#and my writing brain is never going to get less fickle
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#I wish I could just finish something for once#I joke about being a slow writer I own it#but oof its like. all this time and nothing to show for it#(and I don't mean nothing at all I mean nothing to show)#I just. I know I need to get better at self discipline#and not only write once in a blue moon when the fancy strikes me#or else I'm never going to get anywhere. realistically#but idk I just feel like I came out of the womb already low on ''forcing myself'' energy#and the little I can eke out is always used up on the basics of life#and I know it's never going to get better#I'm never going to have less responsibilities#and my writing brain is never going to get less fickle#so what am I supposed to do?????????#like ik ik get a routine#except going to work every day and feeding myself is like the most routine I can manage I swear#anyway most of the time I'm like. I don't want to make writing into something stressful that would be counterproductive#what matters is that I'm having fun#but sometimes it's like. dang. I am just never going to accomplish my goals i guess
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Hey Jo, I hope you don’t mind me asking you this but I wondered how you deal with fic popularity (both having and watching others)?? I’m struggling with feeling bad and just wanting to quit. If this feels uncomfortable to answer don’t worry xx
hi anon! i'm sorry you're struggling a bit and feeling bad, just wanna give you a hug! i don't know if i'm the best person to ask this, but i'm gonna give this a little go.
as a concept, i try to remind myself not to get bogged down with numbers, because they're a fickle thing. they change with the wind, sun and the rain. because your worth isn't equated to your notes/followers/popularity.
it's important to remember that there are times fics will do really well because of the tropes, the pairing, the timing - and not the quality of your work. you can sometimes just write one thing and it gains traction, and another time write something in the same style, and it doesn't. the other thing is, some fics grow. they take time to bloom and find their audience, and that's okay too.
fandoms are also different sizes. so you can never compare numbers on numbers, because in one fandom the people reading/engaging may be different to another.
i think i did a post on this a while ago - but my tags are all wonky so i can't find it (watch me find it when this posts) so i can't link it.
but, i know it's super easy for me to say "don't get bogged with numbers", and "try to focus on how you felt writing it" but somedays, even i look at things and wonder to myself what i've done wrong. it's normal, natural - i'm sharing something, and i'm critical and i want to deliver good things to lovely people like you. however, i think you'd tell me that my worth is also not attached to my followers, my notes or my popularity. but it's easy to tell someone else that, than yourself.
and, more importantly, me delivering good things doesn't equate to notes. sometimes, what someone else loves and thinks is a 10/10 is going to be different to another.
because what makes fandom so cool and good, is that it's varied.
people want different things. people write different things. and i preach this far too much, but you just need to find your people - or if you have, give them time. some people are snowed under with tbr's and others are trying to bury their issues in writing (talking about myself here), and others are just trying to juggle too much that their tumblr is less active.
the main thing i hope you takeaway, other than your worth not being a number, is that you have to find and remember why you love what you do. and if you don't know or can't remember, remind yourself.
go back through your work and read it - preferably in a different browser or something (so it looks different to you) and enjoy your own writing. pick out quotes, bask in what you've created. you are your first fan, the person you should write for first. so, be a fan. celebrate yourself. give yourself a pat on the back or a high five, because look, it's fucking hard creating, and it's even harder sharing it. and on top of that, fighting imposter syndrome is hard, fighting dark clouds and rainy days is hard. it is. i can't pretend it isn't.
i can't pretend it doesn't hurt when you stare at your published piece and your brain begins to wonder what you went wrong (for whatever reason that is, whether it's numbers or just something else). because it's normal to look for validation that you did a great thing and it hurts when you don't get it. but, you have to curate your experience - you have to do the things above:
remind yourself you're worth is more than a number
love what you do first. i recommended to someone/people recently to copy some of their fave lines into a document when they're editing so they can be like "fuck yeah, i did that"
also @trulybetty pointed this out to me (and it's been a god send) but on mobile (and on desktop but it's messier) you can filter out your activity. on the top left there's "all activity" but if you click it, you can filter out likes, mentions etc. and for me, i've filtered out likes, which means i can see more of the comments, reblogs (with the hashtags) and mentions - so not only do i not miss anything, but also i'm seeing more of the things that make me smile. it's not a slight on likes, but sometimes it hides all the good things that get buried.
i hope in some small way some of this is nice, and it helps. but if not, just remember you're not alone, we're all human, and you deserve to be here, and pls, pls continue writing and don't quit.
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Sport's Day (Steddie WIP)
Just a little snippet to entice you because I was (am?) having a writing crisis and this little thing helped me break out of it. Takes place right before summer break in 1985
“Jesus Christ, what the f-“
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” a girl yelps. “I was trying to tie my shoe but I have, like, no coordination so I kind of fell over you? I didn’t mean to do that, I’m so sorry. Balancing on one leg is so much harder than it looks. Like, honestly, how do cheerleaders even do that thing where they-“
“Whoa, hey, it’s fine,” Eddie jumps in before the girl – Robin Buckley, turns out – faints from lack of air. A yellow ribbon hangs limply off her wrist. Maybe it makes him a bad person but there is a sense of relief knowing he will not be the only ‘uncoordinated’ one on the team. Harrington is going to have an aneurysm for sure.
Robin blinks down at him, lips pulling down in a frown. “Oh, it’s you.”
Okay? Mean.
“Yes?” Whatever imaginary comradery Eddie hoped for seems off the table all of a sudden. Well, that’s a bummer. “Why the long face? Not happy to see a fellow nerd on the team?”
“You stepped on my sandwich last week.”
Ah. Well. That would do it, he supposes. The lunch break speeches… they sometimes get a little intense. Eddie gets a little intense, is what the rest of the Hellfire Club would probably say. Eddie’s shoes have known to slam face – sole? – first into the best of what the Hawkins High cafeteria had to offer; which is not saying much, to be completely honest.
“My humble apologies,” he tries a little bow and hopes it comes off as sincere. Buckley looks less than convinced. Tough crowd, what can he say.
“Alrighty, I think that’s all of us,” Harrington’s overly cheery voice thunders somewhere from above him and Eddie, like a moth drawn to a flame, has no other option but to look up. With his hands power-posed onto his sinfully slim waist and the sun positioned perfectly behind him, Steve Harrington seems to have taken it upon himself to alter Eddie’s brain chemistry, braincells leaving left and right, leaking right through his ears, never to be seen again.
“You’re drooling,” Robin’s monotone informs him from his right and he promptly slams his mouth shut, even though he knows the claim is wildly exaggerated. Buckley may be the best or the worst person he’s ever met – he needs to befriend her.
“First up is the relay-race. We need four people. Anyone up?”
Harrington is met with painful silence and that does dim the cheery smile a little bit. Eddie wonders if that is where the King Steve comes out of the hiding, all scary, sharp teeth and disregard of basic human decency. He himself stills, for once not wanting to draw any attention to himself, feeling like a student who doesn’t know the correct answer which, not to brag, if you asked Higgins or any other teacher in Hawkins High, is something Eddie excels in. Curiosity, though, is a fickle thing and he’s fallen victim to it more times that he can count, and so when the uncomfortable silence drowns on, Eddie can’t help but take a look around to meet the Team Yellow, so to speak.
Fred Benson peers at him from his thick glasses. A group of scared freshman cower together. There’s a couple of band kids other than Robin Buckley who forgone glaring at the back of Eddie’s head in order to chew on her lip nervously and stare at the ground. Not a jock in sight.
Steve Harrington couldn’t have landed a worse team if he tried.
Surprisingly he doesn’t look like he’s about to piss himself over it.
Huh.
Probably will post the whole thing tomorrow ok bye
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Dandelions-Prologue
A/N oh hey. it's been a while. care for a Dickinette AU?
Love at first sight always sounded so absurd to me.
An instant connection to someone you just met? The idea is so foolish that it sounds like some excuse a hopeless romantic made up to explain why they’ve never gone on a date before.
‘I just didn’t feel the sparks, you know?’
I, in fact, did not know. Nor did I bother to try and understand it. Love is fickle, the lines so blurry, so thin, that you never know where you’ll land until it’s too late to change your mind, much less your heart.
And while I couldn’t appreciate the concept when applied to relationships in reality, relationships in fiction were a whole other story. Watching two characters reach for the same piece of paper, eyes connecting while the rest of the world fades into the background, only leaving a longing to get to know this person right in front of them? It was something that never got old no matter how much time passed.
Rom-Coms, Shojo Manga, Soulmate AUs, Jane Austin.
From screen to paper, I’m obsessed, so much so that I began to write my own stories. But there’s one thing that’s been holding me back; I’ve never been in love.
Now I know how this sounds. Everyone tries to tell you that it’s not possible to never experience love, that there has to have been some unreachable crush, some first love, some friend that you loved much more than life itself, but I’m sorry to report that none of the above are true. Of course, I care for my brother and my best friends, but loving your friends doesn’t translate to the life-altering, reality-shattering love I want to write about.
I left college years ago, as the ever demanding job field insisted I needed higher education, I opted out for a couple of side jobs, using my free moments to sit in coffee shops and parks, anywhere I could watch love blossom and write down inspiration.
That’s how I met him. Dick Grayson.
Brew-tiful Day is one of my favorite spots to observe. The slightly overpriced coffee, the bumbling crowd of office workers, students, and hopeless romantics, the simple ambiance of it all just made for the perfect spot to write.
I was settling into my usual spot, my laptop booting up when the couch dipped so violently that I almost sent my fresh brew onto the three-day-old shirt I had dug out from the corner of my room. Scrambling to set down my cup, the weight beside me seemed to settle out, almost as if the person was trying to melt into the cushions.
The funny thing about watching romance movies play out is that when two characters unexpectedly sit on the same couch in the same coffee shop at the same time, I melt. When it happens in reality, I feel an intense sensation of existential dread.
The boy beside me must not share the sentiment, because as I go to move, trying to avoid any eye contact that may happen, he lets out the largest sigh humanely possible, so large that the pair of businessmen sitting nearby have resorted to glaring at us. Not him, Us. That’s all it takes for me to find my weight shifting back into the couch cushion. I can feel my brain scrambling at the speed of the words threatening to fall out of my mouth, unable to know where to go from here but desperate to fill the silence between us.
“What’s wrong?” It takes everything I have not to slap my hand over my own mouth. Word vomit. Usually, it’s only an impulsive thought that sits on the tip of my tongue, but not today.
His head lolls over in a manner that reminds me of a cat waking after a long nap, slow and lazy. He doesn’t appear to be appalled that I have spoken to him, but he doesn’t seem eager to spill it all either. If this was a movie-
I can feel the heat radiating off of my cheeks in waves. I just tried to drag this stranger into the rabbit hole of my obsession with love. The embarrassment of trying to recreate the moment that flashed through my head of two main characters having their first interaction together is crushing. For some reason, I feel the need to apologize and quickly.
“I’m sorry-”
“I’m in love with the woman I’m betrothed to.” His body remains frozen, his head still lolled in my direction, his arms still folded over his stomach, but one feature has become distinctly different. His lips have now moved only to find themselves pulled into a thin line that looks borderline painful.
The silence that followed was deafening. His eyes shifted over my face before fixing, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. Unsettlingly deep blue seemed to stare past where my eyes were on my face, almost like they were looking for something that wasn’t present on the surface.
With a shaky breath, I can feel the words desperate to fill the space and reluctantly I let them.
“Is that a bad thing?”
Typically, this kind of meddling would be unheard of for me. When I go to Brew-tiful Day, it’s to sip mediocre coffee and observe. If someone were to even sit too close to me, I immediately would abandon ship in favor of a new seat or a new coffee shop altogether. Looking back on this day, if someone were to ask me to put into words how I was feeling, sharing a couch with this listless boy with unsettling eyes I don’t think a word existed for it in the English language.
All I knew was that I was inexplicably invested in any and everything he would be willing to tell me. Any and every look he would give me. Any and every sentiment that might follow.
He hums softly as if contemplating my question, but eventually decides it doesn't warrant an answer. Instead, he asks a question of his own, “What’s your name?”
“Marinette. And yours?”
“Dick. Dick Grayson.”
Dick never gave me an explanation. Instead, I watched as he slowly sat up, his spine unfurling one vertebra at a time, feeling as if the world was holding its breath for what came next.
“Marinette is such a long name. Can I call you Mari instead?”
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Honestly with the way the Goethals act in general it could be safe to say most of them go down the line of “Anyone I perceive as lower than me I treat like shit” with a few accepting members like Stolas
But speaking of Stolas, if you feel more comfortable going off of what is canon, then maybe the idea could spin off of him? We know him to be respectful and to have enough pull to get meetings with a Sin so it wouldn’t be too far off to say Ozzy asked Stolas to check out the hotel to sponsor it. Maybe during introductions he only bows to Lucifer, the Sins, and Vox and everyone is confused?
Just spitballing with the other anons idea! Whatever you go with will be amazing regardless!
Also just a small question cause I’m curious of what you have planned but how many prompts are you planning on writing/is in your Que? I have like a shit ton of prompts in my inbox and need filtering advice if you’re willing 😭
I am the goddess of fucking around and finding out
I don't mind canon or going off canon. My Alastor and Vox are very ooc after all, but I know the fandom tends to hold Helluva Boss in a higher standard. I never really liked it that much. I've watched it- but I'm Striker. Why does everything gotta be a sex thing? The two season finales were my favourite of Helluva Boss, which ironically included little to no Stolas
I could definitely see Stella and her brother treating the sinners and overlords are faith on their shoes while Stolas and Octavia hold the sins and Vox in higher regard
Ozzie would definitely be pulling the strings to get Stolas to visit the Hazbin Hotel if I go that route.
I like working off of your guy's ideas. It's very fun and helps me world build 🙏
~~~~~~
Ahahaha my ask box is also full of different prompts. I have omega-verse, the Vee's joining the battle, and injured Alastor are three I can name off the top of my head (because I'm writing them right now) but I think I have like 10 or 11 in there. One is also a beauty and the beast ay which I'm mulling over
As for how I filter them out- prompts are things I want to be able to enjoy writing. Some of my prompts have been quite large- and while I don't mind the large ones, it gives me a lot less freedom with them because I feel like I have to rewrite a whole story that was just in the my box. I never deleted any, though. I just put them in their in tag just in case I feel like writing them later- but ones I am writing right now/want to write sit in my box so I can shuffle through them. It keeps it organized
I haven't encountered any rude people yet- so I haven't had to reject anyone for demanding things from me (which like I'm always ready for a debate on the internet, I find them funny) and with how nice everyone is, I usually feel bad for denying them. It's way I take so long to deny people. I want to make sure this is actually something I don't plan on writing in the near future
My way to filter out prompts is
- I need creative freedom to write so I don't feel miserable writing. This is one of the main ones. My brain is very hectic and I find myself tapping out if I can't bring my own ideas to the table. It's also why none of my works are exactly like the prompts im given
- I have enough context to write a fic on it
- I would actually enjoy writing it
- it's a world/au I'm aware of or contributed to. Nothing is worse than being handed a fully built universe and being asked to write for it with little to no explanation on how the universe works
- the people are nice to me.
- I know I make a few jokes here and there, but I like to keep in mind that I'm making free work for people. I'm not being paid to do this, and people aren't paying me to write out the prompts. I love writing fanfiction and it's a great hobby, but if you're genuinely just not interested in doing something- you don't have too. Writing it meant to be fun and inspiration is a fickle thing. You don't want to push it too hard or it's going to shove back. I've learnt that the hard way
- bonus way to do it- sometimes people leave comments, and I find them funny, and I get creative with them. I censored a whole chapter of month in rut because someone told me to let the characters swear. I'm also a very petty person
This is just personal, but I keep my prompts 1k-3.5k words just so it's decently sized, but not overly large
Hope this helps!
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name / pronouns?: squid! they/them
most active muse(s)?: richie is 110% hogging my muse right now.
rp pet peeves?: mmmm politely declining to answer this one. I'd like to think I'm sweet! But I'm also by default something of an irritable person; I try to ignore my pet peeves because I know they're often unreasonably petty and unkind of my brain.
years of experience?: since I was a wee'un! I was the kind of kid who ran around make-believing that I was a character in the Hardy Boys and stuff like that, and that and creative writing were my pipeline into written rp. I started on forums writing warri/or cat ocs, and it was a whole journey from there. I starting rping on tumblr in 2012.
fluff, angst, or smut?: I like all of them! Angst most of all. I had a period of time where I wasn't writing smut so much, but I'm swinging back into finding it fun to write more regularly. And fluff can be fun! Tho I tend to prefer fluff threads in established dynamics. I think it adds a lil extra depth to it for me.
plots or memes?: Both! I do like memes, though I find the threads have something of a tendency to peter out without any ooc discussion to direct it? Unless you've discussed some kind of dynamic prior to meme-ing back and forth? In which case I think the memes can carry themselves more. If that makes sense?
long or short replies?: I like both! My muse is very fickle, so I never make any promises either was as to which length of reply is more likely to get an answer faster. I try very hard to consistently craft replies I'm proud of; the length is less important to me. I tend toward longer replies when there's more plot behind the thread; otherwise, it's the whims of my muse.
time to write?: it used to be night time (like, 3 or 4 am) but now the best time i have to write is between classes, around noon, or while laying in bed at like, 7 or 8 am before i crash, some "nights".
are you like your muse(s)?: i would say harry is most like me! but i tend away from my own traits in writing characters, as a rule of thumb. it's more fun for me to write someone i don't have as much in common with.
tagged by: i stole it from dash (it's been going around today!)
tagging: you!
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Motivation is always a fickle thing
AKA one of my experiments on how to motivate yourself to finish writing a fic?
I started writing the fic in 2019, posted the fic in November. Stopped posting it in 2020. It is now 2024.
I have a clear, decisive end in mind. I have plenty of notes, both in a physical pen and paper notebook and the ones I typed on the computer.
I still find it a challenge to finish the story. And I know it is never the lack of willpower (it never is).
For me personally, my challenge has been both the complexity of the story, and learning about how I work with myself, instead of against. Following arbitrary schedules, for me, no matter how strategic they are, would not work.
(Fanfic writers often joke about daydreaming about the fic instead of actually writing it. For me, it is no joke😂😭)
It has been like this for me not just in terms of writing fics, but in other areas of my life as well, such as work.
And I have long known I could never rely on motivation. It is such a fickle thing.
One wise man said, build a habit, so you don't rely on motivations.
I agree with this notion, to an extent.
It has worked for me in one area, but not another. There isn't a one solution fits all, after all.
But in a world that speaks loudly about how consistency is key, advocates repetition to instill habits, and ultimately praising efficiency of an automated process (even when it is our own brain), I forgot the very reason why I write.
I assign less and less importance on motivations.
After all, sparks of joy, sudden bursts of energy, light-bulb moments of inspirations, are unexpected, unpredictable, and therefore, unreliable, aren't they?
Even though the very reason I write was the pure joy of thinking up a story, cooking up plots and scenes. That lightbulb moment in the shower! Or specific moments during daydreaming that I ended up including in my fic.
Things that are difficult to find if it is an automated process, for established habit.
No wonder we are all burnt out and spent.
We are all so focused on achieving, doing, and in the process, forgetting why it is worth achieving.
Hmm.
I actually just wanted to post a few pics I took.
I tried to write a caption so it has some context.
Why did it become such a long post? 😭😂
(look at the tiny clay kitties!!!!)
It feels a little bit silly.
I could just log into AO3 and re-read them. No big deal. Why go through the hassle?
But I'd like to think it would be worth the "hassle".
It is a process of cultivating joy🌱
The story, the ideas you've cooked up in your mind years ago - if it doesn't excite you as much as it used to - that's normal. Our brain is built to get used to things, after all.
(even when it saddens me to admit that it doesn't excite me as much as it used to).
It does not mean that it has to be an automated process, simply done out of habit, or done because it is scheduled into a calendar.
Sudden bursts of energy, light-bulb moments of inspirations, are unexpected, unpredictable, but they have always been reliable in igniting desire - the soul of creativity itself.
The so-called motivations. Elusive and mysterious.
Quite troublesome!
In my case, since I have been working on this fic all by myself, it could get severely understimulating.
One of the things that have greatly helped is shifting my perspective to see that in fact, I'm not entirely alone. (Especially since parts of the story has been posted and received by people).
Of course I know there are people who read the story. I still get the occasional kudos from time to time (thank you!!).
But even if fanfic writers say they read and re-read comments, it's not like we open our phones everyday to do it. Not when we have whatsapp to respond to, newsfeed to scroll, genshin to play, and social media accounts to stalk.
It's quite common for a hundred people to click on your story and only one person might leave you kind words.
But that one person could have brightened your entire day! Even when you came back to their comment the next day, it still managed to leave you smiling.
Life goes on the following day though, and as time went on, you forgot about those kind words.
I, too, forgot. Even though I clearly received more than one.
So, in an effort to keep the desire alive, to fill my space with the little joys, to cultivate motivations, and all in all trying to write -- I made them just a little bit more physical.
.
(the fic)
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FAQ
“Who are you?”
I’m Sif (she/her/they/them)! I’m a writer, an artist, and I will literally never stop talking. I have an African gray named Cecil, and I love him very much.
“Where can I find you?”
Here on Tumblr, On A03 as Rosae or Sif - Or on the dreblr discord server
Discord is the fastest way to get in contact with me, asks on tumblr can get eaten and DMs on tumblr are weird for me. I'm not active on any other platforms
“When will x/y/z update?”
I don’t know. Don’t ask me or leave comments pestering me about updating things. I have adhd, and fanfiction is a hobby that I do for myself, so I work on things as I’m able to. My focus is fickle and I tend to jump from project to project, because that’s how I have fun. When it comes to my hobbies, me having fun is the whole reason I do them. Pestering me just makes me want to do it even less. Seriously.
“Can I send you asks about x/y/z? Do you mind talking about x/y/z?”
I'm not going to be upset about any ask sent in as long as it's in good faith, but that doesn't mean I'll answer every ask I get. If I don't answer an ask, it means that I wasn't sure on an answer, I'd answered the question before, or I just didn't feel like it. Odds are it's nothing personal, if I have an issue with someone or something, then I block.
That all being said, I don't answer questions asking for personal information of any kind unless it's something I've publicly discussed. I also prefer that people do not use tone indicators in asks, or if you must, please use full words and not acronyms. I'm pretty good at reading tone in text to begin with, and I run under the assumption most asks are in good faith.
“Can I use your idea/headcanon/etc in my fic/art/etc?”
Yes! People are always welcome to use my ideas/headcanons/etc with credit. You can create stuff set in my AU/make your own takes on them. All I ask is that you don’t copy my stuff word for word (ie reposting), and give credit if heavily referencing my works. You do not need to ask my permission to use my stuff as inspiration, but if you do create something 100% feel free to tag me/send it to me! I love seeing this stuff!
“Can I repost your fic/artwork/headcanon/etc?”
Probably not. I’m okay with my chat posts and non-fictional PSAs/advice posts being reposted to other platforms (with credit). For anything else, I do not allow reposting unless you ask me first (that being said, I do sometimes give permission when asked, it just depends on the post and platform you want to repost on). Translations and Podfics are absolutely fine though!
“Will you tag (specific trigger) or (spoilers)”
Probably not, sorry! I’d like to say that I could, and I try to tag major triggers & spoilers when I remember to, but again, ADHD means I tend to be pretty scattered brained and my tagging is pretty inconsistent as a result. I don’t want to promise to tag stuff when I know I’ll probably forget at some point.
“Do you take requests/commissions/art trades/do collabs/have a ko-fi?”
I do not take formal requests or requests for unrelated fandoms/characters/etc. I love talking with people and discussing ideas, but that’s entirely on my own terms. You can still always ask me about my AUs or offer specific ideas, but if I decide to write anything for it is all up to me.
I am not currently taking commissions, but I do take them every so often when the mood strikes. I already work to support myself, and as I’ve said before, fandom is a hobby for me, so I prefer to spend that time creating things at my own pace. Since I get people asking about it, I do have a ko-fi but please don’t feel obligated to send me anything.
Art/fic trades and/or collabs are a solid maybe at any given time, depending on what I have on my plate. Hit me up on discord if you want to talk about it.
#pinned post#sif speaks#faq#new pinned post to replace the old one since it's been awhile since I updated this
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78 , 62 for Blue Blood pls , 58 , 14, 7 and 8 ! you don't have to answer all of these if you don't feel like it , i'm just greedy :) *
OH MY GOODNESS YOU SPOIL ME
What motivates you during the writing process?
I'LL BE HONEST. It's the feedback. I can't wait to see what peoples reactions are going to be, can't wait to see what people are going to think and feel, whenever I write a particularly spectacular moment I'm practically vibrating with excitement just to see how people will react to it. In particular, right now, my personal muse is @kissporsche, I honestly want to finish as many fic as possible just to shove them all under their nose for approval. I've been told it's welcome 😂
in [insert fic], is there a deleted scene/idea you wish you could have included? Why did it get cut?
There aren't many deleted scenes! The only scenes I've actually written and not used later got repurposed (recycling ftw). But there are deleted ideas for the fic that I suppose I wish I could have found a way to include-- namely, that Kinn and Porsche's Friday night meetups were going to be a bit less sexually heavy and a bit more bantery/romantic, and would include Kinn bringing him a series of increasingly opulent gifts as a means of winning his approval in a convoluted courtship. It would have been cute, but I don't think cute necessarily works for blue blood 😂
Do you have a favorite piece of figurative language you’ve written?
Bold of you to assume I can remember anything i've written once it's published 😂 I probably have some real gems in my works that I would be proud of, but I'm always looking so far forward that I struggle to make room in my brain for looking back. The only thing that jumps to mind is this, from my Hardest of Hearts capri fic:
"Loving Laurent was like loving the sun. It burned warm and bright to be in his company, and, when Damen basked in it, it was the thing that staved off the cold, the thing that made his heart beat, that gave life to his very being. But, like Laurent, the sun was the cruelest and most fickle lover of all; to know what it was to have it, meant also to know the incomprehensible and frigid loneliness of its absence. When the shade came, and it always came, when the world turned and the light shrank beyond that ineffable horizon and darkness fell, that, too, was like Laurent’s love. The long nights of winter, when nothing grew, when the world was bleak and lonely and cold and everything shriveled and died in the wanting of something that would not come. That, too, was like loving Laurent."
What is your favorite location and position to write in?
In bed with my laptop on my lap and my cat between my knees 😸
Post a snippet from a wip.
From an upcoming fic for kissporsche 😏
“I’m sorry.” It’s inadequate. It’s not enough, and Porsche knows it. “I’m–”
“Do you know what I would do to any of the other bodyguards, if they had done what you have done?”
Porsche flinches, and his gaze drops to the floor. He bites his lip, unsure how to respond, unsure if Kinn even wants him to.
“I would punish them.”
The words drop to the pit of his stomach like hailstones. A cold sweat forms on his brow, and his chest suddenly feels too tight. He closes his eyes, and bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes copper.
“Then punish me.”
Post an out-of-context spoiler from a wip.
“Porsche,” Kinn repeats. The timbre of his voice makes shivers roll down Porsche’s spine. “If you won’t let me call someone, then what do you want me to do?”
It’s a dangerous question. What does Porsche want?
He knows that the symptoms are only going to get worse. He knows that very soon, he’s going to be in a lot of pain, pain that isn’t going to end until his heat does. He knows that there is only going to be one source of reprieve.
Porsche also knows that he will never let an alpha fuck him. He will never let another alpha put him on his back, or on his knees, and have their way with him like he’s just another simpering omega slut. He will never submit to that. He will never lower himself to that.
But… Kinn isn’t like other alphas.
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15 mutuals*, 15 questions
*if I can come up with that many mutuals' handles when my brain is doing like. dial-up noises rn. can I even answer the questions? let's find out!
thanks to @vcaudley for the tag!
there are (as you have probably noticed) more than 15 questions, so feel free to pick and choose (or just not play, because a tag is not an obligation)
I did 15 plus a bonus question about whales
Are you named after anyone?
my maternal great-grandmother on my grandma's side, who lived to be a hundred
2. When was the last time you cried?
oops, at the end of my yoga class this morning, for no discernible reason :,) just suddenly got the Big Sad and had to go stand in the bathroom for a couple minutes until I calmed down
3. What’s your eye color?
hazel
4. Scary movies or happy endings?
happy endings, we are too soft for scary things in this household
5. Any special talents?
6. Where were you born?
7. What are your hobbies?
8. Have you any pets?
halloween the cat, who enjoys a basket of warm laundry fresh from the dryer and wants to know why you're looking at him all funny when he is simply making use of what is currently the coziest place in the house
9. What sports do you play/have played?
lol under duress, basketball and track. under my own steam, archery.
10. How tall are you?
shorter than the internet thinks I am, apparently
11. Favourite subject in school?
art
12. Dream job?
gonna echo @vcaudley's "the honest dream is to have enough money to not need to work"
like I don't have a dream job really? obviously I want to have a career as a writer, but...I would rather not depend on it for my income, given how fickle the industry is even IF you manage to sell multiple books, which at this point in my career is no guarantee
so for a day job I'm doing admin work. after a decade of working in grocery stores, I'm happy just to have a full-time job that pays sort of halfway decently, actually has benefits, and doesn't leave me exhausted or keep me constantly working outside my scheduled hours. the millennial dream lolsob
13. Do you prefer owls, capybaras, or flamingos?
(d) all of the above
14. What is your favourite soup?
a tomato-basil soup that in the family we just call winter soup. it's like an extra-hearty tomato-basil soup with carrots and onions and a roux, and you eat it with croutons and sour cream and parmesan
15. What is your favourite…rock (idfk)?
16. Choose a familiar: 1) very dumb, very loving disobedient dog. He loves you but will never listen to you ever 2) a raven that speaks but it only ever shrieks the name of various fast food restaurants 3) a toad that screams like a teenage boy instead of croaks
I will take the dog and simply always tell him to do bad things so he never does bad things because he disobeys my every word. if he loves me I will get cuddles and also I will not have to deal with shrieking.
17. Which planet do you feel like would be kind of an asshole if you met them?
uranus, obviously
actually that was mean
sorry, uranus
18. if you were a worm would you love me? this worm question courtesy of ✨ @/legiomiam✨
no bc I don't know you but I'm sure you're a lovely person
19. Least favourite type of clothing?
20. You are now in a horror movie—so sorry. Chance of survival?
probably zero since I'm very soft and also have to investigate every noise bc it's better to get up and find out what's making it than lie in bed being scared of an unknown noise 😅
21. Would you rather: the ability to instantly grow a perfect mustache, or ability to talk to vegetables?
22. What do you think of whales?
I think they're neat
tagging for optional gameplay: @victoriacbooks, @mslanna, @erinfulmerwrites, @avery-ames-personal, @amarajlynn, @wordsofrablack, @chatterboxprotocol, @danaiwrites, @doom-inique-writes, @gryffindorkswin, @luv3horse, @lucymason217, I think this is less than 15 but oops I'm also tagging you, if you're reading this and waiting for someone to tag you so you can play
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7.1.22 Journal Prompt 8- What Happened In Your Childhood That You Wish You Could Erase?
Oof starting the weekend on a dark note eh? Okay I’ll bite. I’m sure there’s a few things I could erase. I wish my first stepmom was never in my life. For a multitude of reasons. Not really pertaining to how good or bad of a person she is/was. I just wish it didn’t happen at all.
The thing that I come back to the most though. I will say this is a memory that has deeply impacted me in ways I did not realize until the past couple of months and I am almost 26. So I went years with this memory as just a memory and being able to tell it like some little anecdote. But yet NOW, I will legit start tearing up/crying trying to explain it. It is crazy to see the growth of your brain and mindset and how your perspective changes. Maybe its because I’m a parent now too to a little girl? I try to treat her how I want to be treated or would’ve wanted to. Anyways here goes.
I don’t know how old I am. Definitely elementary age. Old enough to write but not perfectly. This was one of the times that my dad and I lived by ourselves in an apartment. Now here’s the thing. I don’t think he remembers this. I think I brought it up once before but like I explained, it didn’t affect me the way it does now. I haven’t really talked about it with him and I am debating on if I want to do that or not and the reason is because someone wise told me, “do you think he would take it back if he could and do it differently? Every parent has regrets so do you think he would re-do it?” my answer is yes. I think he would be sorry I think he would want to do it over better. What you have to understand is my dad was a single parent for a while between stepmoms. And he became a parent young at 21 when he was in the military. And my grandpa was military. Not sure if that has anything to do with it. Maybe it does or don’t but girls are very different than boys. Men can be less emotionally available or attentive especially when they are a single parent so I know that he was trying his best with what he had at the time. I don’t hold that against him but it DID affect me and still does. So it’s like I feel some type of way just not directly at him if that makes sense?
Basically I was in my room writing a story. I think it was about a bunny and a lamb being friends and I was so happy about this story I remember being excited to show him. It was only like a page long and here I go tearing up while I’m typing this. The brain is a fickle thing. Anyways. I was very excited and happy it was a present for my dad. Well I don’t know what happened or why this was his reaction but basically he read it and made me sit and re-write it over and over because it wasn’t grammatically correct and I remember every draft id give him he would crumple it up and now I’m full on bawling at my work desk fuck. I just remember thinking, maybe I even told him, that it wasn’t homework it was for fun for him and he didn’t really care. I’m not sure how long I sat there or how many times I rewrote it I just remember crumpled paper and him not being happy.
I’ll even throw in a bonus tidbit of how I believe this affected me.
For one, at work or home, if you tell me to do something, I want to know every little detail of how you want it done. I want specifics because id rather do it the way you want first rather than get it wrong and have to re-do it.
I don’t like the spotlight. It really made me want to disappear at times or just stay in my room. The “maybe if I don’t bring attention to myself then nobody can bother me” mentality. It caused a lot of issues in my teen years where I would be sneaky and shady about things but as a kid I would hide homework or report cards because I didn’t want him to see them if there was a bad remark on them. I remember every time I got one or a letter for him from school I would look over it repeatedly trying to see if there was anything there he would get mad at. Of course he would find them and id get in trouble regardless but as a kid/teen you don’t have hindsight. You don’t think like that. You’re not mature enough you don’t have the capability to think every action through or to even be manipulative. All I thought was, “oh this will make him mad. Out of sight out of mind.” Anyways I stayed quiet and throughout the years growing up I retreated into my shell more and more. I didn’t know what to say. Or talk about. It seemed like anything would turn into something bad. An offhand comment, a question. Anything can be turned into criticism, a lecture, getting in trouble. Felt like an interrogation every time even if it was nothing. And over the years I developed the habit where any serious conversation I just start crying. Especially with him. Because I feel like anything I say will turn to judgement or he’ll get offended or the whole lecture thing. Even writing this I’m crying. How pathetic is that? Almost 26 and I still get like this. I was so in my shell by high school that if we were home alone (by this time I have a great new stepmom and brothers), it would be awkward. I didn’t know what to say. Or was too scared to say anything so it was basically small talk like asking about work and the weather or just watching tv. I didn’t understand him and he didn’t get me either.
Now that I have hindsight I probably should’ve taken him up on those offers of therapy that he offered when I would get in trouble for certain things. Maybe I could’ve gotten through all of this sooner and I would’ve turned out better.
Another thing is that I’m a very nervous person. Don’t know if I have restless leg syndrome or what but I’m always shaking. I barely kicked my decades old nail biting habit. I get nervous anytime someone says, “we need to talk,” “I want to talk to you,” “I need to talk to you later.” Any way you can word it sets off alarm bells in my head. “what did I do? What didn’t I do? Did I say something bad? Did I leave a mess?” I have to rethink my whole life from the past two weeks to figure out what was wrong because in my head that’s the only thing that could be possible. I messed up somehow. My automatic thought. Obviously it affects your confidence and self-esteem.
Sheltering myself really cost me a lot as a teen. I didn’t go out because I didn’t want to be bothered with the ‘who what where why’ spiel. I read a lot. Obviously got interested in boys but let me reiterate, I didn’t want these conversations because I could never know what to expect. I felt like id just get in trouble somehow so I would avoid them and just try to figure shit out myself which I would get in trouble for anyways. I wasn’t the smartest decision maker but when you don’t have anyone offering the information, you don’t know you’re supposed to ask. At that point you just kinda do whatever hoping it’ll get somewhere but without the guidance how do you know? If I thought every thing would get me in trouble how am I supposed to differentiate between what realistically would or wouldn’t? I mean, I own my shit I was pretty sneaky and manipulative but we aren’t born that way. You’re made like that.
Being so closed off wasn’t just to dad. It was to everyone. I didn’t like asking questions about too many things. I don’t think I ever really talked to my stepmom about makeup or anything. I remember asking her about shaving and figuring out when I could try a razor. But other things, girly superficial stuff I never thought to ask. Nobody talked about it with me so I didn’t know these were things a teen girl was supposed to be interested in. I know I had makeup. Some at least. I didn’t ever really know how to use it though I’m sure at some point I looked like a clown. My nails, I was ocd nail biting so that was never an option. My hair, id basically just wing it and hoped it looked okay. I wish someone took the time to go over these things. My mom lived a few hours away and being in a place where I didn’t wanna be noticed makes it kinda hard to feel like you CAN ask things. It’s a moot point now.
I yell easily now. I can be more aggressive or argumentative (A trait I fear I picked up from my dad). I try not to. But when you go so long without feeling like anyone is actually listening or trying to understand, you want to be heard and you will be. It is an easily accessible defense mechanism. As is avoidance, shutting down, getting an attitude. If I could pick it up from him then I suppose it begs the question of, “where did he get it from?” Maybe he wasn’t always like that? He’s a lot more calm now I guess. Although he does take things personally. Sometimes too much because he will get affected by things even if they aren’t about him.
Idk man. It really seeped into a lot of areas of my life. I like to do things myself. I don’t take criticism well. I need specific instructions on doing something because I don’t wanna mess up. I don’t know how to properly process my emotions from being closed off for so long. I constantly doubt myself about everything and avoid taking risks. I’m sure there’s more I’m forgetting but its lunch time now and we got Mediterranean.
I don’t hate my dad. Im not mad. Does it make me emotional and I probably need professional help for this and other issues? Yes. But do I think he’s sorry and would do it over better? Also yes. I guess that’s why I don’t really see the point in saying anything. We are finally in a good place and I don’t like making him feel bad. Idk if it would but just in case y’know?
#chaoswithxena#chaos with xena#xena rosewood#xenarosewood#journal#journal prompts#beginner blogger#blog#writing challenge
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Snowflake stuff
Weiss:Hey Summer, I got a call from a producer. They wanna know if you wanna be on a song.
Summer:*writing* You know I don’t do duets.
Weiss:It’s a feature. They only want you for the chorus.
Summer:….put them on speaker.
Weiss:Done.
Producer:Hello?
Summer:In five sentences or less, explain to me why I should feature and what the song is about? I’ll give you handicap. Don’t say it’s good publicity.
Weiss:(Oh boy…)
Producer:Umm well our artist is more alternative rap and while being good, the darker nature of their song lacks a soul to it. We haven’t heard you on a song of this genre yet but your voice has such range and presence that we really think you can captivate the listeners to play it on repeat. If you aren’t busy that is.
Summer:I’m a Schnee. We’re always busy. However….I guess my interest is peeked. Send my a section of his lyrics and the beat.
Producer:Ummm what about your section?
Summer:If you want people hooked on my voice then it has to be my lyrics. I can’t just make other people’s lyrics come to life. Not unless they’re remarkably talented. Is that a problem?
Producer:No ma’am. Thank you for your time. *hangs up*
Weiss:Wow. He already sent the file. I really made a monster huh? Try not to scare people on the phone.
Summer:I’m not a fan of features typically, but I like the concept which is why you bothered to ask me in the first place. *rests head* send it and I’ll listen to it while I nap. How long do I have?
Weiss:Two weeks. Try not to procrastinate.
Summer:You know artists. Inspiration is a fickle thing. *closes eyes*
[A week later]
Producer:Umm Mrs. Schnee? We’ve received no contact from Summer. Is she making progress?
Weiss:Truthfully…I couldn’t say. She’s constantly listening to the sample on loop and sleeps to it, so I know it’s on her mind. We still have a week.
[30 minutes before deadline, the booth]
Producer:WHERE-
Weiss:Don’t scream at me.
Producer:Where….is the chorus? Where’s your daughter in general? She’s refused calls, texts, emails; I bet she’d ignore a carrier pigeon!
Weiss:Sigh….*bows* I have no idea.
Producer:I was told Summer Schnee took singing seriously. As a producer and manager, I get the people we endorse are all a bit quirky in this industry but messing deadlines on other people’s songs-
Weiss:Disrespectful and reputation harming. I am the last person you have to preach that to, or did you forget I used to be a “quirky” person that was endorsed?
Producer:All the more reason why I’m shocked. If Summer has writers block or isn’t up for the task-
The door opens and Summer walks in, dark rings under her eyes and headphones on. Despite the abrupt entrance and clear fatigue, Summer silently walked inside the booth with grace after queuing up her section of the song.
🎶I don’t know where to begin.
Anger keeps fueling my sin; controls me deep from within.
But still won’t let me drown~
I’d wipe the slate to stop the pain. These fucked up thoughts inside my brain won’t fade.
I might never find my way, but we’ll make the world bleed gray…🎶
Producer:…..
Summer:*removes headphones* Do you need another go at it?
Producer:N…No that can work. That’s…wow.
Summer:*smiles* I wish your artist luck on the project. And please…next time my people will call you if I can’t do something. More than half of yours go right to spam. *leaving* Let’s go mom.
Weiss:Hold on a- sigh. I’m sorry about her. Good luck. *leaves* Summer!
Summer:Hmmm?
Weiss:Why did you make this such a hassle!? Where did you go!?
Summer:Oh I didn’t want them complaining and having me come to the booth repeatedly or experimenting, so I ran the clock down. I also asked Oscar if it would be a good idea to use thoughts from a journal as lyrics.
Weiss:That chorus came from your therapy journal?
Summer:Why are you surprised? Half of your best songs are ranting about your father. We do our best work when we’re frustrated.
Weiss:…..I can’t deny that. Let me know next time at least. I’m still your manager you know? I have half a mind to work with a more agreeable talent.
Summer:Pfft, I know you’re joking, but who would ever truly rival me?
Weiss*grabs phone* Hey Nick do you want-
Summer:*grabs phone* Wrong number! *hangs up* I will keep you in the loop next time. This is our thing.
Weiss:That’s my girl. *hugs her*
Summer:Hmmm🎶
xxxx
Nick…..
Nick:Summer is stealing mom’s affection. I must correct this. *grabs guitar*
Jaune:Stop being petty.
Nick:*strums once* No~🎶
Jaune:Just steal all my affection.
Nick:Okay! Let’s go to the movies!
xxxx
Summer:( I gotta hangout with dad before Nick wins.)
Weiss:…(I hope my two lovely men are enjoying time together.)
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Asshole - Elijah Mikaelson
Pairing: Elijah x Reader
Warnings: Bullying, Assholes, Flangst
A/N: I’m gonna let y’all in on a little secret. When I can’t/don’t write for a long time, I find it incredibly hard to start writing regularly again. Part of me feels like I am incapable and the rest fears I am. Anyway, this took much longer than it should have. I hope you enjoy!
***
You sat at a table at the back of the Grill enjoying your own company and a well-aged Scotch. Well, as aged as it got at the Mystic Grill. You were supposed to have been spending your evening with Klaus and Kol but they’d opted out to take care of some business. Kol had sounded so sincere in his disappointment you couldn’t be mad at them.
After some indecision, you came to the Grill on your own. It had been a long week and you’d been looking forward to getting out of the house. You’d already eaten dinner and decided to have a couple of drinks before you walked home. Or maybe more than a couple since you were already on number three.
Your gaze jerked up from the glass in your hand when someone slid into the chair across from you. Seeing Damon, you started to smile before remembering he was no longer your friend. And as much as you didn’t want to let that bother you, it stung. The two of you had been near inseparable until you saved Kol from the mechanizations of the Scooby gang.
You’d chosen your side. It didn’t matter that killing Kol would have ended the lives of who knows how many vampires. Apparently slaughtering innocent people was only bad when the Mikaelsons did it. None of your friends would even attempt to see it your way. They’d cast you out and the Originals had taken you in. You tried not to be bitter about it. You even succeeded most of the time. Until moments like this anyway.
You clenched your teeth together and willed the tears that threatened to fill your eyes to fuck off. “Is there something you needed, Damon?”
Damon clicked his tongue before giving you a little smirk. “So testy. Can’t I just say hi to an old friend?”
“You can do whatever you want, but let’s not pretend that these aren’t the first words you’ve said to me in months. Whatever we are, we’re not friends. Not anymore.” And god you wished that didn’t hurt as much as it did.
He made a show of looking around the room. “I just noticed that you were alone. Not a Mikaelson in sight. Thought I’d check to see if you’ve finally come to your senses?”
You swallowed what was left of your drink in answer. Anything else you said would only lead to a repeat of the same argument you’d had a hundred times.
He tapped his fingers on the table. “I’ll take that as a no.” After a moment of silence, he pursed his lips and leaned forward. “Or perhaps they’ve learned that your loyalty is a fickle thing and they’ve kicked you out of their little family.”
“Fuck you, Damon.” You wished you hadn’t finished your drink so you could throw it in his face. “I wasn’t the disloyal one. All of you turned your back on me because I saved someone’s life.”
“Not just someone. Kol fucking Mikaelson. You knew it was a betrayal before you even did it. How were we supposed to overlook that? To ever trust you again?”
“Honestly, I thought you’d all lost your ever-loving minds. Why would any of you think it was okay to not only kill Kol but everyone that would go with him?”
“It was to save Elena.” Damon all but hissed the words.
“No. It was to make her human again. Big difference.” You leaned back with a frown and signaled for another drink. “You know, for someone that claims to love a vampire, she certainly has a deep-seated hatred for them.”
Damon’s gaze moved over you as though he were looking for something. It wasn’t until your drink was delivered that he spoke again. “They don’t care about you, you know. They never did. Getting you on their side just another way to get under our skin.”
You sipped at your drink as you looked him over. If he only knew the number of times you had convinced Klaus not to kill one of them. The number of times you’d redirected the hybrid’s rage or Kol’s anger. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t care at all. “I’m not a tool, Damon. I’d know if they were using me.”
His ever-present smirk faded as his eyes turned cold. “Would you? You believed everything I told you readily enough. Of course, you were so lonely you would have believed most anything, wouldn’t you? Anything to have a friend. Somewhere to go where you weren’t alone.”
You clenched your teeth tightly and refused to meet his gaze as he threw confessions made over late night glasses of Scotch back at you. “Were you never my friend then?” You hated yourself for asking the question. Even more for the way your voice broke as you did.
He tilted his head. “Oh sweetheart, why would I have been?”
And with that, he was gone. So nice of him to stop by. You downed what was left of your drink and signaled for another.
By the time you determined no amount of alcohol was going to erase Damon’s words from your brain, you were well and truly drunk. When the waitress came by to check on you, you ordered a glass of water and pulled out your phone.
You tapped your finger against the back of it as you thought. Going home to your empty house meant wallowing in self-pity until you passed out and then probably doing the same thing when you woke. Kol or Klaus were always your first call at moments like this, but you had no idea what kind of business they had to do and didn’t want to interrupt if it was something important. The last thing you needed was for them to be angry with you as well. Rebekah was out of town.
That left Elijah. You weren’t as close to him as the others through no fault of his. No, he’d gone out of his way to make you feel welcome, to extend the hand of friendship. But you were painfully shy when he was around. If there was one thing in life that could be counted on, it was the fact that you would be incredibly awkward around anyone you felt the slightest interest in. Poor Elijah probably thought you hated him. Klaus however thought the way you clammed up in his brother’s presence was hilarious.
Maybe that was the only reason they kept you around. Because you entertained them. At this point, did it really matter? Even if they didn’t need you, you needed them. Without the Mikaelsons you would be completely, utterly alone. Maybe you should start thinking about moving on. You could just start over somewhere else. Preferably somewhere with no supernatural drama. That would be fantastic.
After giving it another moment’s thought, you pressed the screen and called Elijah.
He answered on the second ring. “Y/N. Lovely to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Tears flooded your eyes at the warmth in his voice and a lump formed in your throat. “I’m sorry to bother you, Elijah. I just…” You trailed off and sucked in a deep breath to keep from crying.
“Is everything all right?”
You cleared your throat. “Not really, no. Could you come pick me up at the Grill?”
“Of course.”
You hung up and slid your phone back into your pocket. After pushing yourself to your feet, you stood still for a moment to get your bearings. When you glanced toward the bar to signal for your check, your gaze met Damon’s. He smirked as he ran his eyes over you and saluted you with his glass, clearly knowing he was the reason for your current state. Deciding to wait for Elijah outside, you tossed enough money on the table to take care of your ticket and a generous tip.
The cool air bit at your skin as you stepped outside. You moved to the end of the building and leaned against the wall. You tilted your head back to lean against the brick. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath of the crisp air to sober yourself up a bit and drive back the tears.
“It’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself, Y/N. You never know who might wander by.” Damon’s voice cut through you but you maintained your position.
“Why are you doing this?” Relief flooded you when your voice didn’t break. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Just leave me alone.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The only response that came to mind was telling him to fuck off so you kept your mouth shut and ignored him. Or you tried to at any rate.
A firm hand grabbed your chin and tilted your head down. The pressure he applied was enough to send a jolt of pain through your jaw. Your eyes shot open at the violation. “Don’t ignore me.”
You jerked your head to the side and he released you. “Don’t touch me.” At least the anger chased away the tears.
He placed his hands on either side of your head and leaned in until barely a breath separated you. You pushed against him though it did no good. You knew it wouldn’t but you couldn’t just stand there and let him do whatever he wanted. “Get away from me, Damon.”
“Why should I? You like vampires, don’t you, Y/N?”
Your eyes darted up to meet his and you realized that your comments about Elena had bothered him just as much as his words hurt you. Good. Asshole. “I like some vampires. I’m not particularly fond of you at the moment.”
He snarled and shoved himself off the wall putting some much needed space between the two of you. “You think you’re better than me? You’re nothing. Less than nothing. The only attention you received from me was pity.” Every word he threw at you struck like a physical blow. And the smile that crossed his face told you he was very much aware of it. But he wasn’t finished yet. “I pitied you, took you in and you repaid me by siding with the Mikaelsons. God only knows what they’re still keeping you around for but when they finish with you—after they’ve taken whatever it is they want from you—don’t come crying to us. Frankly, I’m glad to be rid of you. We all are.”
Hot tears began to leak down your cheeks and you wanted nothing more than to escape. Before you could run away or even think of another response, Damon was slammed face first into the wall beside you. You jumped away in response, relaxing when you saw it was Elijah holding him there. He had Damon’s arm twisted behind his back and kept him pressed to the wall with a hand between his shoulder blades.
“Get off me,” Damon demanded as he struggled to free himself.
Elijah ignored him, placing all of his attention on you. “Are you all right?”
You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I’m not injured if that’s what you mean. He was just being an asshole.”
He hummed as he arched a brow. “Yes, well, it is Damon.”
The corner of your mouth kicked up and you wiped the tears from your cheeks. Elijah stepped back, pulling Damon away from the wall in the process though he still didn’t release him. “In the future, it would be wise for you to leave Y/N alone. The next time we have this conversation won’t end as pleasantly for you.” Only then did he let him go and Damon was gone in the blink of an eye.
Elijah placed his hand on your back to direct you to his car parked a short distance away. It wasn’t until he’d started to drive that either of you said anything.
“Would you mind just driving around for a while? If it’s not too much of a bother I mean.”
The silence stretched but you resisted the urge to look at him. Fresh tears were running down your cheeks and you preferred to keep that to yourself for the time being.
“Of course, it’s not a bother,” he finally responded, his voice quiet, concerned. “Whatever you need.”
Some time later you wiped the tears from your cheeks and turned to watch Elijah drive. His face was drawn and he had a firm grip on the steering wheel. He glanced your direction and smiled when he met your gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You shrugged a shoulder. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Why do you keep me around?”
“What?” He couldn’t have sounded more surprised if he tried.
You turned your attention back to the view from your window. “Not you specifically. All of you. I mean, you don’t owe me anything if that’s what you think. Or maybe you just feel bad for me because everyone else is mad at me. You don’t have to. I’d do okay on my own.”
Elijah didn’t respond right away and you figured he was trying to think of a way to gently break the truth. Just as you were about to tell him it wasn’t necessary, the car slid to a smooth stop. You glanced around to see nothing but trees and you hadn’t been paying attention to the direction Elijah drove from town. You had no idea where you were.
“Look at me, Y/N.”
You turned in your seat so you faced him as much as possible. His dark gaze ran over you and if you didn’t know better, you’d swear you saw sorrow in his eyes. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “What exactly happened tonight?”
You glanced away as your hands twisted together in your lap. “Nothing. I told you he was just being an asshole.”
“Why don’t you try expanding on that a bit, sweetheart. I’m afraid I’m not buying it at the moment.”
You stayed silent as you figured out how to phrase everything so it would make sense.
“Y/N—” Elijah started and you held up a hand to cut him off.
“The thing about your best friend deciding they hate you is that they take everything they know about you and use it to hurt you. And god, Damon’s a pro at it. He hits the mark every time.”
“What do you mean every time? Has this happened before?” The irritation in Elijah’s voice made you smile.
“Not for a while. Right after the whole Kol thing, it happened almost daily. I figured he was done being an ass to me. Guess I was wrong.”
“Why did you not say anything?”
You shrugged again. “It didn’t seem important at the time. I just quit going anywhere I might run into him or the others unless one of you was with me. I figured it had been long enough I’d be safe to have dinner and a couple of drinks without a bodyguard.”
His hand reached out to cover yours where they still twisted together in your lap. Your face heated immediately but you didn’t pull away. “Y/N, if it was bad enough to keep you from living your life the way you wished, it was very important. I can’t believe none of us were aware of this.”
You shook your head, not wanting to argue the point. “It was just pokes. Snide comments, dirty looks. Tonight though…He said he was never my friend. That he pitied me and took me in and I betrayed them. He said there was no reason for anyone to ever be my friend.” Your voice trailed off at the end until it was barely audible. And once again you found yourself unable to look the vampire in the eyes.
He hummed in acknowledgement and released his hold on your hands. Seconds later he was out of the car and opening your door. He offered you a hand to help you out and you took it with no hesitation. He led you toward the front of the car before lifting you and placing you on the hood. You looked up at him with wide eyes as he stepped forward, placing himself between your knees.
One hand settled on your waist while the other hooked around the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You swallowed past the lump in your throat as he stared down at you with a serious expression. “Listen to me, Y/N. The Mikaelsons pity no one. We are a thousand years old. We have long ceased wasting our time on those that we deem unworthy. Damon is simply pissed that he never wormed his way into your bed before you proved yourself to be monumentally out of his league.”
The corner of your mouth kicked up a bit at that though you weren’t sure you believed him. There was one part of what Damon said that still bothered you. “He said once you all get what you want from me, you’ll toss me away and I’ll be alone again.”
His hold tightened enough to let you know he was upset but not enough to hurt. His jaw set and he took several breaths before responding. “The only thing my siblings desire from you is your companionship, Y/N.”
There was a brief flash of hurt that he hadn’t included himself in the statement. The look in his eyes had you pressing for more. “And you? What do you desire from me, Elijah?”
The press of his lips against yours was an answer you could never have anticipated. His hands pulled you forward and you slid off the hood to erase the space between your bodies. The hand on your neck shifted to bury his fingers in your hair while his other arm wrapped around your waist. Your hands gripped the lapels on his jacket as you tried to pull him closer.
Finally, the two of you separated and your chest heaved as you sucked in much needed air. “That was…unexpected,” you breathed.
“Unexpected but not unwelcome I hope.” A smile flirted with his lips as his dark gaze studied you.
You shook your head and he kissed you again before resting his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry Damon hurt you, Y/N. I won’t allow it to happen again.”
“How can he possibly hurt me when I have you to protect me?”
His low chuckle rolled through you as you leaned up to kiss him again. As his hands gripped your waist you couldn’t help but be a little bit grateful that Damon was such an asshole.
#elijah mikaelson x reader#elijah x reader#elijah mikaelson fanfic#the originals fanfiction#vampire diaries fanfiction#flangst#bullying
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A Silent Prayer (Midoriya Izuku/F!Reader)
I… honestly don't know how this happened. The words just kinda came out. I didn't start out intending to write a slow burn saga, but that's apparently what my brain decided to do with it. Might continue the series at some point, to be honest; this whole universe has its hooks into me.
Collab piece for @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten's Citrus Dome server collaboration. 15k, completed, proofread, no beta.
Pairings: Dryad!Midoriya Izuku/Human!Reader, Human!Toshinori Yagi/Dryad!Midoriya Inko
Prompt: Gods
Content warnings: Background character death, non-con (very brief, not explicit)
Read on AO3
Quick Guide (ctrl-F to jump)
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
---
Prologue
Your village's clearing, while spacious enough to afford room for a small population, is essentially cut off from the outside world by the dense verdant wall that circles it on all sides. One of two paths out leads toward a well-maintained temple where the locals (and rare traveler) leave offerings to the Fae that populate the forest, and one leads out to the nearest trading post… which lies a week's away ride on a speedy horse. This clearing of hand-built homes and ancient looking shops is the only thing you've known. Your studies as a temple attendant began young, before you could even comprehend what you were training to do, and have kept you attached to the village with zero chance of travel.
That has suited you just fine so far. From what the hunters talk about seeing in the forest… you'd rather stay alive than "sightsee".
The first thing you're taught in your village is to respect the forest. Even the youngest of your people know not to step in Fae circles, or follow strange sets of eyes in the dark, or listen to any voices that come trickling out of the treeline on quiet nights. The Fae could be immensely giving, but they're fickle creatures on a good day and absolutely dangerous at their worst. Contact with any roaming Fae, regardless of the type or how friendly it seems, has long been banned among your people. Your job as an attendant, despite a common misconception that you have direct contact with beasts and monsters, is to maintain the temple, greet travelers, and meditate among the many gardens built within the temple walls.
Worship is a part of your daily routine. Each season you place the fruits of your labor at the altar. Every day you pray. It’s human nature, seeking answers from the Gods.
But you never expected one to answer… much less three times.
---
Part 1
The first time is after a terrible fire that razes half of the village during your first year of training. A roaming wyvern tears through the fields surrounding its back half in a fury, razing an entire cluster of homes and over half of the summer crops already suffering through a prolonged drought. The village finds itself in disarray amid the smoldering remains: one half wants to burn the temple in retaliation, seeing the wyvern as an omen that some Fae lord is on the warpath, while the other seeks to gather what remained of the crops as one final beseechment to whoever or whatever they'd angered.
Having just been initiated, your young mind goes directly to one of your first lessons: true offerings are of the heart. In your barely school age mind, that means offering something that means a lot to you. After some consideration you narrow it down - your favorite doll, a gift from a mother you never had the chance to know - and take it to the temple. You find a quiet altar to lay the doll down upon, and as soon as you find your knees to begin praying before it you catch sight of a boy hovering behind the marble pedestal.
His head is wrapped in emerald linen, but it rounds off enough to suggest there's densely packed hair underneath. A single curl peeks out at the center of his forehead, somehow even deeper than the rich dyed fabric over it, its point resting between huge green eyes that seem to peer right down to your very soul. It would be eerie if he wasn't smiling at you with a gap where one tooth should be, a bright beam of sunshine in an otherwise rather gloomy marble-lined room.
"Is that a doll?" he asks, and his voice chirps with the same excitement of the first few birds that poke out of the melting winter snow. You nod, frozen with trained hesitation that wars with your naive curiosity - he doesn't look familiar, nor does he look like the child of anyone who had recently come through the village. But he doesn't look dangerous to you. He's barely as tall as you, and he smiles too nice to be a threat… right?
You open your mouth to call for your matron but the boy holds both hands up suddenly, his eyes somehow widening even further with a bolt of fear. "Wait," he whispers. "I'm not supposed to be here. I heard people praying and snuck away from my mother." He tilts his head. "Did you sneak away from your mom, too?"
You shake your head in response. "I live here," you explain quietly, matching his hushed tone. "I'll work in the temple one day. I came here to offer my doll so our fields will come back."
The boy's face splits into a grin. "Does that mean I'll get to see you again?"
You aren't given time to answer: a sharp voice echoes into the room from somewhere beyond the open door, growing louder by the second as someone approaches. You turn your head to listen until a quiet shuffling brings your attention back to the boy, who's moved around the altar and taken the doll in one hand. He quickly tugs off the linen wrap covering his head and thrusts it toward you. You struggle to grasp it, shocked by a pair of tiny antler nubs that poke through the curls on the top of the boy’s head... or Fae’s rather. There’s no mistaking the point of his upper ears. "Here," he whispers urgently. "It's my favorite, so be careful with it. Wrap it around some ashes from your burned crops and bury it in the middle of the field." He waves as he steps back with another one of those beaming smiles, your doll clutched tight to his chest. "I promise I'll keep your doll safe. Maybe we can play next time!"
You blink, and as quick as he appeared he's gone. Matron Elspeth, a short and round woman with more than enough years in the temple to justify her limited patience (and the woman in charge of your temple training), appears behind you the second he’s gone. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she snaps as she grabs you by the upper arm and hauls you toward the door. “We’re convening the-
You dig your heels into the floor. “Wait!” you exclaim with all the assertiveness your tiny voice can muster. “I have something!”
The matron stops to glare down at you. You hold up the linen like it’s a prized tapestry. “A boy appeared in here and gave this to me. I brought my doll as an offering and he gave this to me.”
The matron’s brows knit deep between her eyes. “And you took it?”
You nod eagerly, but you aren’t prepared to see such a terrifying old woman blanch like she just witnessed a murder. She stops you both in the hallway, all sense of urgency abandoned, a wrinkled hand held to the wall as she breathes out a long, ragged sigh. “Oh, child,” she murmurs. “I don’t think you realize what you’ve just done.” She gives you a smile that’s softer than anything you’ve ever seen from her, and it’s disarming enough to have you stunned silent. Isn’t she supposed to be rapping you across the knuckles with her willow switch? “He was Fae, wasn’t he?”
You nod slowly, your excitement slowly twisting into pangs of dread. “I didn’t give him my name,” you burst out after a sudden realization - of course she’s worried, she thinks you just signed yourself away to the forest. What was the first thing she’d taught you? You wave your hands in front of you defenselessly, the scarf flapping back and forth. “I only said the doll was my favorite, and that I’d brought it as an offering. He said this headscarf was his favorite and that I should bury it in the field wrapped around some ashes from the crops and -”
“Eeeeeeasy,” Elspeth chides gently. She lowers herself to a knee to put herself on eye level with you, both hands wrapped around your shoulders. “You did the right thing. I wouldn’t have expected someone so small to learn our ways as quickly as you have.” She holds her hand out for the scarf and you hand it over. She turns it over gently, running her fingers over the seams with a pensive hum. “And you say he told you to bury it?”
“In the field, wrapped around ashes from the burned crops."
“And you absolutely did not give him your name?”
You shake your head fervently. “He didn’t even ask for it.”
Elspeth’s frown deepens. “Curious.” She rises slowly to her feet with a wince as both knees audibly crack under her shifting weight. You grab her arm to help her stay upright as she rests a hand on the wall once again with a low groan. “I’m getting too old for this,” she grouses. “You need to hurry up and grow already so I can hand off the robes.” Her wrinkled hand takes one of yours as she leads the way toward the temple’s main hall. “Tell me more about the boy.”
You go through everything you can remember - same height, pale freckled skin, lots of green curls, big eyes… “Oh, and horns,” you add on.
Elspeth stops you both at the end of the last hall. Several groups of people in various temple garb hover in the large foyer beyond, but your matron turns your back to them with both hands on your shoulders. She bends low at the waist to stare you down from only a few inches away. “Horns?” she hisses.
You nod, confused by the sudden change in her demeanor. “Tiny ones,” you reply. “Like when the young bucks grow their first set at the beginning of summer. I didn’t see them or his ears until after he gave me his scarf.”
Elspeth goes quiet for several seconds, her gaze averted to the throng behind you, and just as you open your mouth to question if she’s okay she’s steering you around and through the crowd with a purpose. “We need to speak to the temple Ascendant,” she urges quietly. “This is beyond both of us now, little one.”
---
Part 2
You hadn’t been approached by just any run-of-the-mill forest creature. If you really had experienced the entire moment (which the linen basically proved without a shadow of a doubt despite your own dumbfounded disbelief), you’d come across a young dryad. Or rather, he’d found you, which is an incredible occurrence in itself: dryads are known for being among the most reclusive of Fae, preferring to live in their heavily altered pockets of the forest where only their kind can survive. According to the ancient lore they’re protectors of a vast plane beyond the one humans live in, a vanguard of Fae hidden among life-providing vegetation and deceptively thick forest floor in wait for someone or something to come along and threaten their territory. The tomes in the temple library are filled with tales from “survivors” of attacks by wandering dryads, all telling of razor sharp teeth and sickly green skin and a heathenly worship of the old gods that on its own warrants avoiding them at all costs.
But in the whirlwind following your encounter with the young Fae, something becomes glaringly obvious: no one wants to talk about who had provided the linen that saved them all, despite it successfully bringing back their fields during a single earth-shaking rainstorm and assuring a solid harvest that would more than provide through the winter. All the villagers flock to the temple with offerings by the basket, but no one wants to acknowledge who had actually saved them. That reality sticks with you like a sharp thorn, as does the dryad boy’s hauntingly sweet voice as you grow older within the temple walls, your studies growing more intense by the year. By the time you reach adulthood, you’re actively involved with just about every aspect of temple life. You’ve grown popular among your fellow attendants and the temple-goers alike, even the ones who seem reluctant to be there at all. Your easy-going demeanor and disarming smile is able to diffuse even the staunchest of cynicism. You have, for all intents, and purposes, become the shining example of everything Matron Elspeth raised you to be. Nothing in this world makes you prouder than knowing you're on the way to earning her robes… and maybe, at some time in the future, the temple Ascendant's.
You remain faithful to your doctrine, but in the dead of night every full moon you pray that he’ll come back. You’ve had years to think about it: if you give him a “given” name, he’ll have to use that. It’s not yours, so he won’t own you. Dryads are attracted to beehives, presumably for the same reason pixies are attracted to berry bushes (an almost impulsive sweet tooth) so you’re ready with a clump of the temple’s finest honeycomb every time the moon reaches its largest point.
But despite your increasingly saddened prayers and offers over the years, no sign of him or any other dryads appear. There are rumors of the occasional peculiar looking traveler with big green eyes, but your temple work prevents you from wandering into the village unless it’s on a designated supply pickup day. Elspeth tells you to forget him and focus on your studies every time she catches you quietly moping: “We can’t have our future Ascendant being wooed away by some doe-eyed boy, regardless of if he’s human or not.”
On the evening after your confirmation and the following party, once you’ve returned from the village and gathered up your usual prayer supplies, you make your way to your favorite altar in the temple as the moon finds its highest point in the sky above. The room’s roof has been removed to give a full view of the sky for astral worship, but you prefer it for the way it allows moonlight to fill the center with a skirt of fading dark that swallows the edges of the room. It’s easier to focus here, to lay yourself bare before whatever force that lays beyond the clearing’s edge and let it speak through the beams of light emanating from above.
Elspeth disapproves of your “fixation”, but doesn't argue back when you request privacy for the rest of the evening. Your birthday this present is in the form of your matron keeping all wandering staff away from your prayer room, and that seems perfectly fair to you. You’ve already made plans to repay her empathy with a few of her favorite lemon pastries.
You lay out the contents of the basket hanging from your arm across the marble altar’s polished surface: green and gold candles, several lengths of high quality gold pendant chain, a large bowl of fresh, sticky honeycomb and an ornate goblet full of a rare winterberry mead you were given by the lead hunter’s son (“For the day you get free of that prison and decide to marry”, he’d boasted... his mistake, you’re keeping the mead and he can choke on the cork).
In the center goes a hand-sized velvet pillow upon which you set an emerald big enough to fill your palm. It had taken three years to save up enough for it, but in your eyes it’s the best thing you’ve ever bought. The moonlight dancing off the lines of the gem’s depths flicker and dance exactly like the Fae’s eyes had so many years ago. You pause to take in the sight, transfixed by the shifting planes that white themselves out before immediately shifting to deep green and then to inky black when you tilt your head.
A slight breeze rattling through the room snaps you from your reverie. You glance upward where the moon hangs directly overhead, a wide white circle set deep into an array of scattered stars and inky skyspace beyond. A vivid memory of pale skin dotted with freckles flashes across your mind’s eye and you have to force yourself to redirect to the present, shaking your head hard as the breeze fades away. “Focus,” you murmur to yourself. You don’t have long before the moon will move away from the center of the open roof.
Once the candles are lit, several cones of musky incense set into miniature cauldrons come next, wisps of pungent smoke permeating every dark corner of the room within seconds. You kneel before the altar once everything is in place with your plain white robes folding neatly under you. As you take your first deep breath, the incense fills your nose and drowns out anything beyond it; a hazy blanket hovers thick and heavy in your sinuses, even after you exhale.
This is an easy process for you. You've long mastered how to find your own meditative headspace through years of disciplined practice. You let the chirping of bugs beyond the temple echo around your ears, your breathing slow and light. You tilt your closed eyes up toward where you can vaguely tell the glow of the moon is strongest. "I have no crisis," you say in your head. "I seek no power, no glory, no riches. I only wish to see my friend again." A deep sense of peace radiates down to your bones as you let out a slow breath. The entire room comes to a standstill, even the wind seemingly reverent of your descent toward the lowest floor of your headspace. If you go any further, you feel like you could slip right through the floor.
"We're friends, eh?"
Your eyes fly open as a shriek tears through you, every semblance of calm shattered. You kick yourself backward and the cushion you'd been kneeling on flying forward to bounce off the ornate carving set into the front of the pedestal. You skitter in the opposite direction, prepared to take off running down the hall and find the first guard you come across, when you stop dead with your hands planted to the cold marble floor.
It's him.
The dryad boy is standing in the same spot he'd appeared in last time, smiling at you with that same beaming grin. Or… it looks like him, at least. He's taller now, but he still looks to be around your height, maybe just an inch or so taller. It's obvious he's been up to something strenuous: his tunic sleeves cut off around defined upper arms, where you can spot an array of thin scars set into his pale, freckled skin. He's dressed in emerald traveler garb, a linen wrap identical to the one he'd given wrapped loosely around his neck, and as you look further up you choke on a gasp.
You hadn't been hallucinating all those years ago. The tiny antler nubs he'd been sporting before have grown fivefold and now branch over his head in tall, proud spikes that circle his hair like a jagged halo. He seems to catch what your eyes lock onto and he dips his head, a scarred hand reaching to clutch at the fabric draped around his neck like he wants to throw it up over his head. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, and you're immediately floored by how achingly familiar the lilt of his voice is. You've heard it in your dreams enough to know it's him. "I didn't mean to scare you that bad."
You push yourself up to your feet with an indignant huff. "Scare me that bad?" you grumble back as you dust yourself off and right your robes.
He laughs again, light as air. Your anger slips away at the sound despite your best attempt to hold onto it. You're not some shrinking violet, dammit. "I had to take the opportunity when it presented itself," he replies through a fond smile. "Couldn't help myself."
You huff your disapproval, which gets you another chuckle. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he says as he takes a step forward with his hands raised in a show of surrender. "No more scares, I promise." He fixes you with another beaming smile. "Happy birthday. I'm here now."
Your heart flips sideways into your ribs. He'd really heard you. But if he could hear you tonight…
"Why didn't you come any other time I prayed?" you ask before you can consider the implications of your query. You slap a hand over your mouth. "I'm sorry," you say quickly from behind your palm. "I don't mean to say I expected you to listen or appear, I just…"
The dryad fixes you with a concerned frown. "You just what?" he asks back without a trace of anger, which catches you off guard. "I'm not gonna cut your tongue out or anything. You didn't offend me."
You let out your held breath in one hard burst. Thank every god in existence. You pause, waiting to make sure he really isn't angry and just playing head games, then proceed with only a tiny tremble: "I just hoped you would."
Something akin to pain dances across his face and you immediately regret your admission for reasons you can't quite figure out. "I'm sorry," you exclaim again, but he holds up a finger before you can try to babble through a reason why.
"It's not easy for my kind to survive here," he says with a solemnity that draws the entire room to a standstill. "The air is too dry for ones who haven't acclimated to it. I'll admit, the first time I tried I got incredibly sick upon returning home." His gaze flicks to the span of marble between your feet. "But I've been practicing. I should be able to stay a few hours now." He finds your eye again and the sincerity behind them smashes into you like a cannonball. How could anyone ever say his kind are hideous? Is it the antlers?
"If you'll have me, that is."
Oh gods above, below, and in gran's cookbooks. "Of course," you breathe back without hesitation.
His smile returns, wide and genuine, bright enough to narrow the room to just him alone. "I was hoping you would say that." He bows politely, his traveler's cloak brushing the floor as it sweeps back. "I'm sorry, I didn't have a chance to introduce myself before. May I have your name?"
A caustic jolt rushes up the length of your spine. Every hair on your body raises at the root as you cut a glare in his direction. Oh no no no, you didn't go through an entire childhood of Matron Elspeth's lectures to fall for his ruses that easily, no matter how hard he makes your stomach flutter. "No you may not," you say back with practiced ease. He sits up abruptly to give you another wounded look, but you're too on guard for it to work. "I'm sorry." You really aren't.
He huffs a laugh. "Fair play. I should have known better. May I have a name to address you by?"
You've trained for this your entire life. In no way is he going to get you. "No you may not," you say again. "But I was born under a sparrow's first nest." A meaningless fact that would at least lead him toward something you'll answer to without naming you directly. Elspeth is going to be so proud.
He hums, seemingly picking up your subtle lead. "Sparrow, then," he confirms. "It suits you."
You clear your throat as the collar of your robe shifts against your reddening neck. You can't hold eye contact and keep your flush contained so you opt for the former while your hands clasp respectfully behind your back. You're an anointed temple servant. You won't be reduced to a pile of girlish mush in your own temple. "Thank you," you reply with a polite bow. "And is there a known name I may refer to you by?"
"Deku," he chirps back. "You could have just asked. I'm not as picky with my known name as you humans seem to be."
You straighten up with a placid smile. "Can you blame me?"
Deku shrugs. "I mean, a little," he replies with an honesty that almost knocks you backward again. "I've seen the records humans keep on us. The way your "beastmasters" talk makes us sound like feral crypt monsters."
You catch the bitterness in his tone and squirm on the spot. You hadn't meant any insult. "We've had a lot of people killed by dryads over the years," you reply as gently as you can. "And even more that have disappeared around the same time one was seen. The people here are just fearful."
"Fear doesn't excuse ignorance." His jaw flexes and your frame draws tight with tension. He takes a slow breath as he pauses, and his anger visibly recedes. "But you haven't taken off running yet, so I guess it's safe to assume you're not as ignorant as the others."
Your voice drops to a murmur when you respond. "I remember what you did for us. We would have starved the winter after that fire if you hadn't brought our crops back."
"Thank my dad for that. It was his idea. He couldn't make the trip himself, so he sent my mom and I with instructions."
The pieces click into place with a weight that knocks the wind from your lungs. Deku watches you ponder as he steps around the altar and perches on its edge. "You didn't just save us. You risked your life to do it. But… why?"
"Because you asked me to-" He plucks the goblet and gives it an appreciative sniff. "-And you brought a worthy offering to go with it." He sips the mulled wine with a deep groan of approval. At least the idiot who'd been hitting on you throughout the entire celebration has good taste in booze. "Winterberries?" You nod, and he takes a longer sip before offering you the goblet. You take it with pride as he traces his thumb over his lower lip to catch a stray drop (don't stare don't stare don't stare don't stare). "Gods, this is fantastic. I hope your meadery has put in offerings, because they deserve whatever they were asking for."
You go to take a sip as he continues his praise, but another bolt of anxiety keeps you from raising the cup all the way to your lips. This isn't a directly outlawed interaction (you can't recall a rule that says you're not allowed to share an offering, as far as you can remember); however, something still feels… ominous about accepting such an offer. Or maybe you're just being paranoid. The lore books also said dryads instinctively kill humans on sight.
His features darken at your hesitation. "I can guarantee that I've already got a tolerance if you just tried to slip me something," he spits out with a mix of anger and raw hurt. The venom in his tone paralyzes you with fear and for a long moment all you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. You swallow around your dry tongue as you struggle to formulate a disarming response.
"It's not like that," you finally say back with the goblet held in both shaky hands. You raise it for a prolonged sip and make a display of showing that you actually took a drink, which seems to assuage his anxiety as much as it does yours, the mead warming your throat and chest as it settles in a warm ball somewhere deep in your core. The Hammerbar meadery doesn't mess around with the efficiency of their products, apparently. "See? If there's something in it now you'll know."
Deku shakes his head. "Then let's hope it's just mead. I'm sorry. I don't think you'd do that." He turns away to pick at the honeycomb and pops a corner into his mouth, which is received with another appreciative noise from deep in his chest.
The conversation is light and easy from the very beginning. He's young for his kind with double your lifespan ahead of him, maybe longer if he "ascends" (a term that has you both laughing in solidarity as you commiserate on your respective mentors). After a good hour of chatting a silence finally lapses between you, the buzz of cicadas filling the space as Deku picks up the last chunk of honeycomb. You sit at the altar's base, just within touching range of the leg he has dangling over the edge of the pedestal, his eerie green eyes trained on you with the sharpness of a royal blade.
He's ethereal in close range. The air around him carries a drift of something wild and feral, like an inaudible drumbeat that thumps in time with your heart.
"Do I make you nervous?"
That feels like a loaded question if you've ever heard one. He seems to pick up on your hesitation once again and tilts his head, his lips parted slightly around a faint smile that makes your heart skip a beat. "No," you reply, but it's a hollow projection. Deku raises a brow, a clear sign he caught your lie.
"Uh… maybe a little. You said it yourself, human understanding of your kind is apparently woefully inaccurate." Which bothers you a lot. You're one of the people responsible for interpreting every tome in the archive. How much else do humans have wrong?
Deku nods. "I know it's not very helpful, but we don't hate humans. The elders pity your lack of connection to wild magic, but that's a sentiment that's fading with the younger generations."
"And what do you think of us?"
The Fae pauses, his head tilted askew as he ponders your question. You have the urge to take it back before he replies suddenly, his teeth flashing in a grin that makes your stomach flip and promptly fall into your feet:
"I don't care about other humans. I care about you."
You swallow hard. You're completely unprepared for the weight of his tone. It's all you can do to remember to breathe normally as panic and excitement go to all-out war. You're vaguely aware that you've been warned about this: Fae rely on glamour magic to conceal their true selves while among humans. The closer you are to one and the longer you spend there, the more likely you are to fall for it. This isn't him, you say to yourself in a firm tone. You're seeing a spell. And yet you remain rooted to the spot amid the molasses-thick silence, his emerald eyes transfixed on you like he's trying to bore himself right down to your soul. Logic is no longer enough to make yourself move, to speak, to do anything but watch him with deep fascination. Part of you doesn't want to move at all, and you're vaguely aware that your lack of fear should probably be some kind of warning sign.
He suddenly pushes himself off the altar and lands on his feet, cat-like and eerily graceful, his hand extended to help you up as well. You take it and are immediately shocked by how rough his palm is under your fingers. He doesn't look old enough to have gone through years of hard labor, but his hands tell a completely different story. You frown at your palms where they're flattened together, his weathered fingers draped gently around the side of your hand. He radiates heat like a stone dock in summer. Even with a foot or two between you, you have to wrestle down the urge to step closer and draw yourself into the warmth that surrounds him.
He leans far enough to get your attention and flashes you another dazzling smile (you're not insane, he can't feel even warmer now how is that even possible). "I have a present for you," he chirps. A hand disappears into his satchel and reappears a moment later with a long piece of rich emerald silk. You can't help but beam until your cheeks ache: the delicate gold embroidery along its edges is identical to what is on the linen scarf you've held onto for all these years. The delicate silk threads are woven into a river of shiny deep green that pools around your fingers in feather-light ripples. It's clearly worth more than anything you've ever owned and everything you currently own combined, adding an extra level of surreal that has your head slightly spinning.
"I embroidered it myself," he says, pride radiating through his words. He holds it up with an encouraging nod toward you. "May I?"
It takes your brain a few seconds to catch up with what's happening, but when it does you nod slowly. He closes the gap between you in one slow step and oh, you aren't ready for the scent of earth and pine that radiates from him and the crackle of something intangible that hits you like a mallet once you're nearly standing chest to chest.
The scarf is draped over your shoulders in a single flourish. He secures it in an ornate knot at your throat, his knuckles dragging little brushes of electricity across your skin as you do your best to stay still. Gods, whatever glamour he's using is powerful because he's absolutely breathtaking this close. The freckles you remember from so many years ago are still there, softened by the slight tan of his cheeks but still a pronounced constellation under his soft eyes as he smiles down at you with a mind-nymbing warmth.
"Green is your color," he murmurs close enough for you to feel his breath ghosting across your throat. Your heart flies upward and, on a whim you can't wrestle down, you reach for his hand once again to deftly slide your fingers between his. Deku jumps, clearly startled, but he makes no move to pull away or retreat. In fact, he gives your hand a squeeze in return that makes every hair on your body stand on its end. He draws even closer, pressing out every bit of air between you. Your interwoven hands are guided to between your chests, the breeze and ambient noise from outside coming to a dead standstill.
"I never forgot you," he rumbles, eyes half-lidded from the close proximity. "Not for a second."
"I dreamed about you," you whisper back, and the last few inches between you are gone in an instant. You draw in synchronized inhales as a surprisingly strong set of arms wraps around your back. Your own thread around his waist to clutch at the Fae and keep him pressed close with a sudden flash of desperation. He seems to be of the same mind: he kisses you with a ferocity you've never known, demanding and insistent enough that your lungs' cries for oxygen go willfully ignored. When you finally rip apart it's with another unified inhale and a wonble as the world spins on its ear. You can feel yourself grinning despite the shock still numbing out your brain.
A Fae kissed you… and you kissed him back without hesitation. There's something unsaid in the room now and it hangs heavy in his stare, which has once again fixated upon you with trickles of gold dancing along the edges of deep green. You quietly gasp. You've never seen feral magic this close. Shouldn't you be afraid by now?
"Come with me," he breathes out of nowhere. Your knees just about give out from shock. What?
"I'm serious." He holds both your hands under his chin. "I can give you things you don't even know exist. Anything you want, I'll make it happen."
You gape back. It's the sort of dramatic offer you read about in children's books, but never in a thousand years did you think you'd really be offered something like this. "Deku…"
"I know it's a lot," he blurts out. "You've spent your whole life here and I would never want to separate you from the world you know, but if I can find you in the same spot twice I'm sure we can find a way to go back and forth -"
Something in you decided the second he asked. There's no question what your heart wants. You press in again while he's rambling to cut him off with another firm kiss. Deku grunts into it as he's forcibly quieted before a hand gently cradles the back of your head.
You pull away with less ferocity this time and hover in his space, hazy with giddiness. "I didn't say no," you whisper, unable to bring yourself to speak any louder. "But there are things that need to be done in the meantime. I have duties here, Deku."
"We can figure out how to do both," he replies with rapidly growing excitement. The thin gold veins around his irises have begun to overtake the emerald. Your heart thunders as his excitement edges on feral. "Please just consider it. If you want, I can come back this same time next year and we can figure it out from there."
A year seems long enough to your addled brain. "Sure," you wheeze. "One year from tonight."
"One year." Deku nods furtively, but as he lets go of you it's obvious you're not the only one who hates having to do it. He looks to the floor, then to the darkest corner of the room where he'd appeared, then back to you with a smile too heavy for the ones you're used to. "I'll be watching over you. The embroidery of that scarf is kind of powerful, so I'd be careful wearing it around anyone or anything that might pull it."
You look to the fabric tied around your neck and your frown deepens. "What's that supposed to -"
Too late. By the time you look up again he's gone, and the altar in front of you is empty.
---
Part 3
You hold his promise close to your heart and don't breathe a single word of it to anyone, even your mentor. Elspeth would have an absolute fit if she figured out you're planning on not only leaving the temple, but running off with a dryad of all things. And besides that, she doesn't deserve the disrespect of knowing all her years of effort might go to waste. You can't bring yourself to face that very real chance just yet.
You stick to your studies and daily duties as your matron's hearth declines through the year, and nearly a year to the day since Deku's last visit the inevitable comes. Matron Elspeth passes in her sleep with you at her side, holding her hand while humming her favorite hymns until you see her chest rise and fall for the last time. She lived to a blessedly old age, but that doesn't help the fierce tear of grief that rips you open when she's finally gone. Elspeth was essentially your mother along with being your mentor.
And beyond that, if it hadn't been for her, you would have never met Deku.
You head up the organization of her final ceremonies, as is your place. Her pyre is constructed along the edge of the clearing's small lake, a neatly organized stack of wood and highly flammable fabric from the temple with a gap in the middle for her remains. You make sure to include clippings from her favorite lavender box as a final personal farewell.
The pyre is set ablaze with your own torch. This is how it has to be. It's how she sent her mentor off, and it will be how your mentor sends you off as well. You can only hope you've given her the honor she deserves, every decision you've made considered.
You make your way back to the temple alone at sunset while the other attendants remain behind. You need time to think. You've spent every quiet moment that day crying alone. If you don't get a second of true isolation you're going to break in front of half the temple. Elspeth wouldn't like that. You're stronger than your grief, at least for the moment, so you make a beeline for your preferred prayer room and let your feet move in that direction on autopilot, emerald scarf drawn up around your cheeks. You hold it close and will yourself to remain calm until there's a door between you and the rest of the world.
You're running by the time you throw yourself into the altar room and shove the door closed behind you. It lands in its frame with a thunderous BANG that muffles the broken sob that cracks from between the hands you have clutched over your face, along with the shuffling of a second person in the room that had gone unnoticed while you were trying to escape everyone else. A boot heel slides along the marble floor and you whirl around, eyes wide as you peer through the strands of summer dusk that pour through the room's open roof. Your heart flies into your throat with a burst of excitement. "Deku?" you call out, shaking with the urge to throw yourself toward the person as he emerges from the darkest shadowed corner.
But it's not Deku. Elation flips to horror as the lead hunter's son appears with a lecherous grin. He's still a good ten feet away, but you can smell strong booze radiating odd him in nauseating waves. "Why are you here?" you demand. "Only temple attendants are allowed in the prayer spaces alone. You need to leave."
"Do I?" he asks back derisively. Ice floods your veins with his first step. You instinctively shuffle back toward the door. "Because I'm pretty sure I can do what I want. Your temple wouldn't have food without me."
"Without your father," you clarify in a sharp tone. All manners have already been abandoned: this is not the day, and you are not the attendant to bother. You don't want to deal with calling guards or causing a cacophony. You just want to be left alone with your grief.
Your comment makes him clench his jaw. "Without." He takes another heavy step forward, and as he draws closer it becomes apparent how much of a size advantage he has. "Me." He takes another heavy step as your bones ice over. You want to take off, but you're terrified that any sudden movement will just propel him toward you faster, and you're not strong enough to shove the heavy stone door open without a few seconds of effort.
"You're drunk," you point out in hopes of derailing his train of thought. You can feel your pulse thumping hard and fast in your throat. "Go home and sleep it off. I won't tell anyone you were here."
"You think I give a shit f'anyone knows I was here?" he slurs back with increasing volume. "You fuckin' demon worshippers are all th'same, so far up your own ass you wouldn't know a good offer if it kissed you right on th'mouth."
A realization hits you like a brick. "Is this about what happened at my birthday last year?" you ask, using his off-kilter focus to your advantage as you slowly begin to step backward toward the door. "You pushed yourself onto me and wouldn't let me go until I kissed your cheek, then you threatened to drop me off the roof if I didn't accept your marriage proposal on the spot. Do you…" You cut yourself off. Of course he doesn't remember. He'd been just as off his head back then as he is now.
"I was only joking!" he retorts. "Why would I drop m'future wife off a roof? Thasstupid. Y're nuts for thinking I'd actually go through with it."
You successfully baby-step your way to within reach of the carved inlet that serves as the door handle. Just keep him rambling. You can hit him with the door before you take off. "And you're nuts for thinking anyone would immediately accept a marriage offer from someone who reeks like the bottom of an ale barrel."
You know the second you shoot off your mouth that it wasn't a good move. He tenses on the spot, both hands drawn into club-like fists at either side, his stony features pinched with disgust.
"You sayin' you're too good for me, bitch?"
He rushes forward, too fast for you to get the door more than a crack open before he throws a massive shoulder against it to slam it shut once more. You scream as he grabs the front of your robes, praying it echoes down the hall with your heels dug against the floor in a fruitless effort to prevent him from bodily dragging you toward the empty altar. He's far too strong to break away from. Your nails digging into his wrists seems to not even register, even when blood wells under them. "Let go," you plead, wide eyed fixed on the pedestal as he drags you toward it clawing and kicking the whole way.
Nothing seems to faze him. He forces your upper half over the marble pedestal with enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs. You wheeze under the weight of a forearm that presses hard into your upper back, reinforced by extra weight that's too heavy to roll out from under. You struggle the entire time, unwilling to stop, with everything in you that isn't trying to escape screaming toward the Aether for someone, something, anything to see what's going on and intervene. You've spent your whole life serving this temple… why would the Fae abandon you now?
As you flail, a small brown sparrow lands on the edge of the open roof and peers down directly at you two. It chirps once, clear as a bell, and the sound hits something deep and instinctive in your chest.
You aren't given enough time to ponder. He grabs your scarf from behind without warning and the knot instantly digs into your windpipe as he yanks the garment back in an attempt to rip it off of you. You sputter and flail your hands to signal for him to let go, to warn him of the danger that lingers in your head with Deku's last warning, but it's not enough.
You hear a piece of embroidery thread snap somewhere in his closed fist. A gust of humid air blasts across you and the weight above you disappears immediately, followed by a nauseating crunch of bones breaking amid the shatter of cracked marble. You wail in fear, clutching to the warmth that had drifted through you with both arms over your head as you sob into the marble. You can't bring yourself to move yet.
Where are you? You said you'd be watching out for me…
You finally force yourself upright once you begin to lose circulation in your arms. You wipe your face, sniffling quietly as you turn. You nearly collapse as a petrified shriek rips itself out of your chest: the hunter had been thrown back against the marble wall next to the door with enough force to crater it inward. His unmoving frame is slumped over in the center amid a splash of red that drips heavily off the jagged edges around him.
It isn't the wall that grabs your attention, though: his tunic has been ripped with several round puncture wounds arranged in a rough circle, the apparent source of the blood pooling at his sides. You tremble from head to toe despite the summer breeze coursing through the room. The longer you stare at the hunter's chest wounds and the way they're arranged, the more they begin to look like…
"Antler wounds."
You smack a hand over your mouth like you'd just hexed someone. He really had been watching out… somehow. What kind of magic had gone into your scarf's embroidered edge? You run your fingers over it, seeking out the thread that snapped. The wind dies out in time for you to hear another set of feet shuffling in the room. It's almost too much; you nearly faint with the panic that latches around your throat. You sway back toward the altar to use for leverage as your knees once again threaten to buckle and are bolstered by a rough set of hands that press against your shoulder blades to keep you upright.
You're too strung out to do anything but gape as Deku - the real one, the same one from the year before with his antlers and freckles and big, terrifying green eyes oh gods he's finally here - steps around and immediately yanks you against his chest. You cling back with both arms circled tight around his ribs and let out another ragged sob into the soft fabric of his cloak.
"Are you okay?" he rumbles. You can only nod back and clutch him like he's keeping you anchored to the ground. You feel his head turn above yours, toward the cracked wall and what remains of the hunter, and a low growl vibrates through him. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I tried to get here as fast as I could." You feel his arms tighten around your upper half, boxing you in and insulating you from the sight behind him.
"You saved me," you manage to choke back. "You don't have to apologize for anything." You step back far enough to wipe at your eyes and clear your sinuses, trembling like a leaf in the circle of his arms. "What was that? What attacked him?"
Deku's mouth draws into a tense line. "I can't tell you," he replies. "But I know someone who can." You blink, confused by his ambivalence. "Have you considered what we talked about last year?"
…What? "Of course I have," you retort. Your head hurts. Where's that spiced wine when you need it? "But I hardly think this is a time to talk about-"
"No no no, think about it," Deku cuts in hurriedly. "I don't mean this in a threatening way at all, but the people of your village are going to get suspicious when someone turns up dead with a set of puncture wounds to the chest."
Your entire body numbs out with panic. He's right. Your gaze snaps to the top of his head, where a set of now fully grown antlers jut out of his wild verdant curls. You begin to count how many points they have, but shove the impulse away with disgust. You don't want to know. Even if you did, it's probably for the best to remain ignorant for now.
Voices echo through the open roof from somewhere beyond, possibly the temple courtyard. "I have to go," he says with a hint of genuine hurt. "They can't find me."
This is too much. The decision to leave was always supposed to be planned out. You've had an entire year to get everything ready, only to have your plans shattered into jagged chunks of broken marble by a drunk hunter and some creature powerful enough to kill him with velocity alone. You clutch yourself to his chest again as panic grips your throat with white-hot claws. "We'll find a way to come back, right?" you whisper with a silent prayer of hope to the entire cosmos.
He nods. "I swear it on my name." He pushes you gingerly by the shoulders so he can look you in the face again, his own tense with mounting anxiety. "We have to go now, my sparrow. Please… I'm begging you, come with me. I don't want to go back without you again." His hands tighten over your shoulders as tears well up along the edges of his wide green eyes. "Please."
It feels like your heart has been ripped out of your chest and flung out through the open roof. You open your mouth to blurt out some pained apology for making him assume you'd say no, the voices outside growing louder and clearer in the pause, but can only choke around a whimper as everything you want to say jams in your throat. Instead you simply nod, a single weak incline of your head.
That's all it takes for him to scoop you around the waist again and drag you both sideways toward the corner where he appeared. "You might be kind of shocked when we get through," he warns as he hurls you both toward the marble seam you're convinced is going to split your head open on contact. "Hold your breath!"
The command is sharp enough to make your lungs draw in a deep inhale without conscious thought. Your eyes snap shut as your forehead approaches the shadowed corner; it meets only an icy wall of air as the lights beyond your closed eyelids pitches black. You can feel Deku holding you around the waist, an anchor that keeps you tethered to your own sanity as he rushes you through the dark at breakneck pace. The icy rush whipping against your face seems to deplete the lungful of air you're still stubbornly holding onto and within seconds they're screaming for relief. Deku smacks a hand over your mouth just when you think you're going to break and try to take a breath, and a second later you're both tumbling across the stone floor of an unfamiliar but warm kitchen.
---
Part 4
The second your head stops spinning long enough to see again, you realize there's a woman standing between you and Deku. You weakly recognize the faded emerald of the hair she has trimmed neatly at her shoulders. You glance her over and realize with a jump that the skin you can see around her modest summer dress is a pale shamrock green.
"By the gods, who's chasing you now?"
You blink from where you've landed in a sprawl sprawl against an ornately carved kitchen cabinet, too dizzy from the rush of air that fills your lungs when you take a greedy inhale to answer immediately (even though the question was clearly directed at Deku, who landed upside down with his long legs arched over his head against a stone hearth in a corner of the kitchen). You take another breath, but the bottoms of your lungs feel heavy like they've been filled with a thick gas. Deku slumps over to right himself and immediately looks to you. You're beginning to breathe faster as exhaustion gives way to panic.
The woman turns, fixing you with a look of shock that probably rivals your own. She's a spitting image of Deku, down to the ear points that poke out of her silver-streaked hair and the way her eyes go impossibly wide with genuine emotion. "You're human!" she exclaims.
You nod back, too panicked to form proper words. "Oh… oh, you're human!"
She jumps into motion like she'd just been zapped by a bolt of lightning. She procures a large wooden bowl from a cabinet and fills it with a few handfuls of herbs snatched from dried bundles hanging over the hearth, then steaming water from a kettle that she carefully pulls out from its resting place in the coals. She mutters something in a lilt you can't follow as the bowl is set on the floor in front of you, the woman following suit to kneel on the other side. "Lean down and breathe through the steam," she instructs gently, tilting down to encourage the motion. "The air here is different from the other side. You need to coat your lungs before they start rejecting the pollen floating around."
You tilt forward with a choked noise of panic and take as deep of a breath as you can with the steaming water wafting up across your face. Relief finds you immediately: you can draw a breath all the way to the bottom of your lungs, which takes the edge off your panic enough to finally slow down your respiration rate.
"There you go," the woman encourages gently. She rests a small, comforting hand between your shoulders that's shockingly cold for how warm the kitchen is. "You should be fine now." She turns to give her son an exasperated look. "You brought a human back without giving her anything to prepare?"
"I didn't have a choice!" Deku pleads back. "It was that or risk an entire war on their side-"
The woman holds up a hand to stop him and Deku immediately obeys. "Hold on," she says slowly, turning back to look at you with both brows raised. Her gaze drops to your neck and freezes. "You're the temple girl, the one he's been going to see."
The room goes silent, spare the crackling of the fireplace and your own rapid heartbeat. The older dryad watches, still as stone as she takes you in with one long look before staring at the fabric around your neck once more. All you can do is nod back. something akin to pain flashes across her face and she sits up with a fond smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, but I think it might be best if you let my son explain a majority of them over some tea. You look exhausted."
My son. "So you're Deku's mother?"
The dryad wrinkles her nose. "Yes," she replies stiffly. "Though I very much dislike his chosen name. It's undignified." She turns to Deku again. "You haven't given her your name yet?"
Deku waves his hands in front of him and goldfishes for a response before you cut in. "It's not his fault," you quickly counter. "I didn't want to offer mine. I was raised in a temple that had some pretty strict rules against that in particular."
"Understandable. Though I can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect of my own son having courted someone for nearly an entire year-" (Courted, what!?) "-Without even having offered his name."
"I did offer it!"
His mother chuckles. "I have to fetch someone who will be of much more significant counsel than I, but that will give you two some time to settle in."
You nod in acknowledgment, but her words don't really process in your brain. Now that you're breathing normally again, exhaustion has begun to creep into your bones. You'd been going on fumes before the hunter decided to ambush you, and now that you've quietly literally been flung through a Fae circle it's hard to do anything but lean against the cabinet. The dryad brushes her hand over your shoulder as she passes on her way out. "My name is Inko" echoes through your own head with the contact, jarring you into a sharp yelp, which only makes her chuckle in the same light-as-air way as Deku.
"Well… this is a hell of a way to meet someone's parents."
Said dryad has found his feet and is watching you with a sheepish smile, a hand absently scratching at the base of an antler. "At least it's over now?"
Your head thumps back against the cabinet. This is too much. You need to sleep. If you don't find somewhere to lay down soon, your body is going to give out. "Could we just…" You glance around the kitchen and into the room beyond, where another hearth flickers around a circle of ornately carved wooden den furniture. Perfect.
He follows your line of sight and seems to catch on without you having to finish your request. He moves toward you, arms extended to help you to your feet. When you wobble upon standing he immediately seams your sides up to take a gentle lead toward the sitting room. The furniture all looks hand-carved, the seats made up of soft animal hides that look older than both of you. He lays you down on the longest bench with a small blanket under your head for a pillow, the deerhide that's draped over the back of the sofa gently pulled across you for a proper blanket.
"We can talk later." He leans down to press a kiss to your temple. You groan as he turns to move away, an arm shooting out from under the hide to grab his tunic and hold him in place.
"Wait," you plead quietly, fatigue tugging heavily at your eyelids. "Please stay with me, at least until I fall asleep." You have no idea where you are or how long you'll be out. All you know is Deku being gone means you're here alone and you absolutely cannot bear that thought.
A soft smile breaks across his face. "Of course," he murmurs back. "Anything you need, just like I promised." You scoot to make room and he steps over to fit himself between you and the back of the sofa without prompting. This is what you really needed: a space heater behind you, a fire in front, and a strong arm draping itself over your midsection to hold the knotted ends of your scarf as you both drift off. If nothing else, Deku has more than proven he'll kill anything that comes near you… or at least has access to something that can.
He's still there when you come to. The lighting in the room hasn't changed when you open your eyes to peer around, and it isn't until now that you notice neither the kitchen nor den have any windows. The fire has burned down to a low pile of flickering embers, which means you were at least out long enough to burn through what had been there earlier. With no view of the sun, however, it's impossible to tell how long you were out.
Your stirring rouses Deku, who grunts in his sleep and pulls you back into his chest. The arm cradled under yours has turned an eerie cold. When it registers you sit up to face him, concerned until it snaps into another bolt of shock.
You yelp and fall off the edge of the sofa. Deku's skin has turned a shade of green identical to his mother's, his freckles standing out in sharp contrast. He bolts upright as well, looking around for the source of the panic before he spots you on the floor, half covered by the deer hide you'd accidentally tugged with you. "What's wrong?" he asks urgently, glancing around again.
"You're…"
He gives you a puzzled look, then glances down to where you're staring at his forearms. "Oh!" His hands rub absently at the opposite forearm as his cheeks flush ever so slightly. "Uh… yeah. I told you you might be a little shocked."
Shit. You did it again. You push yourself up to scoot onto the end of the sofa near his feet, and he respectfully folds his legs up to his chest to give you room without having to make contact. It's a gesture you appreciate, but not one you (or him) necessarily need. You sidle up to his shins, where you lean your side with your hands acting as a chin rest on his knees.
"Surprised is more the word," you clarify before poking your tongue out at him playfully. "A little advance notice would have been nice."
"Hey now," Deku chuckles. "I tried. We had a solid plan going there for a minute." He reaches a hand forward and, with a twitch of hesitation, shifts a lock of hair off your forehead and behind an ear. His fingertips are ice cold, a sharp juxtaposition to the warmth in his tone and the care with which he brushes across your skin. "I'm glad you're here, regardless of how it came to be. I've thought of you every single day since my last visit."
How had anyone mistaken dryads for monsters? If the others are a fraction as kind as Deku and his mother, then they've been handed a grave injustice when it comes to human comprehension of their kind. You lean your head toward his hand and he opens his fingers. Your cheek brushes against his weathered palm, eliciting a shiver that courses down your back as the temperature of his skin clashes against the warmth of the den. For a long moment you simply exist, anchored by the green stare fixed upon your own and the callused thumb that smooths over your cheek. Whatever it takes for you to keep this kind of tenderness around will be well worth the effort. You've already decided (long ago, you silently realize) that he is the only one you ever want to be this close to you.
"Do I make you nervous?"
You're taken back to the altar room for a moment as you recall the image of Deku sitting on the pedestal, bathed in pale light with the cicadas humming behind his ethereal laugh. "No," you reply truthfully, hushed and reverent in the slowly disappearing space between you as you both lean forward. Both your eyelids lower as you both lean closer. It's a chaste contact when Deku leans in to kiss you, as soft as his tone and the way he brushes the rest of your hair from the side of your face. Within a few seconds, the soft contact is enough to have you melting against his hand.
A deep male voice breaks the reverie from somewhere behind Deku: "Ah, excuse us…"
This time you both jump hard enough to nearly land on your asses. Deku pushes himself back until he thumps against the arm rest of the sofa as Inko enters the room, followed by what can only be described as a mountain of a man with wild goldenrod hair and deep-set sclera black eyes, their vivid contrasting pupils locked directly on you as he and the dryad approach.
"I hate to be a bother and intrude on such a formative moment, but Inko was insistent upon checking to make sure you're both still alive." He bows his head in deep apology. You're startled by how easily he seems to hold himself level with the massive antlers jutting out of his hair; they're taller than his head and several inches wider on either side. As you force yourself to not take count of the antler points, you vaguely wonder to yourself how he fits through doorways or in anything less than giant-sized.
Deku rises to his feet, and you quickly follow suit. "Ahh, this is my father," he says quickly. "I get the feeling you two are going to be fast friends."
"If you're willing to risk traversal sickness for her, she's got to be worth her weight in gold," the man booms back. He approaches with a hand the size of a serving platter toward you, the deep lines of his face bent around a beaming grin you recognize on the spot. "My name is Yagi Toshinori. Don't worry, it's safe to introduce yourself to me. I'm not Fae."
You twitch your head to the side but take his hand to shake it anyway, suddenly flummoxed. "But the antlers…"
"A by-product of the life I've found for myself." He lifts an arm as Inko steps up to his side and lays it over her back. It's kind of amusing to see such a small woman under the arm of a moving mountain, but the care with which he moves about her is heart-warmingly familiar. "All by choice, zero regrets."
The two of them take a seat on a smaller bench in the den, and you and Deku take your seats once they're both settled. "The drop in is rough, eh? That ice tunnel is awful."
You frown back. "How did you find this place?"
"I didn't find this place." He puts his arm behind Inko's neck, who leans into him with an appreciative hum. "I found my wife first. She's the one who brought me here."
You can't help but laugh, and mercifully the other three join in. "That sounds familiar," you reply through a chuckle.
"It happens less than it used to, but it's not unheard of," Inko adds. "I had a feeling my son would be following in my footsteps."
There's just enough flatness to her words that you squirm on the spot. "I hope that's not a bad thing," Deku says as he draws himself closer to your side. "Unless my logic is severely flawed, there wouldn't be a son to follow in your footsteps if you hadn't done it first."
Yagi lets out an undignified snort. Inko tries to frown, but it breaks around a smile as she nods in defeat. "All the same, I wish this hadn't been so sudden," she adds. "Not that I'm upset you're here now-" She holds a hand up quickly toward you. "-It was just rather abrupt. I wish we could have had time to prepare a proper welcome."
You glance down to your lap. "Deku saved me from something terrible," you respond quietly. "We didn't really have a choice in the matter." You look up again to offer the older dryad an encouraging smile. "Though rest assured he's been nothing but respectful the entire time I've known him." You bow your head politely. "Your hospitality is much appreciated. Thank you for giving me shelter."
Something behind Inko's eyes softens enough to make your heart twist. She watches you for a long moment, studying you as you do your best to not squirm. "The door has been opened for this place to potentially become your home," she replies to break the silence. "No need to speak of it as a foreign place. You already belong."
You feel Deku draw in a sharp breath. When you glance up to him he's hastily wiping his eyes on the back of his free hand. "Don't mind me," he chirps with a slight tremble. "This is normal. Been a crybaby since I was a sapling."
"You are not a crybaby," Yagi jabs back as he casually swipes a thumb under one of his eyes. "You have a heart."
And I wonder where he gets it, you think to yourself as you lean into Deku's side to comfort him.
The situation that brought Deku's parents together is so similar to your own it's almost eerie: Toshinori had been a well-known hunter from another village who found himself "lost" during an extended journey into the forest; in reality, he'd been lured away from the village so a team of rogues could take him out and claim his hunting grounds. He reached out for Inko, who'd already been coming around in a similar fashion to Deku responding to your meditation, and she answered by snaring the entire group in a wave of venom-thorned vines before sweeping him through a circle and away from the chaos. They were married within a year, and Deku came along a few years after that.
"It's oddly romantic, when you take out the death-by-murder-vine part," you offer to keep the mood light. All three of them laugh, especially Inko, who chortles behind her hand until her cheeks turn pink.
Something is digging at you, though. You can't let the entire moment go without at least trying to ask. "You said you're human," you repeat to Yagi. "But you also say the antlers come from magic. I thought we couldn't access magic."
"We can't," he replies casually. Thank goodness, you'd been incredibly nervous about broaching such a personal subject. "Not by default, at least. Humans haven't earned the right as a whole. However, sometimes things happen and the magic itself chooses someone who might be worth it." He nods toward the scarf tied around your neck. "Not just anyone can affect a connection through something like that. It takes something predetermined by forces beyond our control for that connection to be forged at all."
The air in your lungs evaporates. "So this was fate."
Yagi nods sagely. "Yes, as was me coming here. We aren't the first, and we won't be the last." He jabs a finger at Deku, who's taken to clinging to your side like a newborn bear cub. "His antlers, however, come from a direct blood connection to feral magic. He's full dryad, and it'll be even more apparent once he's eventually the most powerful one."
The world screeches to a halt amid Yagi's beaming pride. You feel Deku go very, very still next to you. "Um… I beg your pardon?"
"The Ascendant," Inko answers. "There is a thread of feral magic more concentrated than anything else recorded in our history. It chooses who it resides within, and whoever that force chooses is essentially the most powerful being in our charted world." She inclines her head toward her son. "And one day that will be him."
You look between the two of them, then back to Yagi. "So that means you're the Ascendant."
"For the moment. My time is coming to an end soon. I've served my purpose, so it's time for the next cycle to begin."
"You don't mean…"
Yagi's eyes go wide. "Oh no no no, I'm not going to die, dear," he booms. "It's time for me to pass along my power. I'm fortunate to have a successor in time, and it would seem like this little excursion is a good indicator he might be prepared for it."
"We don't know that," Deku cuts in, and it isn't until now that you notice how flushed his cheeks are. "It'll happen if it's meant to happen, right?" You lay a hand on his knee that's immediately covered by one of his own. He sags into your side in quiet gratitude.
Inko nods. "And it hasn't happened yet, so we won't fret about it for now." Her tone is soft, but there's a comforting finality ronit that effectively ends the subject for discussion.
You're given a tour of their house, which Deku fervently clarifies is not the place where he's lived for several years (Inko replies with a smug "And yet there's almost always a third plate at the table", which seems to be more than enough for him to take a back seat with his dad and let Inko lead them around). She walks you through the lower floor, where several cozy bedrooms are situated around a circular pit set into the floor. The center is full of a myriad of cushions and pillows in an eye-catching pile of patterns and colors all jumbled together in a space wide enough to fit at least three Yagis with extra foot room. "You can pick any of the empty rooms for yourself," Inko says to you sweetly before shooting a pointed look toward her son, who drops his head and shuffles anxiously on the spot. "But I ask that you remain in yours. I know you're grown, but this is my-"
Deku squirms harder. "Yep, got it," he confirms hastily. It's clear there's literally anything else he'd rather be talking about. "Can we start dinner? I'm starving."
Your stomach audibly rumbles at the mention of food. Yes, that's an excellent idea for more than one reason. When is the last time you ate? If you can't remember, it's probably been way too long. Yagi sweeps everyone toward the stairs with both arms stretched to herd them forward. You silently thank him with a smile as he squeezes your shoulder on the way past.
Four people working at once means dinner is made with a quickness, something you're intensely grateful for when you finally sit down to ea. Your stomach hurts from lack of food so much it almost hurts more to eat until you've got enough sustenance in you to level out. You see to the tableware afterward as Deku cleans what remains of the kitchen mess. The other two take their leave for the night with one last round of greeting, Inko's eyes trained on her son as she warns him about "straying past boundaries" on the way toward the stairs, her husband chortling the whole time.
You and Deku wait in silence until a door audibly opens and closes again. "Well," Deku chirps as he turns to face you with an equally cheeky grin. "I guess I'll bid you goodnight here as well. I'll show you where I live tomorrow, once we've both had a chance to sleep." He takes your hand and kisses the back of it with a dramatic bow. "Sweet dreams, my sparrow."
You snort and take your hand back, but not before giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. "Good night, Deku." His grin turns sly as he moves off to his own room, leaving you to find the smallest unoccupied bedroom for yourself.
---
Part 5
The next morning both Inko and Yagi see you both out, the former not allowing her son to leave the house before he's verbally promised to come by soon (and in a hushed whisper to keep you safe). It isn't until you're outside that the lack of windows is explained: the front of Inko's home is set underneath the roots of a gargantuan tree that juts straight up toward the sky in a massive straight line. You peer upward toward the canopy, but it's so far above the other trees the bare trunk is swallowed by the forest crown on all sides with no way to see beyond. The house sits at the head of a narrow trail with more angled trees visible down the road. "The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get settled," he reminds, offering you a bent elbow.
You smile and slip a hand onto his forearm. You take the short walk to his home in lockstep, Deku's skin cooler in the open breeze where it brushes under your fingers. The air is heavy with humidity and the chill of a light fog that hovers over the trail as you walk down it, bugs chirping and creaking from the grass on either side of the path. It's… idyllic.
Deku's house is almost identical to Inko's, but it's only a single floor and houses, much to your delight, a natural spring under the kitchen. He waves you toward it with a grin and something about a fresh tunic, but that devious little glint in his eye is back when he meanders off to change his clothes as you see yourself downstairs.
The hot spring is a deep pool in its own room with a shallow end that slopes up to the water's edge. The torch-illuminated rock wall behind it shimmers with a stream of water that runs down from somewhere above and down into the pool in a soft, trickling wall, next to a sitting area has been carved out of the rock to the right side of the pool. You dig out a couple of towels and a robe made of butter-soft material from a cabinet before ridding yourself of your dirty temple garb and every garment underneath it, your prized scarf folded lovingly on top of the pile before everything gets placed in a basket next to the edge of the pool. You can't bring yourself to leave the scarf somewhere out of arm's reach, and your robes are the last real thing you own.
The water is hot when you step onto the shallowest shelf, not enough to burn but definitely enough to pull a groan of satisfaction from you as you eagerly step in until you're submerged to your bare chest. Every muscle in your back begins to unclench themselves within seconds. You sink lower into the water, past your chin with a slow inhale and all the way down until your knees touch the stone floor of the pool. Everything goes quiet in a rush of water: it fills your ears and drowns out everything else but the odd bubble of warmth you've found below the water's surface. Your nerves balm themselves over for the first time since flying through the ring amid the trickling quiet. I's just you here, with no one else to drop another surprise on you. You stay submerged as long as you can before pushing back up to breach the surface with a satisfied gasp, your head clearer than it's been for days.
You wipe at your face to clear your eyes of excess water and the first thing you see is Deku hovering at the edge of the shallow bank, a towel slung low over his hips. You yelp and jump back amid a slosh of water, partially out of shock and partially to keep yourself from immediately staring at his bare torso. It isn't enough to stave off the newfound knowledge that he's built like a sprint courier and that he's very, very much naked under the towel. "Gods, you've got to quit startling me," you whimper as you swipe a wet hand over your face.
Deku laughs. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. To be fair, you were underwater when I opened the door."
You grouse back, but it has no heat. He's right.
"Can I join you?"
Your playful frown turns genuine. "I thought that was understood."
"You didn't say I could come close. You're vulnerable right now. If you tell me to stay out, I will."
"You're very polite for someone who's already stripped down."
His cheeks flush bright pink. "I was hopeful," he replies in an obvious attempt to be aloof, but it doesn't quite mesh with the way he keeps jerking his gaze away from the surface of the water (and, you realize with a bolt of mortification, a clear enough view of your naked form for him to definitely see). "But I meant what I said."
The urge to test him and see what happens flashes through you, but it doesn't seem worth the effort. At the end of it all, you do want him to come closer. You step toward him, willing yourself to keep moving as the water lowers enough to expose your chest. Deku seems equally dead-set on keeping his eyes raised, your flushes a matching shade of garish pink now and getting deeper as you come within arm's reach of him and offer a hand.
"Please?"
His hesitation snaps in an instant. Deku throws the towel aside and hurtles toward the pool, only giving you barely enough time to step aside and avoid the splash of water that cascades over you. He resurfaces and shakes his hair out before turning to face you, grinning from ear to ear. "Am I dreaming? Is this really happening?"
Given your own doubts, there's only one real way to tell. You take the initiative and glide toward him in two long steps and snake your arms around his neck. As soon as you're in reach he pulls you in by the waist and kisses the air right out of your lungs. You break away for a breath, but as soon as you've gotten it he tugs you again and the kiss quickly grows sharper with edges of teeth that clack together every time one of you readjusts your head. A hand pushes into your hair to cradle the back of your head; when you tilt into the angle of his hand he presses his tongue past your lips and all bets are off.
The delicacy with which he's touched you so far is gone. Deku kisses like he's been starved of contact for years on end. You give back everything you're given with enthusiasm until you're both struggling to inhale. A dam has been broken: every bit of excitement, fear, doubt, and loneliness that's eaten at you over the years rushes forth in a tidal wave and it's all you can do to cling to him and hope you're not going to wake up in your own bed at any second.
You finally separate with a wet pop. The both of you hover close enough to brush together as you struggle to regain some composure. Deku sighs quietly, his chest still rising and falling hard enough to disturb the water around him. "So I'm not dreaming," he says quietly. "Good. I dunno if I could have handled waking up without you again."
His admission wobbles around a thread of genuine hurt that has you pulling him into a tight hug, your arms wrapped around him tight. You circle your fingernails over the backs of his shoulders in lazy circles. "You don't have to," you murmur into his ear. "We're both here now." Which, wow that's a wild truth, but it's a truth nonetheless.
Deku clings back with his face buried in the crook of your neck. A silence lapses with only trickling water to fill the gap. There's no need for either of you need to say anything: there's a wealth of communication in the reciprocal drags of his nails, the tiny ghosting pecks he leaves under your ear, the little sighs when you drag your nails up toward his neck. You're more than aware of the fact that there's something hard pressing into your lower stomach that definitely isn't his abs, but your curiosity can wait.
He doesn't seem to agree. The pecks along your throat lengthen into full kisses as he settles above the thump of your pulse. A faint drag of teeth makes you jump and he muffles a laugh into your neck. "So jumpy," he purrs.
You give him a nip to an earlobe in retaliation. He jumps on the spot as you chuckle into his ear: "Who's jumpy?"
That seems to hit a switch. You're pulled up and out of the water in one unceremonious grab as Deku hauls you over a shoulder. Your yelp echoes off the walls but he pays them no mind, spare a wet smack to your bare ass. He doesn't leave you with any other real option besides being hauled out of the spring and up the stairs once again.
His room is somewhere deep in the house. It's impossible to ascertain exactly what anything looks like while you're slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, so when he shuts the door of a bedroom warmed by a crackling floor pit it's a bit of a shock.
You fully expect to be thrown down, but instead he braces you under the knees and neck to set you on an impossibly soft blanket stretched across his bed. He steps back, a look of apprehension on his features when they come back into view. "As much as I want this," he says as your sense of gravity corrects itself. "I won't touch you unless you want me to. That was rather… abrupt, and I apologize for it."
It takes a second for you to realize why he's even apologizing. The guilt twisting across his face is what makes it click: you hadn't told him to pick you up. It's your turn to frown as you lean toward him. "I'm not mad," you offer gently. "But I appreciate your apology. It's okay. I want to be here."
Deku's apprehension ebbs, but doesn't completely disappear. "You give me your word?"
You nod without hesitation. His smile returns immediately, radiant amid the firelight, and your stomach flips with elation as he eagerly closes the distance between you.
He settles low between your spread knees, a solid weight that keeps you in place without much room to breathe, let alone think. You're dizzy with the intensity, but you kiss him back with every bit of fervor you're given. Deku groans against your flattened tongues. "Can I taste you?"
You nod without opening your eyes and the weight above you slides downward. It's definitely for the best that you hadn't watched him move: a long, hot tongue drags up your slit and draws your back up off the bed in a graceful arc. He seizes you around the waist with a muffled groan.
He takes you apart with a ferocity that's almost scary. Sharp dives of his tongue punctuate the moments he's not wrapped around your core, alternating every time your wails start to get louder or shake apart. You grip at the blanket above your head for an anchor, but abandon it in favor of the verdant curls on top of his head when a cruel twist of his tongue has you pushing nearly all the way off the bed.
His name flying past your lips mixes with a weak moan from the juncture where his face is buried. "Watch the horns," he whimpers (gods, it shouldn't be so hot to hear someone's voice crack). "But do that again."
You tighten your grip obligingly. His head pulls ever so slightly against your grip when he returns to devouring you with a newfound focus. Something thick prods past your folds and you jerk your head up in surprise, but it's a critical mistake. You're afforded a full view of him with his tongue pressed flat to your core and two thick fingers burying themselves to the thickest knuckle and it rips you right over the edge before you can even draw a breath.
He coaxes you through it, drinking you down with your thighs wedged directly over his ears. When you can finally move them away, you're almost concerned you might have hurt him. But then he sits up, his chin shining in the dim light with a wet grin planted just above it, and there's absolutely no doubt he was just as into it as you were. Your own grin edges on feral. "You gonna stop there, or are you gonna take care of yourself as well?"
Deku snorts with an edge of derision that has you shivering. "You think I'm done with you?"
Oh.
He's back in position with one sharp swoop. This time he throws either leg over his own, splaying your knees wide around his ribs. A wave of self-awareness punches you square in the gut as he drags his eyes down the length of your exposed frame. "Incredible," he breathes. "I've never seen anything as beautiful as you."
You squirm, but will yourself to remain still. It's almost too much. There's so much tenderness behind the wild thrum shaking through him you're not sure how you even deserve it. Thankfully, his patience seems to run out just as your resolve to remain still snaps. He kisses you again as something thicker presses into you, drawing out a prolonged moan from both of you that breaks off when your laps settle together. "Hang on," Deku grunts hard against your lips. "N-need a second."
He's shaking under your arms where they're circled around his neck, but that could very easily also be you. "Yeah. Gods, Deku, you're-"
"Izuku."
The entire room goes still. He locks eyes with you, his own blown wide with only a ring of gold-flecked emerald left. Fear jumps across them while his throat bibs around a hard swallow. "That's my name. I just want you to have it. You don't have to give me yours."
Fear twists your heart for just a beat before it's replaced by a heavy warmth. You reach a hand up toward his face where it hovers just above yours, tentative and soft, the finger that curls his hair behind an ear ever so gentle. "Soon," you whisper back.
Izuku beams. "I'll wait as long as it takes."
Your lips crash together again, both of them curved upward around matching smiles. Izuku sets up a pace that keeps you close while still allowing him to take the lead and kiss the air out of your lungs, skin softly popping together with shallow thrusts without stopping. He has each hip in hand again with a grip that slowly increases with his breathing. Before long you're both panting into each other's ear, your head thrown back while he worries your throat with his teeth and grunts with barely restrained need.
"Won't last long," he rumbles.
You nod your acknowledgment. You've been a puddle since the second he laid you on the bed and took you apart like a prized garment. It's only fair he ends up just as boneless as you. You set your knees around his ribs to lift yourself into him, but both knees are pushed to the bed just as quickly. Izuku is watching where your bodies meet with a feverish focus. He doesn't seem entirely aware that he's got you completely splayed open but he thrusts hard and deep anyway, guttural noises punching out of him in time with the snapping of wet skin.
He finds an angle that seems to hit right up into your midsection and it's all over. He rips a wail out of you before your mouths are sealed together again, his pace unrelenting. You fall apart hard enough to make your entire frame quake under his grip, which has tightened enough to leave deep bruises where his fingers dig into your thighs. Just when it feels like you might actually have to tap out or risk going unconscious he thrusts in one more time with a sharp growl, then another, then a final one deep in his chest as he rolls himself into your hips and finally paints your insides white hot.
You're both trembling like leaves when he finally collapses on top of you again. You run your nails through the damp curls over his temples as he returns the favor along your hips, idle and tender despite the harsh bruises you can feel blooming along your inner thighs. Your breathing comes back slowly as you lazily kiss through the aftershocks, hands never ceasing in their wandering. It's a perfect feedback loop of calm and relief with only the fire to witness in the otherwise empty house.
As your breathing returns to normal you nudge Izuku up enough to meet his eyes. They've gone back to their normal emerald, the flicker of the fire catching hair-thin veins of gold. With the curved points of his horns looming overhead and flush-kissed shamrock skin, he should be some kind of intimidating. Instead, you can't stop staring at him. He's ethereal, more so than anything you've ever seen in any tome or heard in any story. He's real. He's flesh and bone and big, soft eyes and a heart entirely too warm for a creature who could take down minotaurs bare-handed.
And yet he looks at you like you're made of Faerie porcelain.
The corners of your mouth curl upward. You beckon for him to lean forward again and he does so, seemingly as transfixed as you. You pull him down so your lips can brush the shell of his ear and, after a ghosting kiss to his cheek, you whisper your name.
#midoriya izuku x reader#midoriya izuku imagines#bnha imagines#bnha smut#bnha server collab#citrus dome collabs#my fics
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Librarian! PH. 52 MLQC MC / Victor :)
HELLO ANON U WERE ONE OF THE FIRST PEOPLE TO RESPOND TO MY LIBRARIAN ASK GAME I’M SO SORRY IT’S TAKEN SO LONG,,, victor is just. hard to write. aLSO I'm doubly sorry since i’ll be combining this with the Victor ask from @truth-be-told-im-lying hope neither of you mind T-T i don’t think my mind could do two victor ficlets akwlfjsdkls
ANyway I love you both LOTS AND LOTS hopefully this attempt at Victor isn’t extremely out of character;;; it’s a lowkey soulmates AU if that counts for anything :> aND this fic gets the special treatment of an actual Title bc True was wonderful enough to help me by typing Victor as an Enneagram Type One
okaaay and without further ado,
49, 52 + Victor/MC
‘[He] wakes up in [his] bed, determined to begin again.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 49)
‘As [he] pushes through the onlookers to meet [her], he is certain he is the only person moving.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 52)
((pronoun changes in both quotes to better fit the ficlet))
spoilers for Victor/MC’s childhood!
spend my whole life searching
Victor doesn’t believe in soulmates. (After half a lifetime of searching turning up nothing, he doesn’t believe in much.)
Once upon a time, he might’ve. (He wanted to). His heart rate doubled and sped up to match hers— a carefree little girl skipping across the road, too far away to hear his nerves cry danger, too caught up in dreams and fantasies to hear his warning shout. Time slowed down so he could save her, and on that afternoon on the crosswalk, drops of rain suspended in the air, he did.
At that age, he hadn’t had the sense to wonder why a young girl like her had been crossing the street without supervision. Why her smiles had come freely, but had always looked a little sad, a little wistful. Why she’d been so eager to accept his baked treats. Why she’d been at the playground without a parent. Why she’d always been alone.
Now, seventeen years later, he wishes he did. Wishes he’d known something as simple as her last name.
He dreams of her. Of finding her again: the girl whose heartbeat matched his. The girl whose smile had slowed down time itself for him, as if short moments with her could’ve each stretched into a gentle eternity. He’d wanted them to. He’d wanted to capture every moment spent with her, to make them last, to savor them, so they’d pass slow and sweet like honey on the tongue.
Time had passed slow when he’d wanted it to. Those sunlit afternoons had been sweet, they’d been happy.
Only, time is a fickle thing. When he takes his eye off it, it races away, too fast for him to keep up.
The kidnapping. The experiments. The torture.
The escape.
She saves him. He’s too slow to save her.
And even if he can stop time, here’s the thing: he can never turn the clock back.
Still, he wakes up. Every morning, he gets out of bed. Gets dressed and goes to work. The world around him moves on, and demands he does, too, even if his heart’s still eleven years old and clutching her motionless body, eleven years old, the only sound in his ears his pounding pulse, the absence of the accompaniment of hers an accusation more painful than any hateful words.
It’s a recurring theme in his life, time. It’s ironic, really, when he thinks about it. That he can stop time without lifting a finger, and yet, when it comes to things he cares about, people he loves most, he’s always eleven years old again, always too late.
(His Evol’s time control, but perhaps, all this time, he hasn’t been controlling time, it’s been controlling him. He’s imprisoned by a single moment, a memory, a regret. A past that can never be undone.)
Whenever he has spare time, he devotes himself to searching. Resigns himself to the fact he’ll probably never find her, if all he has to go off of is a child’s face, once preserved in his memory, now fading. Hair color. Eye color. Age. A name. Nothing more.
The searches turn up nothing.
He spends late nights in the office to distract himself, builds up a capitalist kingdom of a company, if only to put off for a few hours more the prospect of returning home to face his nightmares alone.
His father praises him for LFG’s growth over dinners filled with awkward silences. The name Victor Li appears more and more often in business newspapers. Investors approach him. He gets interviews. Gets offers for TV appearances, for sponsorships.
He takes them, these material successes. Wonders if any amount of them could ever make up for the failure from his childhood. If they could bring her back. He tells himself if he finds her, when he finds her, when he brings her back, it’ll be to a more perfect world. One in which he’ll never fail her again. It’s a foolish thought, but it keeps him going. With it in mind, he proceeds to work twice as hard.
Souvenir is what saves him. A small allowance, a self-indulgence, a seed of hope planted in what he thinks is his darkest time.
It’s for her, more than any of his frantic searching ever was. A dream, a foolish one, that one day she’ll step through his memories and through the restaurant’s door, that one day they’ll share a pudding together again, their hearts beating as one.
He doesn’t get to open Souvenir often; his job doesn't let him. He made sure of that, long ago. But when he does, after the last customer’s left, and he’s put up the closed sign, he cooks for two.
(The first time, Mr. Mills had taken a single look at his silent, still face, and his expression must've spoken volumes. The older man hadn't said a word, only helped clean the kitchen after, the normally gentle lines around his mouth pulled taut in a worried frown.)
He sets the second place at the table himself: carefully places fork, knife and spoon beside lukewarm appetizers, tucks a napkin under soup bowls going cold. Watches the empty seat and the untouched meal for an eternity before finally eating his own. His technique's impeccable. It has been ever since he'd aced his culinary lessons, since he'd bought out the school. He'd used the finest ingredients. He always does.
The food still crumbles like ash in his mouth. (It always does.)
Mr. Mills will find him there, nursing a glass of wine long into the night. He knows better not to question it, but sometimes he'll pull up a chair, drink a glass, too. talk of everything and nothing, talk of his parents, his sister's family, of times gone by.
Victor will never admit it, but the older man's presence makes those nights less hard. his stories, his memories — they keep the ice in his heart from spreading any further when it feels like nothing else will.
Ten years stretch into thirteen, into fourteen, into fifteen, into a broken clock, time stopped because does the passage of time mean anything if he measures it, measured it in time with her? If she's gone?
The meals shrink. First appetizers vanish, then entrees too, until all that's left are desserts, puddings that he stares at all evening, puddings a girl had loved once, that he can almost imagine her sitting there eating, her noticing him watching her and her answering blush and smile. His smile back.
Almost, because after all these years without her, he can’t quite imagine her face. Not as she would look now. Not even as she was, seventeen years back.
(He dreams and finds he doesn’t remember what her smile looked like, exactly. Doesn’t remember the sound of her heartbeat mingling with the sound of his.
Memory is cruel. Memory is imperfect. No matter if you can stop time, no matter how hard you try to memorize a moment, when you revisit it, it’ll never be the same as when you lived it the first time.)
Then:
The day starts like any other. He wakes up, gets out of bed, gets ready for another day of work, another night of searching. He scrolls emails while waiting for his espresso machine to heat, then puts his tablet aside when the coffee's done. He eats in silence. As always, he's done five minutes before he needs to leave for the company, the perfect amount of time for him to do a last-minute check in the mirror— his tie's straight, his shirt unwrinkled, not a hair on his head out of place. The reflection that stares back at him is unchanging; these days it barely shows even the passage of time.
He sighs. Shakes the thought off like the piece of lint it is on his otherwise immaculate state of being, and heads for the door, the lock automatically clicking behind him at eight o'clock am, exactly on schedule, exactly as planned.
He's about to take a seat in his car when an inexplicable urge to walk to work takes hold of him. He pauses. Calculates and re-calculates the time it would take (fifteen minutes, not accounting for rush hour traffic making crosswalks slow), and he's about to decide it's not worth it, it's a silly thought, but the urge intensifies.
Do it, the eleven-year-old in his heart seems to be telling him. You won't regret it.
He frowns and rubs his forehead— for a moment, he wonders if all his searching, all his foolish hopes are finally getting to his brain.
He decides to take the walk, anyway.
He regrets it, not nine minutes later, when despite the sun's light shining strong through the clouds, a light rain begins to fall.
Worse still, the traffic lights haven't changed once in the past ninety seconds. He won't be late, he'd accounted for this, but he's stuck in a crowd of pedestrians, and their chatter's beginning to grate on his nerves. He's considering calling the mayor about it after exactly one hundred seconds have passed— clearly, the light's broken, this is far too long for commuters to wait— but then, finally the walk sign flicks on.
He's already across the street when it happens:
First, a phone rings.
Then, the loud honking of a car.
Tires screech.
Time slows. Time stops.
He's back on the crosswalk in a matter of heartbeats, the inattentive idiot in his arms (it's a girl, it's always a girl, hair dark, eyes wide, expression shocked).
"You..." She says, blinking up at him with those wide, almost-familiar eyes. Distantly, he registers the echo of a heartbeat overlapping with his.
"Who are you?"
Who are you? His mind asks, but deep in his heart, he already knows the answer. It can't be.
"Evolver?" He says instead, shoving down memories that threaten to surface: another rainy day, another crosswalk, another heart that had seemed matched to his. He tells himself he's being delusional, that he thinks he can hear her heartbeat because she's in his arms, wide-eyed and fragile, her heartrate skittering back and forth like a fool— this isn't like his careful, methodical searching, this is a fluke beyond flukes, it means nothing, it'll lead to nothing in the end.
But she's in his arms, warm and soft against his protective embrace, she's in his arms and it feels so right it's almost painful, his pulse pulled into a panicked pace to match hers.
He sets her down abruptly, as if burned, and turns to go.
"Someone can't come to your rescue every time."
Around them, suspended raindrops begin to fall. The world, resumed. The world, once again predictable and mundane. Except for her.
He knows, without looking back, she's staring after him, her heart, his heart, still racing.
He allows himself a smile.
He allows himself some small sliver of hope.
(His frozen time starts moving again.)
#mlqc#mlqc victor#mlqc fanfic#val writes#hNnghghg this took so Long and writing vic gives me so much stress BUT HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY#u didnt hear it from me but it was actually really interesting to explore his character like this and. i've definitely developed more of an#appreciation :> of sorts#victor is an enneagram one and rly that's all that matters thats all u need to learn from this fic#also sOULmate AUs i love them that's it does this mean i think vic is MC's soulmate;;; maybe in this universe but not generally ailsjkfd#JUST FOR THE RECORD. i am not a vic stan so it must be said#TIL that mr mills does not have a wife/family and that makes me rly sad
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Good as Gold pt.13
[part twelve] | [part fourteen]
[prostitute!jaskier masterpost]
For @valdomarx because this chapter wouldn’t exist without you 😘
It’s late. Late enough that he’s considering turning in for the night, but there’s a verse in his head that just won’t let him be. Not, at least, until he’s written it down. So instead of lying down and trying to sleep, he plops himself down on the edge of the bed and crosses his legs, notebook propped up on his knees.
It feels good to be writing again after so long. Feels like years since he’s been properly inspired to do anything and the poetry - if it can be called that - that he’s produced in the meantime is severely lacking. Uninspired. But now it just seems to flow through him like it used to, which becomes a problem when he’s supposed to be focused on the person above him and all he can think of is how badly he wants to roll out of bed and write down this one line before he forgets it. Or whether spring or winter provides a better metaphor for love. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier finds himself thankful that his customers pay little attention to him once they’ve got him naked.
Tonight, the piece he’s working on is happier than usual; the excitement of new love, the utter thrill of reciprocation. Jaskier’s mind is working faster than his hand can keep up with. He jots his thoughts down in note form, just descriptive enough to remember it correctly for later because there’s so much rolling around in his brain that he’s liable to forget if he doesn’t get the ideas out. Though, as frustrating as it is not to be able to get all his thoughts down before there are more crowding for attention, he wouldn’t give it up. Inspiration is a fickle beast and one not to be taken for granted.
There’s a knock on the door, right as he’s in the middle of deciphering a quite fitting metaphor and it startles him, causing him to blotch the page he’s writing on. Jaskier pauses; he never sees customers this late, Lorelei usually refuses to let anyone through the doors past dusk - unless it’s Geralt. He smiles to himself at the thought of the Witcher and sets his book down, tucking his quill between the pages to keep his spot for later. He’s sure the unexpected guest is Anise, she frequently brings wine to his room after hours and they’ll spend hours talking about their days.
Jaskier rises to his feet, setting the book on the table next to the bed. He’ll return to it later and hopefully, his inspiration won’t have flitted off into the night. He’d like to decline the offer of wine and company, but he’s already turned Anise down once this month because Geralt showed up and Jaskier could hardly turn him away. He still tells himself that it’s because he has loyal customers and they deserve the same from him, but it’s a different feeling when Geralt turns up at his door. One he doesn’t risk naming.
“One moment,” he calls, tugging his robe closed to tie it around his waist. There’s a beat of silence and Jaskier crosses to the dresser to put away the scraps of paper that remain from his earlier attempts at writing. It’s too personal to be left unattended, even if it’s only Anise. Especially if it’s her. So he pulls the drawer open to tuck it away, but then the door creaks open behind him. He turns to look, a mock accusation on the tip of his tongue, but it dies when he finds Geralt in the open doorway, smiling dopily at him and staring across the room. Jaskier’s heart clenches and he pushes the drawer shut again before crossing the room. Geralt tracks him as he gets closer, eyes flicking up to Jaskier’s as he approaches.
“Hello, darling. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? It’s much later than you usually visit.” Late enough that he’s surprised anyone would let him in, but he doesn’t say that.
“Was nearby.” Geralt stumbles as he comes closer, that stupid lopsided smile still in place. Jaskier frowns at his misstep, but can’t help but return the smile.
“Ah. Well, give me just a moment, alright?” He closes the door behind him and turns back toward the dresser. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him the whole way. Then the sound of footsteps coming toward him and he smiles to himself.
He hears something crash behind him and then warm hands settle on his hips, slipping the robe up to his waist. Jaskier ducks his head, giving up any pretense of putting things away, as Geralt’s fingers slip to the ties on the back of his trousers. It’s only Geralt. Geralt would never invade his privacy by reading something he shouldn’t. Geralt toys with the ties, tugging lightly and winding the silk around his fingers, but makes no attempt to get them undone. He likes the feel of it, Jaskier assumes; Geralt is very particular about fabrics and scents and the ties are soft.
Geralt says nothing, but he runs his hands down Jaskier’s thighs, squeezes softly, cups his ass and squeezes that too. He’s clearly eager, pressing against him and touching him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. And Jaskier can feel how badly he wants it, but Geralt makes no attempt to undress him or move past simply touching him. Jaskier huffs softly, tipping his head back against Geralt’s shoulder.
“What’s gotten into you tonight?”
Geralt leans in, pressing his lips against Jaskier’s neck and it tingles, sending sparks skittering down his spine. Jaskier bites his lip, shuts his eyes, losing himself in the soft warmth of Geralt’s mouth. He kisses him with a sort of urgency, groaning into it and rubbing his nose against the back of his neck. He drags his teeth against Jaskier’s skin and Jaskier shudders against him, leaning back into the touch.
“Oh, Geralt.”
Geralt’s fingers slip into his hair and Jaskier just sighs. He almost prefers this to the sex sometimes and maybe it’s because he doesn’t get this with anyone else, wouldn’t let anyone else get this comfortable with him. But Geralt is so soft, contrary to the rumours about Witchers, and Jaskier is happy to let him have his way with him.
Maybe it’s dangerous - not the way Astrid and Viv seem to think it is, but in a different way. Geralt is a customer, nothing more. Or he shouldn’t be anything more. But that doesn’t stop Jaskier’s heart from beating just a little quicker when he spots him coming toward the brothel. It doesn’t stop him from making stupid decisions when Geralt is there, saying things he shouldn’t. There’s just something different about this man who’s supposed to be some heartless killing machine and yet has, more than once, been happy to pay for just the pleasure of Jaskier’s company.
Geralt’s arms coil around him, his fingers slipping through the loops of the bows on his trousers, tugging a little this time, but still not trying to undo them.
“I want you,” he breathes and something about his voice sounds off -unsteady. Jaskier turns in his arms to face him and Geralt’s hands only leave him for a second.
He’s grinning when he looks at him, that same lopsided grin that seems so out of place on his face and somehow makes him even more beautiful. He tugs Jaskier close, rolling his hips against him and from here, Jaskier can smell the alcohol on his breath. Ah, that explains a bit.
“You’re drunk,” he says but it’s not accusatory.
“A little.”
Jaskier almost laughs out loud. “Darling, I can smell it on you.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Came to see you.”
“Mm, I gathered that much. Why did you get drunk first?”
“Ran into my brother,” Geralt hums, dipping down to lick a stripe up Jaskier’s neck. “Got to drinking. Eskel hired a girl-” Geralt nips at his skin and Jaskier’s body reacts despite himself “-I came to see you. Missed you.”
Oh, that’s something. His heartbeat picks up again and Geralt clearly notices because he grins down at him, bumping his nose against Jaskier’s.
“Like the way I feel when I’m with you, like the way you touch me.”
“Right,” Jaskier says, breathless.
“And the way you talk to me. Fuck, Jaskier,” he rumbles low in the back of his throat and Jaskier’s cock twitches at the sound, “I want you. Please.”
And there’s that line again between what’s normal and what isn’t. The line Geralt sits right on top of at all times. Jaskier doesn’t think much about it when Geralt isn’t there. There are weeks at a time when they don’t see each other, but it all floods back so quickly when they do. The truth is, that line is there for a reason, the rules are there for a reason, and with Geralt, Jaskier is learning all too well what that reason is.
“Very polite, darling, but I’m not going to fuck you when you’re like this.” He pulls back a little and Geralt pulls a face that can only be described as petulant. “I won’t take money from you when you’re out of your mind.”
“’M not,” Geralt protests, but Jaskier just laughs softly.
“You very much are.”
“You like it. When I came in. I could smell it on you. Still can,” he lifts an eyebrow as if to prove his point and if Jaskier was a man of less strength, he might give in to him. Geralt is stunningly beautiful, whatever anyone might say about Witchers, and there’s something inherently arousing about not being able to hide his desire from him.
But tonight it’s working against him.
“I can feel you,” Geralt whispers, pressing a hand to Jaskier’s crotch and dragging his fingers up the length of his cock, “let me touch you.” He presses his nose into Jaskier’s neck, mouthing at the sensitive spot under his jaw and mumbling into his skin. “I want your cock. Could use my mouth, make you feel amazing.”
Jaskier’s breath catches and a soft moan escapes his lips. Geralt huffs a laugh against him.
“See,” he purrs, “you want it, too. I’m good at it. I know you’d like it.”
It takes all of Jaskier’s willpower to pull away from him, to keep Geralt at arm’s length when he steps forward again. Because he does want that. He’s been thinking about Geralt’s mouth wrapped around him since the first time, but he’s never seemed so inclined. And Gods, if the offer isn’t tempting now. But the fact that this is the only time he’s brought it up makes Jaskier less inclined to act on it. Geralt is drunk and horny and while regularly, Jaskier is more than happy to have him in every possible way, this feels like taking advantage, even if Geralt is the one pushing for it.
“Not like this,” he says finally, looking up to meet Geralt’s eyes, “not when you’re drunk. You should get some sleep, is your brother still here?”
“He’s busy,” Geralt mumbles, “I can hear him. Fucking,” he adds as if it’s unclear.
“Then he’ll probably be occupied for a while, hm? Why don’t you lie down and rest, I was thinking about turning in myself.”
Geralt groans indignantly, pressing forward and wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s waist. “Wanna fuck you,” he rumbles, but Jaskier just shakes his head and leads Geralt toward the bed.
“Not tonight, love. Tell me you still want me in the morning and I’m yours, but not tonight.” He pries Geralt’s hands from his waist and presses him gently down to the bed. Geralt goes surprisingly without complaint, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.
“You’re sexy,” he says and Jaskier huffs a laugh. Geralt really is… something. He’s beautiful and even like this, Jaskier can’t keep the fondness from rising in his chest. He longs to lay down next to him, to curl around Geralt’s back and breathe in the scent of him. But he shouldn’t think these things, certainly shouldn’t encourage Geralt when he’s like this, and he sighs and stiffens his resolve.
“Thank you, Geralt, now get some rest. I’ll still be sexy in the morning.” He runs a hand down his arm, relieved when Geralt shuts his eyes.
Jaskier crosses to the other side of the room, pressing his head against the wall. His whole body is hot and his cock throbs where it’s trapped inside his trousers. Fuck, this is stupid. He shouldn’t let anyone get to him like this. He should be stronger. But Geralt touches him and says he likes the way he talks to him and Jaskier is almost ready to take him to bed, drunk or not. He wouldn’t even ask for payment in the morning.
But he won’t because he’s a better person than that, because Geralt deserves better than that. There are already so many people who take advantage of Witchers, Jaskier refuses to be one of them.
Across the room, he hears shuffling and the sound of something soft thumping against the floor. Clothes, he thinks, and he knows Geralt’s naked. Which is just one more thing he doesn’t need right now. Jaskier turns to find him a blanket, anything so he doesn’t have to look at him, and finds Geralt with his trousers shoved down his thighs, hand wrapped around his cock. Heat coils in his gut and Jaskier just catches the sound of his own name on Geralt’s lips before hurrying out the door into the hall.
He pulls the door shut behind him, leaning heavily against it and shutting his eyes. He should be stronger than this. He knows he’s a mess; Geralt thoroughly mussed his hair and he’s hot and breathing hard and the only thing that could be worse about this is someone finding him like this. Which, naturally, Anise does.
She gives him an odd look, wrapping her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and leaning against the wall next to him.
“You okay?” she asks, “Is someone in there?” She nods toward his room and Jaskier sighs.
“It’s Geralt.”
“Did he hurt you?” she asks quickly. She’s been talking to Astrid, evidently.
“No,” Jaskier says with certainty, “he wouldn’t.”
“Then you’re out here because…?”
“He’s drunk. I told him I wouldn’t fuck him like this and he took matters into his own hands. Literally.”
“So? Join him,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him. “Seems like you could use it.” She presses her palm against the front of his trousers and Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut.
“We don’t fuck for free, remember?”
“You know he’s good for it. He’ll pay you in the morning.”
“No,” Jaskier shakes his head, “I won’t make that decision for him. I won’t take money from him while he’s drunk. I won’t touch him.”
A shadow passes over Anise’s face and she looks at Jaskier suspiciously. “Viv was right,” she says, “you’re soft on him.”
"I’m not,” Jaskier says but he can’t meet her eyes.
“Jaskier-”
“I’m not. He’s just a customer - he just happens to be better at getting me worked up than the others. I wouldn’t fuck any of them if they were drunk, either.” Anise just looks at him and shakes her head with a smile.
“Be careful with him, Jaskier. You fall so easily, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, pulling up a smile as she walks away, “you know I always am.” Anise disappears down the stairs and he lets his expression drop.
He waits for a little while before pushing the door open and entering the room. The darkness is silent, broken only by the soft sound of Geralt’s breath from across the room and Jaskier smiles to himself. He approaches the bed slowly, relieved to find Geralt has divested himself of the rest of his clothing but has also managed to cover himself somewhat with the blanket. Jaskier adjusts it so it covers him and Geralt shifts, turning to lie on his back and blink up at him.
Jaskier’s stomach trips over itself. Ah. Problematic.
“Shh,” Jaskier breathes, “don’t get up, it’s just me.”
Apparently satisfied, Geralt grumbles softly to himself and rolls back toward the wall. Jaskier can’t help but smile to himself. It’s a wonder anyone can be afraid of Witchers, seeing him like this and Jaskier fights back the urge to wrap himself around him.
But he’s still hard and he doesn’t want to disturb Geralt, so he slips the robe off his shoulders, lays down, pressing his hips into the mattress, and keeps as much distance between them as the bed will allow. He likes falling asleep with Geralt and this feels very unfair, that he should be so close and Jaskier isn’t allowed to touch him. Or won’t. He shuts his eyes, listening to the soft huff of Geralt’s breath and buries his head in his pillow.
But he doesn’t sleep.
Geralt makes soft, snuffling sounds in his sleep and Jaskier lays awake, torn between absolute adoration for the man lying next to him and petty bitterness at his unannounced arrival. Because now Jaskier is achingly hard and wide awake. And there’s something horrendously unfair about that fact that Geralt came here wanting to fuck him and Jaskier turned him down for this.
He shuts his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow, but apparently, this is the one Geralt had been using earlier because now it smells like him and Jaskier barely holds back a groan of frustration. Geralt shifts next to him, pressing back against his side and Jaskier silently curses him for it. He squeezes his eyes shut and shuffles toward the edge of the bed a little, distancing himself again as he rolls onto his back. He considers shoving a hand down his trousers and relieving the ache himself, but it feels wrong with Geralt right there next to him. And the worst part is, he knows this wouldn’t happen with any other customer; any other customer wouldn’t even have been allowed to stay.
Jaskier wakes to the feeling of a body moving against his own and he groans in protest before remembering who he fell asleep next to. Only Geralt is very much wrapped around him now, one leg pressed between his thighs and an arm slung over his hip. He shifts as he stretches, pressing his cock up against Jaskier’s ass. He’s hard and Jaskier has to bite down on his lip as his unsatisfied arousal from the night before flares back up again.
“Sorry,” Geralt mumbles, but he makes no attempt to move. “What am I doing here?”
“I’m not totally clear on that myself,” Jaskier says, shifting onto his other side. He keeps space between them, hoping that his cock will get the idea and calm down. “Something about your brother.”
“I remember running into Eskel, but how did I make it into your bed.”
“Ah, well, that part was much more clear. You waltzed into my room, incredibly drunk and horny and wanted me to fuck you.”
“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, tilting his head to look at him, “what do I owe you? I seem to remember losing a hefty sum to Eskel in a card game.”
“Nothing, darling. I turned you down.”
Geralt pauses, “and yet I’m still in your bed.”
“You are. Because I put you here to sleep if off. I don’t’ make a habit of taking advantage of drunk men who stumble into my room in the middle of the night. Especially not ones I’d like to see again.” Geralt frowns like he can’t quite comprehend that and Jaskier just huffs a laugh and reaches out to run a hand through his hair.
“Not that you didn’t try your best to persuade me. But I can’t be bought with pretty words.”
“You absolutely can,” Geralt mumbles, shutting his eyes again.
Jaskier laughs softly. “You’re right of course, but not when it’s important. I put you to bed and told you if you still wanted me in the morning, I’d be here.” He pauses for a moment, trying to get a read on the situation before offering himself up again. “And here I am.” Geralt is silent again and while Jaskier is trying to work out whether or not that’s a good thing, he looks up to find Geralt’s eyes open, watching him.
“I would have paid you.”
“I know,” he says gently, “it was never your honour in question. I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”
Geralt looks at him like he doesn’t quite understand and he pushes Jaskier back against the bed. He moves to lie between his legs, chin just above his navel as his hands move up to bracket his ribs. His thumbs brush soft circles into his skin and Jaskier smiles down at him.
“You said if I wanted you in the morning, you’d be here. Does that offer still stand?”
“You know I’m always yours, darling.”
Geralt dips his head immediately, keeping his eyes focused on Jaskier as he presses a soft kiss against the curve of his belly. Jaskier hums, looking down at him and Geralt lowers his eyes, brushing his lips against Jaskier’s skin. He kisses him softly, leaving little wet spots on his skin and Jaskier drops his head back, shutting his eyes and focusing on the press of Geralt’s lips.
He can’t remember the last time someone was this soft with him. It’s not that all his customers are hard and uncaring, but the most affection he usually gets from them is asking if he wants to come - something Geralt considers a necessity. But Geralt has always been different than his regular customers, always softer, and this is just like him. Jaskier reaches down, slipping his fingers through his hair and pressing his fingers against his scalp.
He loves his hair. It looks like it should be stiff and wiry, but even when it’s thick with dirt or blood or gods know what, it’s soft. And Jaskier takes any chance he can to run his fingers through it, enjoys it most when he can play with it - usually in the evenings when Geralt is tired or the mornings before they dress. He undoes the tie, dropping it to the floor and gathering Geralt’s hair in his hands before it can fall into his face. Geralt hates when his hair is in his face and one day, Jaskier would like to braid it for him but he hasn’t been brave enough to ask.
Jaskier’s drawn from his thoughts as Geralt’s fingers graze his abdomen, sending a shiver through him. He sighs softly, slipping both hands around the back of Geralt’s head. He doesn’t look up until he feels a tug and finds Geralt fiddling with the bows on his trousers. A wave of arousal washes over him and his cock pulses in his trousers, apparently catching up with the fact that Geralt’s mouth is very near to it.
Geralt says nothing and, in fact, pays no mind to the fact that Jaskier is watching him, nor that his cock is hard and pressing against the front of his trousers. He moves down, kissing a line all the way to Jaskier’s waistband before pulling his trousers open and dipping lower.
Jaskier can’t help the groan that spills from his lips. He’s been wanting since the first time he laid eyes on him, wondering what Geralt’s mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock, what those lips would feel like stretched around him. But he hasn’t dared mention it, nor thought too much about it when Geralt is there because he’s never shown any interest in it - not until last night, at least.
Geralt takes so long getting his trousers undone that Jaskier isn’t even sure that’s what he’s doing at first. Geralt is always very tactile, has always favoured Jaskier’s softer, silkier clothing and he assumes this is just one of those things until cool air and hot breath dust against his cock at once.
He holds his breath and then, as Geralt’s lips press against the head of his cock, releases it in a soft moan. Geralt’s lips are soft where they’re pressed against him and they part, slipping over the head of him and it’s all he can do not to buck into the touch. He’s been hard for so long and he’s not used to being denied - even of his own will. Usually, he’s having more sex than he can physically cope with, but he’s spent the last eight hours wishing desperately for his erection to desist. And now that Geralt’s touching him - and more than that, mouthing at him like this - he doesn’t know how to restrain himself.
Geralt’s mouth moves up, closing around the head of his cock and slowly sliding down the entire length of him. Jaskier’s eyes flutter and his hands tighten instinctively, careful not to tug too hard. His hips twitch, pressing himself deeper and Geralt moans around him, flattening his tongue to the underside of his cock as he pulls back up again. He lets Jaskier slip from his mouth, winding his tongue around him before sucking the head into his mouth again.
Jaskier wants to ask why, but he knows what the answer will be; Geralt is just the kind of man who sucks a whore off just so that he feels good, too. And gods, it does feel good. Geralt is eager and attentive, carefully memorizing every little spot that makes Jaskier’s hips lift and returning to them again and again.
Jaskier can’t hold back, but Geralt doesn’t seem to want him to. Every time Jaskier’s hips buck, Geralt just takes him deeper, sucks him harder and Jaskier drops one hand to the sheets, clenching his fist around them as he arches off the bed.
He’s struck with a sudden pang of guilt, letting Geralt do all the work, but Geralt is so enthusiastic about it that Jaskier suspects any refusal to let him would be ignored. And it’s a little overwhelming having all of that thrown at him. Geralt has been nothing but kind to him since the beginning and that was confusing enough, but something comes back to him now. When was the last time someone made you feel good without expecting something in return. He didn’t know what to make of that then and he still doesn’t now.
None of his other customers have ever thought to suck him off like this, not even to get him hard when it’s a struggle. But Geralt- fuck - perfect, beautiful Geralt who only ever wants Jaskier to feel as good as he does. How was he ever supposed to withstand that? How was he ever supposed to see this lovely man who only wants to make other people happy and not fall absolutely head over heels for him?
Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, forcing down the urge to haul Geralt up and kiss him, to lose himself in those soft lips against his own. He rolls his head back with a groan, dropping his hand to Geralt’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his skin as the pleasure swells within him. Geralt makes him come more often than the rest of his customers combined and yet still Jaskier has never wanted so badly in his life.
Geralt sinks down on him, nose pressed against Jaskier’s skin and he rumbles low around him as his palm slips up Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier’s cock twitches against Geralt’s tongue and he curls his fingers under his jaw, moaning as he rolls his head back.
“Fuck, Geralt-” he tries to keep himself steady, to keep from coming with Geralt’s mouth around him, but Geralt looks up at him. He locks eyes with him for just a second, but it’s enough to snap Jaskier’s carefully managed control and he comes with an unintentional moan, hips stuttering even as Geralt holds him against the bed.
He shudders under Geralt’s hand, pulls his legs up and lets them drop again, pushing his hips forward. And then Geralt pulls off, licking up the length of his cock before kissing the skin beneath it. Jaskier’s breath comes heavily, his chest heaving with it in contrast to the soft little kisses Geralt presses into his skin.
It’s not until Geralt lifts his head that Jaskier realizes he’s got a hand tangled in his hair. He doesn’t even remember putting it back there, but Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, pressing up into the touch. He slips both hands under Jaskier’s hips, curling his fingers around the bunched waist of his trousers and tugging them down. Jaskier’s hand slips from his hair and he sinks into the bed as Geralt pulls them off and settles back in place between his legs.
He slides one arm under Jaskier’s thigh, curling arm around it and presses his lips to the most sensitive part of it. He sucks lightly, careful not to leave marks and Jaskier wants to tell him not to worry about it, that he likes the marks, but he knows he shouldn’t. His customers don’t like seeing the evidence of another man on him, but Jaskier has spent hours last time looking at the marks Geralt had left. But Geralt had felt so guilty Jaskier doesn’t think he could ever convince him of how much he loved seeing them. So he stays quiet now, slips his hands through Geralt’s hair and shuts his eyes as Geralt’s tongue slides up the inside of his thigh.
“Oh,” he breathes softly, “you’re very enthusiastic today. Maybe I should make you wait more often.” There’s a huff of breath against his skin and a gentle bite that’s sexier than it has any right to be.
Geralt kisses his way up both of his thighs before turning his attention back to Jaskier’s cock, now sitting soft against his hip. He runs his tongue up the length of it, coiling around the head and Jaskier learns very quickly that Geralt is very good with his tongue.
Jaskier isn’t immune to a mouth wrapped around his cock, but it’s rare that he gets hard multiple times in a day, never mind an hour. But Geralt’s tongue wraps around him and Jaskier can feel himself swelling under his ministrations, the heat in his core rising again. Geralt sucks him down, pressing his tongue against the underside of Jaskier’s cock as he slides up his length and back down again. He doesn’t pull off again until Jaskier is rock hard, straining when he drops from Geralt’s lips.
Geralt crawls up over him, pressing his chest against Jaskier’s and pushing his knees under his thighs. He pushes his nose through Jaskier’s chest hair, kissing a line up his chest.
“Can I fuck you?” The words are muttered into his skin, followed up with a series of wet kisses, and Jaskier almost laughs. But thick fingers curl around his cock, drawing a soft moan instead and Jaskier looks at the ceiling instead of Geralt.
“I’d be offended if you didn’t, darling.”
Lust and something that feels too close to affection swells in his chest as Geralt’s fingers slip back behind his balls, pressing against his rim. He lets out a little gasp and reaches over the edge of the bed for the little bottle of oil he keeps there. It’s in case of emergency - or for his own personal use when he’s left high and dry at the end of the day - and he’s thankful for it now.
He pushes it at Geralt and no further direction is needed before Geralt is tipping it over his fingers and pressing back against Jaskier’s hole. He shouldn’t let him do this. It’s too much, too intimate; the whole reason he wears the plug is to prevent anyone from touching him like this, from pushing in and working him open - but he can’t say no to Geralt, wouldn’t want to anyway.
Jaskier lets himself be stretched on Geralt’s fingers, works his hips to help speed up the process because as much as he loves having Geralt’s fingers inside him, it leaves him with an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. Because what if Geralt realizes he doesn’t do these things with anyone else? What if he realizes Jaskier is pushing too far, asking for too much? He couldn’t bear to lose him. But the fear isn’t quite strong enough to counteract the aching need in his chest. So he lets Geralt ease into him, lets Geralt prep him in the way no one else ever has - not at least since he started working here.
Geralt fucks into him with quick, precise movements, like he’s doing this for Jaskier’s enjoyment and not just so he can fuck him. Which does something to his head and his heart that’s too much to cope with right now. So Jaskier shuts his eyes and lets himself be looked after. Because it feels good and Geralt wants to. And isn’t his entire job to make Geralt happy? It’s maybe not the most honest way of looking at things, but Geralt’s lips press against his neck and Jaskier can’t do anything but whimper in response.
By the time Geralt gets around to fucking him, Jaskier’s so worked up he could come at any second. His thoughts are foggy, mixed up in Geralt’s scent and his touch. This is not a regular rendezvous, not a regular fuck with a regular customer - and maybe it hasn’t been with Geralt for a long time.
When Geralt pushes into him, he presses his forehead against Jaskier’s stomach, groaning against him. Jaskier can feel the tension in his body, in the way he keeps himself from pushing too hard, too quick, and he slides a hand over Geralt’s cheek.
“You don’t have to be so careful,” he breathes, then realizes maybe Geralt is just pacing himself. “When was the last time?”
“When I was here,” Geralt groans, rocking back before slipping deeper.
“Fuck,” Jaskier shuts his eyes, trying to focus through the pleasure zipping through him, “Geralt, that was months ago.” He only gets a soft hum in response and something in Jaskier’s chest tightens. He runs his thumb over Geralt’s cheekbone and sighs. “Why didn’t you see anyone?”
“I don’t go to other brothels.” Geralt rolls his hips slowly, sliding fully into him, but it’s not the press of his cock that leaves Jaskier breathless.
“Why not?” he asks, hoping his voice doesn’t come out as breathless as he feels right now.
“I don’t need to,” Geralt huffs, “I have you.”
Warmth floods his chest and for a second, it feels like he can’t breathe, but he’s quick to tamp down the feeling. As much as he hates her for it, Anise is right and he shouldn’t allow himself to get close to his customers. But Geralt is so soft and gentle and caring that Jaskier wonders how anyone could resist him.
Jaskier pushes any and all thoughts from his mind, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and tugging him up over him. He presses his nose into his neck, kisses him, lets his lips hover over his pulse point, feeling the steady even beat of Geralt’s heart as Geralt fucks him.
Geralt makes him come again without any effort whatsoever and while Jaskier is trying to remember how to breathe, Geralt follows. They settle against each other, Geralt with his head on Jaskier’s chest and Jaskier softly running his fingers through his hair. He feels oddly content in a way he hasn’t in a long time but beneath that there’s a buzzing anxiety, reminding him that he shouldn’t let this continue for too long.
Most of his customers get off and get out, but Jaskier would wonder if he’d done something wrong if Geralt left right away. In fact, he can count the number of times he’s left that night at all. And if he’s honest with himself, he likes cuddling with him, even if it doesn’t happen every time. So Jaskier takes advantage of it while he can, running his hands over Geralt’s shoulder and combing his fingers through his hair. The first time Geralt came to him, he’d said it had been a long time since he’d shared a bed with someone and Jaskier had gotten the impression that it was something he’d wanted. One of the many things Geralt refused to ask for - at least in the beginning.
Now, Geralt’s breath is hot against his shoulder and his fingers slip softly over Jaskier’s skin. It’s too close to intimacy, too close to something neither of them should want and Jaskier knows if Anise saw him right now, she’d have a whole lot to say about it. Sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps him from fully crossing that line into too much - imagining what she would do if she saw them together. And right now he knows he has to do something to get this back on track.
“I’m gonna be no use to anyone today,” he hums, resisting the urge to press his nose into Geralt’s hair. He feels Geralt stiffen against him and feels guilty about the reminder, but it’s best he remembers this is just a transaction. Jaskier huffs a laugh and shifts under Geralt, readjusting himself. “Maybe I’ll take the day off.”
“You should,” Geralt murmurs, “you deserve time to yourself.”
Jaskier’s heart flutters and he shuts his eyes. Geralt really is so soft. “Spend the day with me,” he blurts before he can think better of it. Decidedly not what he should be suggesting.
“My brother,” Geralt mumbles and Jaskier can feel embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. He’s a whore, of course Geralt wouldn’t choose him over his brother, even for the day.
“Right. Of course-”
“I promised him I’d work a contract with him before-”
“Before you got drunk and stumbled into my room?” Jaskier offers.
“Hmm.” Jaskier shuts his eyes and tries to will away the red flush he can feel in his cheeks, but Geralt tips his head, pressing up to kiss the underside of Jaskier’s neck. “Next time,” he says and every one of Jaskier’s defences drops.
He watches as Geralt pushes himself up and disentangles himself from the blankets. Fuck. Jaskier is usually so good at keeping his work life professional; he’s never once allowed himself to think about his customers as anything but what they are. But as Geralt raises his arms in a stretch, Jaskier’s chest tightens and he realizes no amount of professionalism can save him now, he’s already in too deep.
“Can I ask you something?” Geralt says and Jaskier’s eyes snap up to his, suddenly aware that he’s been staring. “The girl Eskel was with was very… enthusiastic.”
“Of course she was, darling, it’s her job.”
“They nearly threw me out the first time I came here. Because I’m a Witcher.”
“Ah. Well. It might have gotten out that a certain Witcher is actually very good in bed.”
“Might have?” Geralt asks, lifting an eyebrow as he approaches the edge of the bed again. He’s dressed again, but he could be covered in pond scum and still be absolutely stunning - he’s witnessed it, in fact.
“The walls are thin and I make a point of not faking it.”
Geralt leans over him, pressing his mouth against his neck, kissing over his pulse point. “You should put something on, we have to go find him if you want to get paid.”
Ah. In the heat of the moment, Jaskier had almost forgotten about payment. Best not tell Anise about that.
The other Witcher is similar to Geralt in almost every respect, though he’s broader and bears a terrible scar down the right side of his face. He pays as Geralt said he would, casting first a dubious look at Geralt then one of almost calculating confusion at Jaskier before thanking him and turning away. Geralt goes with him and Jaskier watches from his window as they make their way toward the inn together. He waits until they’re out of sight, a part of him hoping Geralt will turn and look back at him, but he doesn’t.
It’s the first time he’s had a glimpse of any part of Geralt’s life outside the brothel and it leaves an odd sort of feeling in his stomach that he can’t quite place. Jaskier sighs to himself as he pushes away from the window. Geralt already has so little and gives so much, how can he still want more from him? Before he can think too much of it, there’s a knock on the door and Jaskier opens it to the servant boy with water for a bath.
It’s fine, he thinks, he shouldn’t dwell too much on Witchers and feelings anyway.
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