words were powerless to bring Lambert back or to sooth the gaping hole left by him. But it was all they had and, as witchers always did, they would make-do with them.

Come spring, Eskel glanced at the two almost identical teddies on the mantlepiece. “I’ll be back for winter, I promise.”

It was a promise he made good on, returning a little sooner than usual. Geralt had come with Jaskier and, much to Eskel’s surprise, there was a new stuffed toy on the mantlepiece - a bird of some description, made of an old shirt.

The four of them settled for the winter, they had everything they needed, the keep was mostly repaired and their stores were filled with food. Geralt had the good grace to look forlorn when they told him about the pyre for Lambert that he missed. That evening, Jaskier sang slower songs, ones of times gone by and memories that needed to be treasured.

Nobody expected the front door of the keep the slam open three days later with a holler of “the rabbit finally kick the bucket? Nice bird replacement!”

Rushing to the entrance hall, Eskel’s jaw dropped at the sight of Lambert looking whole and healthy. In his wake were two new additions.

“Brought some friends to liven shit up,” Lambert said as he took his time to look over Eskel. “If Pretty Boy could bring his bard, I figured I could bring friends for both of us.”

Words choked in his throat, Eskel pulled Lambert into a bearhug, all but lifting him off the ground. There were no tears but a lot of touches, making sure the other was really there.

It was the fullest Kaer Morhen had been in decades. Lambert had been right, he did bring friends in the form of Aiden and Cahir. More than friends, as time revealed. They fit seamlessly into their winter routines and proved to be quite the addition to the ragtag group.

By the time spring rolled around and Kaer Morhen opened its gates again, the rabbit was back on the mantlepiece. But, in addition there were two cats there too and Vesemir nodded to Eskel. It could be their secret for now. But Kaer Morhen would never forget its family.

#geraskier #lambskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #vesemir #sugar and spice bingo #tldr: vesemir remembers them all

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