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arcaneauthor · 1 year

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Tattoos Tell A Story

Part 2 now up (here), Part 3 (here)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!reader

Summary: Coloring in Ghost’s tattoos has become somewhat of a habit. It’s this habit that’s leads you to discovering a tattoo he had gotten done without your knowledge.

Warnings: Fluff, like so much fluff

A/n: This is my first time posting on tumblr and I have no idea what I’m doing. Requests now open! Pls give me some ideas😭

You found it one day during one of your little “coloring sessions”,A little habit you’ve picked up ever since that one rainy day in July. Ghost had just come back from a mission and you both wanted to soak in as much of the other as possible, just bask in one another’s presence. Three months with nothing more then a letter exchange here and there, you were gonna enjoy as much time with your boyfriend as possible.

You remember lightly stroking his arm as you curiously asked him why all of his tattoos were so dull.

~*~

“Pardon?” He questions if he heard you right.

“Your tattoos, all of them are just black. There’s no color.” Your eyes still haven’t left where you are softly tracing one of his tattoos, a depiction of an assault rifle rapped in thorns.

He raises his other tattooed arm for inspection, as if he had forgotten what it looked like.

“I don’t need em’ all flashy. Besides,” he shrugs,”Think they look better this way.”

You make a noise of disagreement, shaking your head, until a thought seems to strike you, raising your head from where it was previously laying on his shoulder, eyes looking up at him with a mischievous glint.

“Wanna bet?” Is all he gets before you bolt out of his grip, standing up to dig through the bedside drawer, grabbing a case of markers out before diving back into bed, a little too excitedly seeing as how the whole thing rocked.

You hold the case up to him as a kid would show a crayon drawing to their parents.

He stares at the markers before flicking his eyes to you.

“What are ya doin’?

You completely ignore him as you smile, a little manically, and turn to grab his arm and get to work.

He may have complained, but he never stopped you.

And he would never admit it out loud, but it did look kinda cool

It also put him to sleep

~*~

And now your little “coloring sessions” have become a bit of a recurring thing.

Sick and stuck in bed? He gives you his arm.

That time of the month and you’re curled under the covers with cramps? He’s already grabbing the markers for you.

Just having a bit of a lazy cuddle session? You’re instinctually grabbing his arm.

Today, it’s the third option. He had once again just got home from a mission and, though not as long as some of his other send offs, it still seemed way too long to you. You were sitting against one another, your back to his chest, one arm hugging you to him, the other clutched in your grasp as you fill in his uncolored tattoos with your pack of markers. His masked face was pressed against the side of your head as he watched your hands delicately glide the marker across his skin, sometimes throwing in a cheeky comment or two about how a certain color didn’t go somewhere, which earned him a slap to the thigh.

You finished filling in the rose near his elbow, moving further down towards his hand, but something catches your eye.

You’d done this countless times now, you probably know his tattoos better than he does at this point. You know that the ink goes a little off line on his skull tattoo, you know that there’s a little stray mark beside the oak tree on his bicep. You know every detail and mistake.

That’s how you know this wasn’t here before.

It’s a small little heart on the inside of his wrist, not filled in because of course it isn’t.

You bring it up closer to your face for inspection, and that’s when you notice it

The writing inside.

Y/n

It…was your name?

You whip around to look back at him with questioning eyes.

The mask completely covered the lower part of his face,though his eyes gave away the soft smirk lurking beneath.

“The boys wanted to celebrate the win. Tattoos were Mactavish’s idea.” Bastards trying to be all nonchalant about it.

“But-but, why this?” You shove his own arm into his face, like he didn’t already know what was on it.

He shrugs,”Racked my brain for an idea, but, seems you’re the only thing on my mind these days. Couldn’t get ya out of my head-“

He huffs as you plow into him with a hug, immediately engulfing you in his muscled arms.

Simon never was one for excessive pda or poetic words, rather he showed love through his actions. Attempting to cook for you, making you bubble baths, bringing you heating pads and medicine for your cramps. And this was just another one added to the list, maybe the best of them all in your opinion, cause a tattoo-a tattoo’s pretty dang permanent. In his mind, you know, this is his promise of forever to you. His version of a promise ring.

There’s no tears shed, you never were much of a crier, but the emotions were definitely felt. The warmth, the happiness, the love, all of it was basically drowning you at this point.

“You know tattoo removals hurt right?” You lean away enough to look him in the eye,”Like-like what happens if this doesn’t work out, if you decide you’re tired of me,I don’t know, piggy backing you all the time or something and you have to go get this covered?” You motion to his arm.

It’s said as a joke, but he can still somehow detect the hint of serious worry in your voice.

He lightly grabs you under the chin,”Sweetheart, if I let a catch like you go then I deserve the pain.”

Alright you know you said you weren’t a crier, but that might have brought some moisture to your eye.

He doesn’t even try and stop you as your reach to roll the mask up to his nose, a testament of how much he trusts you. Overwhelmed with emotions, you tenderly cup his face to pull him into a kiss.

It’s slow and gentle, just a smooth glide of your lips against his. His hands gently rubbing up and down your sides. You lovingly gliding your thumb across his light stubble, breathing in his musky cologne. Although intense, the kiss contains absolutely no heat, no sexual insinuation. Instead, you feel only one thing.

Love

“I love you.” You relay breathlessly as you pull away, gently knocking your forehead against his.

You share a few breathes before he replies

“I….care, about you too,” you slap his arm with an unimpressed look,”Kidding! Of course I bloody love you, got your name tattooed on my arm for gosh sa-

You cut him off with another kiss.

~*~

Bonus:

You were once again laid on the bed, squished up against his side with a thick arm wrapped around your shoulder. Your eyes caught sight of your name engraved in his skin.

You smirk at the sight,”You know,” you break silence, catching his attention away from the tv,”It would have looked better if you had gotten the heart filled in with red.”

He’s a little confused for a second before catching your line of sight. He rolls his eyes, jostling you slightly as he sat up to reach beside the bed. Now you’re the one confused.

“Well, if that was the case,” he rolls back over to present you with a red marker,”You wouldn’t get to do it yourself, now would ya’?”

You grab the marker, sparing glances between it and the proud look on Simon’s face.

Your man, This man really got a tattoo with the intent for you to do your silly little coloring on it.

Yep, definitely love him.

#ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #ghost fanfiction #fanfic #call of duty #ghost cod #reader insert #ghost fluff #fluff #writers on tumblr #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #x y/n

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emmitaaa4 · 3 months

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I want to preface this little rant by saying that I am all for ship and let ship—at the end of the day none of this has any significance, and we should all get to enjoy our silly little ships to our heart’s content. Me personally I just want Elain to do whatever the hell she wants and be happy in the end. That being said, rn I just felt like getting something off my chest.

From what I have seen and understood, most of The Other Side believes that Azriel feels entitled to Elain. That he sees her as a sexual object, or at the very most as a rebound he doesn’t truly care for, nor respect; he does not think of her beyond what he can get from her sexually. They say his attitude towards her is toxic in its ‘possessiveness’; he doesn’t consider her an equal, for he sees her as a perpetual damsel in distress he must save; his attraction to her / feelings for her are a symptom of some twisted trauma response.

We know that they believe that. We’ve heard it. Over and over and over. Since 2021. Hell, everybody’s momma probably knows it, too, with the way that rhetoric is spread. But Elriels have made it plenty clear that we have a very different interpretation of the text and do NOT agree with those assessments of Azriel (nor half the things the poor man is diagnosed with, bless his fictional soul), considering what we do know of Azriel’s character and his relationship with Elain, based on the books--and yes, the bonus (see this, this, and this post). Otherwise—i.e. if we believed him an incel x fuckboy hybrid (probs the first of his kind!) who is only interested in getting her in is bed—we would obviously not be shipping them together: most of us (99% I’d say lol) care about Elain more than we do Az, or care about them both just as much.

So it is getting pretty tiring to see us shippers—the actual humans behind the screen—labelled as having a toxic/immature view of what love is, of being “too young/naive” to see the supposed red flags, of mistaking lust for love because we have not experienced a healthy relationship (?), of actually promoting toxic relationships & advocating for toxic masculinity (which someone told me on tiktok just now)(stay away from tiktok, folks). Those generalizations are wild to me, not only because they are wildly untrue and condescending, but because Elriels are a colorful bunch, you know—when you’re speaking of the fandom Villain™, you’re speaking of people of every demographic, speaking of daughters mothers grandmothers, depressed uni students (pardon the self-insert), etc... I need to get thicker skin, but those statements can get pretty hurtful in the long run. And I’m tired of feeling the need to justify myself as if we’re wrong for shipping two people who MUTUALLY want one another and lets be serious, no its not “just lust”.

I know I know, I am probably being dramatic. But it’s just weird to see a ship being so demonized and its shippers along with it, all because louder portions of the fandom disagree with our opinions and insist on toxifying ours. Just to be clear, I know that many have had unpleasant experiences/interactions with Elriels, just like many Elriels have had the same with Gwynriels and/or Eluciens. I condone none of the disgusting behaviour I’ve seen from some shippers, and in fact I abhor it. As everyone should.

To end this on a good note.

Elriels, I say we run with it. Az wants Elain for himself. He is jealous and his mind is plagued by thoughts of her. Her presence is too much to bear, for he can’t stand to be in the same room as her and pretend like he feels nothing. He is ready to beg on his knees for a chance to worship her, and it took Nesta one look to see it.

AZ IS OBSESSED AND I SAY WE EMBRACE IT.

#pro azriel #elain archeron #ship and let ship folks #that said embrace the obsession my elriel girlies #azriel #elriel #rant post #azriel bonus chapter #pro elriel #azriel shadowsinger #acotar

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joels6string · 1 year

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Mistlewoes

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: No Cordyceps AU; Despite his best attempts at weaseling out of it, you drag a not-so-merry Joel to finish off the last of your Christmas shopping.

Rating: E

Word Count: 3.2k

Content: established relationship, Joel hates Christmas songs and isn't afraid to make it known, cornered beneath the mistletoe, smut to reward him for his troubles [lingerie, face-sitting, oral f-receiving, unprotected p-in-v, creampie]

December in Texas brought temperatures just cold enough to warrant a sweater. Even after eight years of living in the Longhorn state, you still hadn’t lost the longing for the chill of winter air around the holidays the north had offered. But Texas had offered something even better.

Footsteps thumped on the roof of your covered porch right outside your bedroom window, the sight of long, denim-clad legs visible every so often through the gauzy curtains, a flash of skin catching your eye when the hem of his flannel rode up as he reached up over his head. Ten years ago, you’d come down to Austin for a work conference and left with the phone number of a carpenter you’d met at the bar. Two years after that, you were moving into his house with his teenage daughter, Sarah, thousands of miles from home, and a year after that you became Mrs. Joel Miller in a ceremony under your favorite old gazebo in the park.

Three light raps on the glass caught your attention as you brushed gloss over your lips, the silver that had begun streaking through his hair over the last few years glittering in the sun as he crouched down with a grin on his face.

“You gonna come out and look?” he asked, despite the arrangement of rainbow lights along the windows and beams being exactly what it was every year, “S’all done.”

“It’s daytime!” you giggled, opening the window back up to allow him to climb back through, “Can’t see anything.”

“You’ll get the gist.”

It was as if he could hear your retort before it left your lips, pressing a gentle kiss to silence it before it could escape before you resigned with a sigh, opting to look at the green wires wrapped around the yellow house he’d spent years renovating to perfection.

“Did somethin’ a little different this year,” he crooned as he stood beside you in the driveway, “Figured I’d give Jimmy a run for his money.”

With your nose wrinkled in concentration in that way that made the corner of his lips tick up into a crooked smirk, you inspected the tangles of wires looking for a change, his low, affectionate chuckle sending familiar heat rushing to your cheeks.

“You’ll catch it tonight,” he reassured as he rounded and blocked your view with his broad chest, “Where you headed? Or did you get all dolled up just for me?”

“Christmas shopping,” you answered sweetly, eying him warily.

Thick fingers pulled his worn leather billfold out of his back pocket, cueing your own opportunity to allow a mischievous smile to settle onto your features.

“I got fifty in cash and…” the little blue card he kept under lock and key was folded between the crisp bill, “Don’t go too crazy, now. Just…get what we need.”

“Why are you giving this to me?” you asked, accepting his offering despite your question, “You’re coming.”

“I beg your pardon?”

His beard was soft against your palm as you cupped his jaw, “You said you’d come.”

Watching the realization of last night’s promise dawn on his face had you laughing again, his eyes going from denial to thought and ending on dreaded acceptance. A heavy sigh had his shoulders dropping, your thumb’s soothing path along his cheekbone warming his slightly chilled skin.

“I wasn’t in my right mind,” he defended, and he wasn’t entirely wrong. He’d been at your mercy, your lazy kisses to his softening cock as he lay panting above you in a post-orgasm haze had him ready to agree to anything. “I should get a pass.”

“I think that’s when you’re at your clearest, actually.”

A surrendering scoff was your cue to victory, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip in delight as he went to grab the keys to his truck and lock the house, his gratuitous swat to your bottom as he walked past to get into the driver’s seat enough proof whatever grumpy face he was about to put on was at least donned willingly.

“Where to first, light of my life?” he drawled sarcastically, his head rolling against the headrest as the truck rumbled to life.

“Coffee,” you chirped, snatching the cable leading to his outdated stereo and plugging it into your phone, your favorite Christmas playlist ringing in the cabin along with his groan born of pure dread.

“Do we have to?”

“It’s time to get in the spirit, Scrooge McMiller, Sarah will be home in a few days. She’s worse than me.”

The world blurred past the windows as you sang quietly along with the carols, Joel’s wide palm resting comfortably over your thigh, thumb brushing lightly as you allowed him to hum along with the melodies without meddling. You knew he swore you couldn’t hear him, but that low timbre was a sound you could find in the loudest crowd.

When you hopped out at the coffee shop he opted to wait in the truck, “keep it warm” he claimed, with a request for his usual. His usual was black coffee with a splash of half-and-half and two sugars, and he never wavered no matter how much you nagged him to at least try some flavor. “I’m a simple man, darlin’,” he’d always say with a quick peck to whatever part of you was accessible, sometimes it was the back of your hand when your fingers were threads through his in the middle seat of the truck, or your forehead if you were on your way out the door, but sometimes he took his time, dragging his nose across your cheek before his lips were pressing to the sharp curve of your jaw so softly it sent a shiver down your spine. Just the thought of it had you twitching as you approached the counter and put your order in. Even after all these years he still made your stomach flip.

As you made your way back to the car the sight of him on his phone, notepad on his dash with his pencil scribbling furiously siphoned off a little of your joy, the slam of the door as you slid back in slightly overdone as he hurried off the call at your return.

“No work on Sunday,” you huffed, earning an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry, darlin’. It’s goin’ away.” Then he caught sight of your coffee. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s coffee.”

“That ain’t coffee.”

It was a little overembellished, but to you, that’s what the holidays were for–a little indulgence. A mountain of red and green sprinkle-covered whipped cream sat atop your red cup, the smell of the sweetener wafting out with the steam as your tongue lapped out in a way that had his head ticking ever-so-slightly.

“It’s a sugar cookie almond milk latte,” you continued, swiping your finger through the topping and bringing it towards his slightly parted lips, the way he immediately took it into his mouth to lick it clean making you consider a quick pitstop back at home before continuing on.

“Like I said,” he cooed, “it ain’t coffee. Where to next?”

“The mall.”

“And here lies Joel Miller,” he began murmuring under his breath as his foot hit the gas, “Died December 18th, 2022 after being dragged–”

Your squeal of delight had his griping cut short as the familiar voice of Mariah Carey came over the speakers, “All I Want For Christmas is You”’s chiming bells being made slightly louder as you spun the volume way as his nostrils flared. You sang along, louder than you had the previous tunes, your little shimmies along with the melody catching his eye every so often as he took in the show, landing a few quips of his own through the ridiculous lyrics.

Oh, I won't ask for much this Christmas

I won't even wish for snow (and I) “That’s good, it don’t snow here.”

I'm just gonna keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe “Hopefully not for me, you’ll be there awhile.”

I won't make a list and send it to the North Pole for Saint Nick “Aren’t you on the naughty list this year?”

I won't even stay awake to hear those magic reindeer click “Well you never make it past ten anyway.”

'Cause I just want you here tonight

Holding on to me so tight

What more can I do? “I got a few ideas.”

Oh, baby, all I want for Christmas is you

You, baby “Cheaper for me.”

Singing had never been one of your strongest suits, but the laughter that was pouring free at his commentary was making it even worse. A snort slipped out at one point, your lungs burning as you tried to hit the high notes all while keeping your composure. You were failing miserably.

I just wanna see my baby standing right outside my door “That’s where I’m gonna be if you keep singin’.”

When that final high note was revving up, he gave you a warning glare, your smile stretching as you took in a deep breath. “Don’t…” he cautioned, holding his pointer finger up as if would help, and when it didn’t and your high-pitched squeal reverberated off the glass his face twisted in pain, “You break it, you buy it!”

You were still laughing as he pulled into the mall’s parking lot, a kiss still being requested as he dropped you off at the doors before heading off to search for parking despite the concert you’d subjected him to on the ride over. While waiting for him to catch up, you perused the windows of the shops around you, your coffee still warm in your hand as took in the twinkling lights and garlands, holiday music playing over the speakers as kids ran off from their parents to find Santa and friends squealed over their favorite finds of the day.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” a familiar voice grunted from behind you as an arm slung around your shoulders and pulled you into a sturdy torso, the familiar scent of sawdust and pine tree washing over you.

Joel followed along dutifully, passing over his credit card at each store, carrying your bags, and glaring at anyone who took too much of an eyeful as you passed them. The last on the list was Sarah, who had sent a small list of things she needed but nothing she wanted, which had set you on a mission to find her a fun little something to open on Christmas morning. Joel wasn’t helpful, being all practical himself and not seeing a reason to get her anything beyond the stuff she needed, but you were hellbent and he went along.

The crowds had begun to grow, making maneuvering through them that much harder. After snatching the last box of headphones from the Apple Store and hoping that was good enough for Sarah’s surprise, you grabbed Joel’s hand and dragged him through the center of the mall that had been transformed into a winter wonderland. It was mostly to avoid the mob gathering at an intersection of aisles, but the fake bubble snow drifting down from a machine and the glittering decor had captured your attention enough to miss the archway ahead.

“Ope!” a man dressed as an elf sounded as he leapt out in front of you, causing you to jump back into Joel’s sturdy chest, “Not so fast you two, there’s a fee to pass through these parts!”

“What?” Joel sighed from behind you, his voice conveying his sheer annoyance.

With a mischievous laugh and a point toward the ceiling, you saw the little green bushel hanging from the top of the arch. Mistletoe. Joel’s willingness to participate in PDA in crowded places didn’t go much beyond hand-holding or a hug when you buried yourself into his chest. Affection was something for behind closed doors, where he could enjoy it, savor it, press it to the limit…

“I don’t think so,” he snapped, “Rather go around.”

“It’s a simple fee, sir,” the elf continued, still fully in character, “One kiss, two tickets to Santa’s winter gardens—“

“Do you take cash to let us through to the parking lot?”

“Joel…” you laughed, spinning quickly and grabbing his face between your hands, tugging him down enough to kiss him lightly, his tension melting beneath the gesture, “Look, you lived.”

All you got as a response was a grunt before you sweetly asked him to get the car while you made one more stop, an offer he graciously accepted.

When you arrived home, Joel took to prepping Sarah’s room for her arrival while you made a small dinner, his excitement to have his daughter home from school for a few weeks revving up as he washed blankets and set out the toiletries you’d collected earlier in the week. When the TV went on after and you settled in for a quiet night, he passed out within half an hour, allowing you the chance to slip away and prepare for the final surprise of the night.

Freshly showered and dressed for your plan, you returned to the couch to find him still asleep, the credits of the film you’d put on still rolling. You roused him gently, with soft calls of his name and wandering fingers over the stretch of his chest, his grimace as he emerged from his nap wrinkling his nose.

“I ain’t jinglin’ anymore bells,” he groaned, one eye cracking open to peek at you.

“Thought you might want one of your gifts early, that’s all,” you innocently cooed as he sat up, your satin robe capturing his curiosity.

“Oh yeah? And what might that be?”

“Open it.”

His eyes followed as your fingers toyed with the sash around your waist and he quickly replaced them with his own, pulling the loose knot free with an anticipatory sparkle in his eye.

“Christ…” he huffed out in awe, your curves clad in sheer blue lace a feast for his ravenous gaze, “Was I really this good?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, toying with his graying hair gently as he soaked in the sight of you.

Calloused hands pulled you in by the waist as he sat up completely, latching onto the swell of your breast as he set to lavish your skin with his mouth and hands alike. He squeezed and dragged, his tongue swiping over every inch of skin that made you gasp and shiver. By the time he was finally dragging the fabric down with his teeth to release one of your pert nipples, your skin was tingling, a thin sheen of sweat forming as his lips locked around your little bud and your knees buckled beneath the pressure.

A groan of appreciation rumbled along your sensitive skin as his fingers swiped through the band of your panties and found you soaked. He’d switched his attention to your other side now, reciprocating all the affection he’d given the other, your hands cradling his head as he took his fill. Where your skin used to redden from the scratch of his beard, now it seared with need and desire, electricity coursing to the tips of your fingers as they wound in his hair and scratched reassuringly against his scalp.

“Lemme in here,” he grunted as he slid down onto the floor between your legs, his hand lifting on to allot him space to perch on the cushions beside his head, “Now you don’t stop til you’re done. Understood?”

That had your breath hitching before you nodded, the air cool on your slick folds as he tore the panties in half, citing it was his Christmas gift to do as he saw fit with before he situated you over his tongue and began lapping out to collect what had accumulated greedily. You started slow, running your slit over him as he kept his tongue flattened and free to use, only opting to suckle and press when you paused for a quick reprieve, wanting this to last longer than your body was allowing you. As always, he was patient in times like this (rarely in others), enjoying being surrounded by you in every conceivable way. It was how he liked to spend his time, at home, buried in you in any context.

“Jesus, Joel,” you whimpered as you began riding his mouth again, knowing this time you wouldn’t be able to repress the fire burning in your belly.

He gave you a muffled grunt as you carefully bounced up and down, the obscene smacking of his lips like gasoline until you gripped his hair and smeared the new rush of arousal your orgasm brought along his lower face, his beard already soaked from his previous work.

“Atta girl,” he commended, kissing up your inner thigh as he returned to his seat on the couch, quickly scooping you up and tossing you over his shoulder to bring you to your bedroom.

After you landed on the bed with a soft, thud, he was quick to strip himself of his jeans and flannel, his eyes locked on your still-damp cunt as he stroked his cock a few times, your thighs spreading to grant him full access. He teased with just the head at first, rubbing it against your still oversensitized clit until you were squirming, pushing into your channel in one hard thrust once your fingernails began denting into the skin of his forearms.

His thrusts were slow and hard, the drag of him against your inner walls as he pulled out, and the force he rut back in with had you feeling dizzy, your breasts shaking in the confines of the lace with every jolt. He was taking his time tonight, relishing in the way he felt buried deep inside of your cunt, the tightness of you clenching around him with every gratuitous press of his thumb to your swollen clit exactly what he was chasing.

“Joel, please,” you begged as pressure began to build again like the river against a weakening dam, “Please…”

With that small plea, he threw your legs up onto his shoulders and folded you in half as he bent to crash his lips to yours once again. Teeth clacked together as your tongues wrestled, his hips battering against your ass as he fucked you hard enough to have you sliding up the bed. You held him close, whining into his mouth in the way you knew he loved, pathetic and desperate, the little grunts you lived for beginning to flit into the air before you succumbed to the force bearing down on your stomach. Your eyes clenched shut as you screamed, your back arching off the bed as he took advantage of your exposed throat, keeping his own release at bay long enough to fully enjoy feeling yours overtake you.

Seconds after your cries turned to panting breaths he was spilling inside of you, hot and deep, that relieved sigh that signified he’d found the ultimate relief huffing out hot against your neck. As he regulated his own breath your fingers ran up and down his back, tracing the dips and curves of muscle decorating his sun-kissed skin.

“Merry Christmas,” you giggled as his heavy-lidded eyes lifted to look down at you, a smile stretching across his handsome face.

“I guess all I wanted for Christmas was you after all,” he joked as he rose to get a towel, “Maybe that song was on to something.”

Joel Miller Masterlist

*I didn't proofread this, I die like the amateur I am.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller christmas

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shyvioletcat · 1 year

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A/N: I wanted to get out of a posting slump so I quickly threw this together. I may or may not be addicted to the single parent trope at the moment. Sorry, not sorry? Anyway, please enjoy.

~~~~~

With the sun shining and the alluring solitude of a park bench, Rowan thought eating his lunch outside today was a good idea. Inside wasn’t all that appealing with Fenrys on his case today, instead of the literal case they should be investigating. Both ranking detective of the Orynth Police Department and partners on just about every case that their Chief of police gave them, Fenrys thought that entitled him to a say in Rowan’s personal life. Today was about the lack of romance Rowan was experiencing in his out of office hours—stating that he was married to his work. That was an exaggeration, Rowan was just dedicated to his work. There was a difference.

Sure, he had a habit of taking work home with him and more than once had fallen asleep with files in his bed. There just wasn’t time for anything else when you dedicated your life to saving others.

Fenrys claimed it made him grumpy and irritable, and no fun to be around. Lorcan, another detective on the force who had known him since they were children, was quick to claim that Rowan had, in fact, been born that way.

So to escape the pestering and matchmaking, he pardoned himself for his lunch break and went out into the fresh air. Rowan sat on the bench, unwrapping his sub he’d just bought a few minutes ago before he wandered through the large botanical garden to find somewhere quiet to eat. He tucked the carry bag under his thigh to stop it blowing away and took a bite. The city hummed around him, combined with the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind. It wasn’t anywhere near silent but at least someone wasn’t asking him about when was the last time he got laid.

A squirrel ran past, disturbing the fallen autumn leaves and stopping on its hind legs to sniff the air in Rowan’s direction before scurrying off with a flip of a fluffy tail. Rowan huffed a small laugh at it, something about squirrels was so comical. Maybe it was their tiny little hands. He was about to take another bite when there was another noise that didn’t fit the ambiance of the situation. It was a sniffle and immediately Rowan’s head snapped to the source, his body already on high alert.

A few metres away on the concrete path was a little girl, no older than three, eyes shining with tears and she hugged a long eared stuffed rabbit to her chest. Rowan surveyed the area, looking for who she might belong to, even though he had his suspicions about the tears. There was no one, it was just him, the girl, and the grey squirrel.

Rowan rebagged his lunch and went over. His feet moving through the brittle leaves caught her attention and her sad eyes widened as he walked over to her. Aware his size could be intimidating, Rowan slowed down. It was handy while dealing with criminals but not so much with lost children. When she looked ready to run he stopped completely and crouched down. In the sunlight her hair was bronze, her brown eyes were eyeing him suspiciously but he could still see the helplessness there.

“Hi,” Rowan said with a small smile. “Are you lost?”

She nodded. Suspicions confirmed.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

The little girl nodded, still very wary of him. Smart girl, but Rowan wouldn’t get anywhere if she didn’t talk to him.

“See that building right there?” he pointed over his shoulder to where the roof of the police building towered above the trees. “Do you know it? It’s the police building and I work there.” Again the girl nodded. “I even have my badge to prove it.”

Rowan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his badge. The girl moved forward, running her fingers of the impressions with some familiarity, following the lines of the crest without even looking and turned her eyes on him.

“Will you let me help you?” Rowan asked softly.

The little girl had been convinced. “I was at the playground with my mama, and I was chasing squirrels.”

Rowan barely caught the last word as her little voice struggled around it.

“Those pesky squirrels are fast, huh?” Rowan commiserated.

“Yeah! And I can’t find my way back to mama!”

The admission brought on a new wave of tears. Rowan extracted a napkin from his lunch and gave it to her. She did a very poor job of wiping her nose but it would have to do.

“I know where the playground is, shall I take you back?” Rowan said.

“Yes please,” the little girl answered, still miserable.

Rowan stood, leading the way in the direction of the playground. The little girl scurried after him, much like a squirrel herself, and very surprisingly took his hand. He hadn’t offered it, but he didn’t have the heart to take it away now. Looking down he could see how the tears had started to dry and her face was a lot less blotchy. If holding her hand offered her that small comfort, he could give her that.

“My name is Rowan. What’s your’s?” he asked.

“Marigold,” the little girl replied, her head tilting all the way up to see him.

Rowan smiled. “Nice to meet you, Marigold.”

The sounds of the playground started to reach them and Marigold’s hand relaxed in his, she didn’t let go though. As it came into view Rowan kept his eye out for a panicked mother, no doubt searching desperately for her child. If that wasn’t the case, Rowan was about to have an infinitely more complicated situation on his hands. Nothing looked out of the ordinary and Rowan’s heart sank. He’d have to take her back to the station, maybe look at cctv footage, hopefully find—

“Mari!”

A female voice behind him had the girl breaking free of his hand and running. Rowan turned in time to see Marigold run into the arms of who he assumed was her mother. He couldn’t tell much about her, except that she had blonde hair, every other feature was obscured as she held her child like it was a lifeline.

“You scared me,” the woman said, sitting back on her heels. “What happened?”

“Squirrels, mama. They ran away,” Marigold explained.

The woman gave a long suffering sigh, but the joyful relief in her lessened the effect. “It’s always the squirrels.”

Rowan couldn’t help but laugh at that, and that small sound drew the woman’s attention. Her eyes were an unusual hue of blue, nearly turquoise, and they narrowed on him. A moment later she was standing, putting herself between him and Marigold. She looked familiar, but Rowan couldn’t place how. And he didn’t have the chance to contemplate it further.

“Who the hell are you and why did you have my daughter?” she accused.

He knew what this looked like, a strange man walking with a little girl. With the adrenaline running through her it was likely the woman wasn’t thinking clearly. It was best Rowan wrapped this up quickly before she made a scene.

“I found her wandering and brought her back,” he explained.

“Likely story,” the woman said. “Are you hurt, Mari? Did he hurt you?”

The question was asked at him, like if this woman so much as blinked he might make a run for it.

“No, Mama. I’m safe,” Marigold replied.

Some of the tension relaxed from the woman’s shoulders, but she still wasn’t ready to back down.

“Ma’am, I’m not a predator,” Rowan said, pulling out his badge and ID again.

This time the woman relaxed fully, there was even a hint of a smile on her face. “Ma’am? How old do you think I am?”

“I—” Rowan didn’t actually know how to answer that question.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I went full mamabear on you.”

Rowan shrugged it away casually. “You had valid cause.”

“Thank you, officer,” she said, stepping aside so she could take Marigold’s hand.

“Detective,” Rowan said automatically, kicking himself for it.

“Oh, sorry. Detective,” the woman teased. “Whitethorn, wasn’t it?”

Rowan nodded. He deserved the mocking for correcting a woman who had been distraught less than five minutes ago.

“I’ll be sure to let my father know about your heroics, there might be an end of year bonus in it for you.”

Rowan felt his brows furrow in confusion. “Your father?”

“He’s chief of police at Orynth PD. I’m sure he’ll be eternally grateful to you for keeping his granddaughter safe,” the woman explained further.

“Oh, you’re his daughter,” Rowan said, connecting the obvious dots aloud.

“Guilty as charged.” That was said with a mock salute. “I’m Aelin.”

Rowan couldn’t help but stare for a moment. Everyone knew the tragic story of the Chief’s daughter, or rather the man she loved. She’d been married to her father’s protege, Sam Cortland, who was one of the best cops on the force. He’d reached detective status when the worst happened. It was a sting operation to bring in a notorious crime ring. They were set to bring in the head of the operation too, but there had been a leak and the scum were waiting for them. It had been a shitshow and a bloody fight. Sam had taken a bullet meant for Chief Galathynius and it had hit him in a devastating spot despite wearing his ballistic vest. He died on scene, leaving behind his young wife and daughter who was barely three months old. The fact the leader of the crime ring had gotten away made it all that much more bitter.

“Aelin,” Rowan repeated, then cleared his throat to try and cover the fact he hadn’t thought of what he’d say next. “I’m glad I could help.”

“It’s much appreciated.” Aelin then turned to her daughter. “Come on, Mari. We’ll let Detective Whitethorn get back to work.”

“Bye,” Marigold said, swinging herself forward with her mother's hand and waving aggressively. So aggressively that she dropped her bunny.

Without thinking, Rowan picked it up and handed it back to the little girl, who showed her appreciation with a toothy smile.

“Thank you,” Aelin said. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Goodbye, Mrs Cortland,” Rowan replied, erring on the side of professionalism, and he saw something shutter in Aelin’s eyes before she banished it with a smile and a nod.

Rowan’s phone went off in his pocket, and he knew it was the timer letting him know his lunch break was over. With Marigold and Aelin gone he swore under his breath. It turned out he’d be eating at his desk anyway. He made his way back to his office, the trek through the foyer and up the elevator second nature at this point. No one bothered him as he unlocked his office door, the plaque on it declaring his name with gold letters. This door had once read another name entirely, Sam Cortland had once been written on it in the same harsh font. Rowan ignored that thought as he stepped through it and took a seat at his desk.

He started on his sandwich again, bringing up files on his computer screen so he could read and eat at the same time. It had been all of five minutes before the reason for his escape appeared in his doorway, smiling and looking ready to provoke.

“Piss off, Fen,” Rowan said flatly. “I’m busy.”

Fenrys ignored every bit of annoyance radiating from the other man and walked in, taking a seat on the other side of the desk.

“Soooo,” the blonde man said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Lunch date?”

Rowan sacrificed an olive that had fallen from his sandwich and threw it at Fenrys, it hit him in the chest. “No.”

“Meet anyone interesting then?” Fenrys pressed.

Rowan’s retort of bugger off was cut off by Rhoe Galathynius stepping into his office.

“Whitethorn,” he said, effectively ignoring Fenrys as he approached the desk. Rowan stood on instinct and took the hand the Chief of Police offered him. “Thank you.”

There was true gratitude shining in Chief Galathynius’ blue eyes, a different shade to his daughter’s, but it was now Rowan recognised the slight similarities. The handshake was firm and both men nodded at the end.

“Don’t mention it, sir,” Rowan said, and a small smile appeared on Chief Galathyunius’ face.

“Not a chance of that, I’m afraid,” he said. “Just wait until Evalin finds out, you’ll be a very popular man, Detective Whitethorn.”

That was all he said before Chief Galathynius walked out. Leaving behind a very perplexed Fenrys.

“What was all that about?” he demanded.

Rowan waved him off. “Nothing. Don’t you have work to do?”

“Bah!” Fenrys exclaimed, throwing his hands up before pushing out of the chair. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“Go,” Rowan urged, just wanting the man out of his office. He thought he had accomplished his goal and was blessed with a few beautiful moments of silence. But then Fenrys’ appeared again, just his head, floating in the doorway.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Fenrys said. “Meet anyone interesting?”

“No,” Rowan said, sparing Fenrys a glance before returning his gaze to his computer, the name Hamel in bold at the top of the screen. This was more pressing than the gossip Fenrys was fishing for. Rowan had a job to do, that was the facts of it and his purpose, so he just shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

~~~~~

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#rowaelin fanfiction #squirrelling away

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monstrouslyobsessed · 2 years

Text

Concept: A cannibal cook is in love with the little pie-maker next to restaurant. His little lady loves his meat pies and always ask him to give her his secret, and all he says is “everything is in the meat”. —anonymous

a/n: sorry about the inactivity, haven’t been feeling too well the past few weeks;; i’m going to do my best and get another concept out by tomorrow after this one. enjoy!

—tw / tags: gn reader, cannibalism, unknowingly being fed human meat, meat eating, murder / death, mentions of feederism?, gore, general yandere themes, sfw, long post, unedited —featured character(s): cannibal butcher / chef

“It’s all in the meat, darlin’.” His chuckle was a boisterous one, the kind that warmed your chest in a funny way and had you sticking out your bottom lip in a pout. His crooked grin told you he had no intention of sharing his secrets with you.

You thrummed your fingernails on his glass countertop and kept your pouting. “Oh, come on, I shared my secret peanut butter pie recipe with you! Can’t you throw me a bone just this once?” You wrung and huffed, puffing your cheeks out like a child.

You were being silly—though exchanging one of your secret recipes for his financial support to keep your little bakery floating during a hard time was cheap trade-off (he wouldn't accept anything else when he caught winds of your bakery facing the risk of being closed down for good). The chef didn’t owe you a single thing.

Still, his pulled pork was to die for. The best-tasting one you ever had, and it was even better than your uncle’s! You had to know how he bested over your uncle’s masterpiece.

The chef snorted, his smile beaming through his bushy beard. “Sorry, suga’, ‘fraid I can’t.” He teased, leaning closer to you with his elbow pressing on the shiny surface.

“Pleaseeee?” You pleaded, craning your head to meet his twinkling gaze and shooting him your best puppy-eyed look. You need to know.

He burst out laughing again and poked his finger on your forehead, dragging a scowl from your adorable face. “Lemme think about it, eh?” You flustered at how deep his voice was.

A quiet ding interrupted your parting lips, and the chef pulled away, glancing over to the roaster over in the back (or you think was a roaster oven, you weren’t sure) to where you couldn’t see. He slapped his hand on the countertop and clicked his tongue.

“Your lunch’s about ready. Gimme some minutes, darlin’.” The chef pardoned himself and ducked away from his position into his kitchen. For a hefty guy like him, he was awfully quick on his feet.

While bustling himself around through the open window you peered through, you debated on whether to buy additional meats to cook at home. You weren’t low in your meat stock yet, but your uncle might appreciate rising to the challenge to beat the chef’s.

When the chef emerged from his kitchen with a white Styrofoam box in hand, you pointed at one of his wrapped meats in his refrigerated sections, “Can I have the pork shoulder to go?” You accepted the box and absentmindedly handed over your card for the payment.

“Sure thing, hun. 5 pounders be okay?” The chef accepted your eager nod as his answer. He made quick work of it all, packing your newly acquired meat in wax paper. Settling your pork atop your styrofoam box, glancing your way with amusement when you rolled your eyes at how casual he was about propping it in your hands—literally, the chef rang you up.

Returning your card and tucking the paper receipt between your fingers, he leaned on his surface and grinned at the determination you wore on your expression, “Gonna try to beat out my secret recipe, eh?” He teased.

“It had to be your sauce.” You decided, replacing your card where it belonged, and minded your goods. You needed to hit up your uncle and see if he’d be up for experimenting with you.

“Sure, sure,” the chef’s chuckle was deep, rousing a strangely comforting feeling inside your chest. He waved you off, startling you out from your effort to sort out what exactly it was that settled in your heart. “You should get to eatin’, ya lunch won’t stay hot for long.”

“Oh, right!” You needed to get back to work—the baker’s work never ends. You scurried to the door and spread your fingers from your heavy box in an awkward wave. “Thanks, I’ll see you later, okay?”

“See you in a couple of hours,” the chef returned, resting his elbows on his countertop again and watching you hurrying back to your bakery through his storefront window. He’d have to wipe his surface down again, smearing it with some greases from his arms, but that was alright with him.

It was worth it seeing you. Worth knowing you’d be eating his meat that he worked so hard to perfect, just for you. Thinking about the image of you eating, had him salivating in his mouth.

He wished he could’ve watched you enjoying your lunch, knowing how oblivious you are to the truth of his secret recipe. It made his heart flutter and stirred something funny in his lower half.

You were a darling little thing. And he, was not.

He considered himself a tad on the ugly side, large and round, packing both fat and muscles. He was not a man most would consider perfect husband material (he certainly was not a pretty boy) nor did he have many clamoring to put a ring on his finger through his door.

Still, as he entered his kitchen and wandered inside the massive walk-in freezer he kept, he was keen on trying. To be that perfect husband material for you. Gazing across his hanged meats, most with exposed ribs and dark red meat ready to be cut and collected, he hummed and counted how many “pigs” he had left.

They were barely skeletons now, their heads absent from their bodies and tucked away elsewhere. Their brains were good ingredients for multiple recipes but weren’t popular with most common folks. What a shame, the chef absently thought, they were delicious when done right.

Anything else, like eyes and skin—all the soft bits he couldn’t make into ingredients, he’d ground up and feed to his hunting dogs. They enjoyed chewing on the uncooked bones too, though he made sure to get rid of anything far too big for them by bashing them into smaller pieces and throwing them into the grain feeds and old leftovers to the pigs he kept at his farm.

Especially the teeth, fingers, and toes.

A shriveling sob, teeth chattering, had his head turning. He tutted and crossed his beefy arms, crinkling his leather apron, at the sight of a naked man balling into a corner. His skin was pale from the cold, with a layer of frost growing, and his white breaths were so thin that the chef wasn’t sure he was breathing at all.

One side of his head was bloodied though, with the red color frozen on his face.

He didn’t use enough force earlier, it seemed.

“Pl—please…” the man begged, shuddering and rocking in a fetal position for what little warmth he had left.

Granted, the chef shook his head, he was in the rush to make his darlin’ the perfect meal, and didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him.

He should remedy that.

Closing in, he curled his hands into fists and pulled one over his shoulder.

“No—no!”

Thwack.

Thin blood splashed the wall, but it was so minuscule that the splatter was hardly noticeable because of the cold. Scrubbing it off would be a pain in the freezer, but doable. The entire freezer was due for a good deep cleaning and proper look-over anyway.

The man limped over to the floor and was no longer breathing tiny clouds of white. Gripping one of its arms, the chef dragged it off the ground and examined his latest addition.

He’ll need to gut it and slice off the good cuts.

It got good meats on it too, though some bits might be a mite too chewy. Even tough meats still have their places as good proper ingredients. They were especially good in stews, marinating in broth for hours until they become so tender they’d fall apart in your mouth. Ooh, that sounds so good…

A smile curled his lips at the thought of cooking this meat for you.

As the saying goes,

the quickest way to win your heart is through your stomach.

—end

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tadpoleatemybrain · 2 months

Text

Peer Review

Modern Professor Ancunin au Post canon unromanced spawnstarion au

Summary: If you don't want to get called out in front of your class you probably shouldn't lie through your fangs

Words: <1k

Genre: Humor

TW: Character death mention

Thanks to @mutxnts for the idea!

The moment Astarion entered the building he caught the glances in his direction and conversations that seemed to quiet as he walked past. What a wonderful way to begin his day, with rumors circulating about him. Not that it was terribly uncommon for that to occur. Given that he was an almost eight-hundred-year-old vampire and taught an entire class that mostly consisted of reading his old journal entries, there was plenty to gossip about.

Well, that and Astarion not exactly being the most "stereotypical" of professors. Not that he saw anything negative about any of it. Spiced things up at least, hells, academia could be so boring without gossip. It was also completely unavoidable.

Unlike a lot of the rumors, this one was quite a bit more substantial, and recent. It was the sort of rumor that didn't win him any points with administration or management. So it had to be addressed. The sooner, the better. No better time than his next history class.

"As I'm sure you're all aware, there's a rumor about me getting caught picking a lock. I want to cle-" Astarion began.

"Is it true?" One of his students piped up, cutting him off. Far too excited.

"I was getting to that!" He shot back, never a fan of being interrupted.

"Yes, it's true." The vampire confirmed. Intrigued chattering among the students.

"However, I need to clarify. It was my office. I forgot my keys and I didn't have time to track down maintenance. And I suppose I was curious if I still had the touch. Don't want to get rusty." The professor stated.

"Can you teach us?!" Another student asked.

"As fun as it would be to unleash thirty students with sticky fingers onto campus, no. I asked for that when I started and they almost reconsidered hiring me." That had been a fun conversation. The joke was on them because he has tenure now.

A wonderful little idea crossed his mind. None of his students really knew much about his skills. Anyone who could argue against anything he said had either passed on or didn't care enough to counter him. His writings had bias too, so even that would legitimize his claims.

So why not have some fun with it?

"You know back in my rogue days, there was hardly a thing in Faerún I couldn't open. Doors, chests, shackles, mouths…and other things." The word he wanted to say was 'legs', but that would get him into even more trouble. Astarion just couldn't be fucked to sit through another meeting regarding 'professionalism'.

"So honestly, I'm only embarrassed that I took long enough to get caught. I must be slipping." He sighed. They seemed to believe him hook, line, and sinker.

What no one could have anticipated, even Astarion, was what happened next. A noise akin to static filled the room. The vampire was on guard, believing something was intending to harm either him or his students. This would be a challenge, he wasn't armed.

"Hello, class. Pardon my interupption." That voice was familiar. At first, Astarion thought this might be some sort of prank, but someone would have to be one hell of an impressionist to mimic this voice so accurately.

"This is his former party member The Wizard of Waterdeep, Professor Gale Dekarios of Blackstaff Academy. I'm reaching out to you via the weave to inform you this man is a liar. A massive liar, in fact. You shouldn't believe a word out of his mouth. I can hardly count the number of chests he failed to open and traps he failed to disarm." It had to be Gale. No one could nail that speech pattern. Immediately offended noises spewed out of the vampire. His ears went back like a cat's.

"…500 years I don't hear a word from you, and now you want to pop in for a guest lecture?!" And now of all times too. No other lecture had been grounds for an interruption before. Clearly, Gale must have taken it as quite an egregious lie to correct. How he had even found out was a good question, one the vampire likely wouldn't get an answer to.

"More like peer review really." Gale replied. The students couldn't contain their laughter. It wasn't every day that they got to see their professor get fact-checked from beyond the grave.

"What kind of an instructor lies so boldly to their own students? For shame Dr. Ancunin." Gale made a tsking noise. Astarion could imagine the head shaking.

"Everyone, ignore the disembodied voice of an annoying wizard. Who are you going to believe? Me, your professor or-" He gestured around them.

"A voice in the air?"

"Would a projection help?" Gale asked. It did feel a bit strange to be arguing with a voice. A projection might actually be nice.

"You know what, I'm not cleaning your gravestone anymore. Best of luck to Tara." Astarion shot back.

"I told you, he lies." It was a lie. A hollow threat, and they both knew it.

"Now get out, I have a class to teach!" Astarion huffed and gestured dismissively. Already knowing there was absolutely no way this class was getting back on track.

"Damn wizard." He muttered. Yet, there was a smile on his face. How nice it was to hear from an old friend again. Though Astarion would have preferred different circumstances, it did suit them. Perhaps it might not be the last time either.

#bg 3 fanfic #bg 3 fan fic #bg 3 fic #bg 3 fan fiction #bg3 fanfic #baldurs gate fanfiction #astarion fanfiction #gale bg3 fanfiction #astarion fan fiction #gale bg3 fan fiction #astarion fan fic #baldurs gate 3 fan fic #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #these border crack fic.#professor ancunin au #and I'm fine with that.#because they're so fun.#gale be like.#L + ratio + downvote.

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sortofanobsession · 10 months

Note

Please pardon me if I already sent you this fic idea!

Roy/Jaime: Jaime takes a boot to the chest but assures everyone he’s ok and they go on to win the match. It’s only later that Jaime reveals he’s not that fine, the metal on the bottom of the boot tore him up good, his chest a bruised and bloody mess. Roy is pissed as he takes Jaime home with him and cares for him. As Roy's tending to Jaime's wounded chest, the air grows charged between them and things happen.

A/N: A bit shorter than most of my stories recently. If you find a typo that changes the meaning of something, please let me know. I didn't do a re-read because it is late. But I promised I would post it tonight.

Ao3

Ted Lasso Masterlist

Word Count: 3k+

Paring: Roy x Jamie (Romantic), Roy x Will (Platonic), Jamie x Will (Platonic), Jamie x Isaac (platonic), Coach Beard x Jamie (Platonic) Jamie x AFC Richmond Himbos (platonic)

Content Warning: Blood, Injury, PTSD, Mentions of abuse, mentions of violence, pain, bruising, mentions of head injury, anger, cussing/swearing/cursing.

You clearly can't be trusted to look after yourself

Roy felt dread pool in his gut as he watched Jamie Tartt take what seemed initially to be a well-executed but poorly landed shot. The ball found its target in the back of the net, but Jamie’s boot slipped, and he ended flat on the pitch. The defender that had been attempting to stop him didn’t have time to adjust his path, and his boot connected with Jamie’s chest. Jamie had the wind knocked out of him when he first hit the pitch. The boot connecting sent searing pain through his already screaming lungs. But the look in the defender’s eyes as moved to try and help Jamie sent a pang of guilt through him as he managed to catch his breath. The guy hadn’t done it on purpose. And Jamie’s dazed brain didn’t want him to feel bad. That feeling, in addition to the tiny voice in the back of his head that always sounded suspiciously like his dad, telling him not to be a weak pussy, had him getting up. Accepting the player’s hand and waving off his apologies as he did. The crowd cheered as he got back to his feet. He went to the sideline and insisted he just needed to catch his breath and get a drink. The game went on without him for a few minutes. He accepted the bottle Will gave him and checked the clock on the scoreboard. 7 minutes til half.

“Sit the fuck down,” Roy had told him. And he did. He bunched up his hands in his kit. It stung as the chilled air hit a sticky mix of blood on his chest that was clinging to his undershirt. He’d have to change it during the half.

When the team headed to the locker room, he grabbed his bag and headed to the loo. He waved off the concerns of a few of his teammates. Saying he was going to try and clean up his kit. He was glad he habitually kept a first aid kit hidden deep in his bag. A holdover from the days his old man had taken his frustrations out physically on Jamie, and he didn’t want to have to go to the treatment room and get asked a million questions. It had always been easier this way. The team didn’t need to know then, and they didn’t need to know now. Jamie could handle it. He always did. When he was in the solitude of the toilet, he removed his kit and made quick work of peeling off the long sleeve undershirt he had on under his kit. It was a fucking lost cause. He’d toss it. He was on the clock. If he took too long, someone would come looking, and then he’d have to explain everything. He didn’t want that. He wanted to get back out there and finish the match. So he rushed through bandaging and covering the bloody boot print that caught the edge of his left peck and obliques. He huffed a laugh at himself, thinking at least his abs were fine. He put on his new undershirt and tried to get as much off his kit as he could. On his way out, he tossed his undershirt in the bin. Hoping no one would see it.

“You good?” Isaac asks when he rejoins the team.

“Did fuck all to clean it, don’t envy Will’s job,” Jamie joked as if anyone would give a fuck about his actual kit if they knew he was actually hurt. Isaac studied him. And for a second Jamie thought he might not be playing it off as well as he thought he was.

But Isaac just shrugged. “He’ll manage. Paid to deal with it,” Isaac says. ��Not like it was intentional, bruv.”

“Arse on the pitch was not what I intended, but still a beautiful fucking goal, yeah?” Jamie says.

Isaac laughs and claps him on the back. And Jamie has to bite his cheek to keep from shouting. But Isaac must not notice his change because he is off with the team as they all head back out.

“You good to stay in the game?” Beard asks.

“Course,” Jamie says. Beard looks unsure. “I’m good, coach. Let’s win this, yeah?” And Beard must trust his judgment, probably shouldn’t, but he does. So Jamie gets back out on the pitch for the second half.

Roy knows something is very wrong when Jamie winces slightly as Jeff hugs him after the game. Jamie is good at hiding pain. He has years of practice at it. Roy does too. That's why he can see it. He doesn't hug Jamie as aggressively as he normally does. But if Jamie notices, he doesn't act like it. But Roy watches his every move now. The way Jamie is holding himself and avoiding certain movements. The way Jamie is drawing to the back of the team as they head inside. Slow, calculated movements. He sees Jamie actually sidestepping some of the celebration, and that has the final alarm going off in Roy's head. And Roy takes action because he knows Jamie is dragging his feet and avoiding the showers.

But he can’t sit back and do nothing after Will pulls him aside.

“Coach, you need to see this,” Will had told him and waved Roy into the boot room.

“What?” Roy demands. He was annoyed at the distraction.

“Pretty sure this is Jamie’s,” Will holds up the blood-stained undershirt. “Was half in the bin.”

Roy lets out a litany of curses. This just confirms Jamie’s injured and hiding it.

“What should I do?” Will asks.

“Bin it,” he says, since Tartt clearly intended to. “I’ll deal with Jamie fucking Tartt.”

Will just nods and Roy leaves. He goes straight to Jamie.

"Let me see," Roy says as gets Jamie’s attention.

"See what?" Jamie says.

"Don't play fucking dumb," Roy says.

"Roy, behave, don't make me report you to-" Jamie tries to joke, but Roy is not fucking having it because he knows Jamie well enough to know humor is often a defense mechanism. He knows Jamie. So even if Jamie might get angry at Roy, Roy doesn't care. Roy reaches over and raises the hem of Jamie's kit and lets out a string of curses before dragging Jamie to the treatment room. Jamie knows he is caught now. No getting away now that Roy knows.

"You weren't going to say a fucking word, were you," Roy posits, and Jamie doesn't answer. "You were going to go home and patch yourself up and ignore the fact you could already be halfway to an infection by not getting this treated, and then I find your ass half dead or worse when I show up for training tomorrow morning. What the fuck, Tartt?"

"Let me explain. I-"

"Don't fucking lie to me," Roy cautions as moves around the treatment room, gathering everything he thinks he might need. He washes his hand and finds gloves. "Fucking off with it," he gestures to the top half of Jamie's kit and undershirt. "Will showed me your fucking shirt.” Roy glares. And Jamie feels like a kid that has been caught stealing sweets. “You won't let the actual med team help, but you aren't fucking getting out of this room until I am sure you're not going to fuck your whole career with staph or sepsis or fucking tetanus from a dirty fucking boot."

"Kit didn't even rip. And the league wouldn't let me play if I didn't-"

"Off." Roy glares. "Now." Jamie winces as he takes it off. "Jamie...fucking hell." Roy actually sounds pained, and that catches Jamie off guard. "How did you finish the match like this?" Roy didn't even know where to start with helping Jamie. So he starts by trying to clean him up the mess of slapdash bandaging, partially dried blood, and swelling bruises. "This is going to fucking sting."

An hour later, Jamie is as patched up as he could be with just Roy's help. Jamie goes to change out of the rest of his kit. Apologizing to Will as he does that he took so long.

"It's fine, Jamie," Will tells him. "Glad you're okay, was a nasty hit." Roy grunts and disappears into the office.

"Be fine in a few days," Jamie shrugs off as he finishes changing and tosses his kit in the cart. "And we won. That's what matters."

Will just nods because he just knows Roy Kent is listening. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing.

"Ready?" Roy says, and Jamie looks confused as he looks away from the kitman to his coach.

"For what?" Jamie asks.

"To fucking leave," Roy says. Annoyance is clear in his tone.

"Sure," Jamie says, but it sounds almost like a question. He is still very confused about why Roy is asking.

"Going to celebrate with the team?" Will asks.

"Fuck no," Roy says. "You either." He looks at Jamie.

"Wasn't exactly going to," Jamie says as he grabs his stuff. "Too fucking sore."

"Don't Fucking doubt it," Roy says. Jamie is shocked when Roy takes Jamie's stuff and ushers him out the door.

"I can carry my shit," Jamie says.

"So can I," Roy says.

"Roy," Jamie goes to take it when he goes to pass Roy's G Wagon to his own car. And Roy just tosses it in the boot, and Jamie has no idea what is happening. "What are you doing?"

"You're fucking coming with me because you can't be trusted to ask for help when you fucking need it, and I have a fully stocked first aid kit assembled by an actual medical professional. Someone has to keep your arse alive."

Jamie is too stunned to say anything. Roy hadn't just insisted on patching Jamie up, but now he was insisting Jamie go to his home so Roy could look after him.

"You fucking hit your head and not fucking say anything?" Roy says as he moves closer to Jamie, concern clear on his face.

"I'm wondering the same thing because this is very weird for me," Jamie admits.

"Fuck off," Roy says. "Get in the fucking car before I make you."

And Jamie does because he has zero doubt Roy will do it. He has a very low opinion of Jamie's ability to take care of himself at times. And Jamie knows that.

At his flat, Roy makes Jamie shower and insists on redoing the bandages. Jamie already feels like he's intruding, so he does not put up as big of a fight as he might normally.

"Here," Roy hands him a cup of tea once Jamie sits on Roy's sofa.

"You really don't have to do all this," Jamie says.

"And?" Roy says as he sits at the other end of the sofa. And Jamie doesn't know how to answer that. "Just fucking accept that some people actually care about you and fucking drink your tea." Roy turns on the TV to see what the press is saying about the match. The kick that resulted in Jamie on his sofa was brought up before they even finished their tea. Now that Roy sees the close-ups, he looks over at Jamie.

"The fuck were you thinking, not telling anyone you were fucking bleeding?" Roy asks.

Jamie sighs. "That it wasn’t an underhanded play. Shit happens. The lad felt shitty enough already. And we really needed this win, and any more stoppage in play might fuck up the momentum of the team."

"And your suffering didn't matter? And what? You did fucking bandages in the fucking toilet?"

"I managed," Jamie says.

"You shouldn't have had to," Roy growls. "You could have worsened your injury playing like that. Tore something. So close to your fucking heart, Jamie.” A pained look crosses Roy’s face before he schools his features. “I am your coach, you can’t fucking-” Roy stops and takes a breath. “Listen to me, Jamie. You cannot do this again. Fucking ever."

Jamie does not respond.

"Jamie," Roy shifts closer. "How would you feel if it was one of the other? Like Sam or Dani."

"They wouldn't-"

"Fucking right! Because that is insane, and you could have really gotten injured."

"Says the guy that-"

"And I fucking paid the price!" Roy was now on his feet, looking down at Jamie. "I won't let you make the same fucking mistakes. What kind of fucking coach would I be if I didn't aim to make you a better fucking player than I was. Fucking teach you what not to fucking do. And this." Roy tugs Jamie's shirt up to show the bandages. "This is not fucking okay. A win is not worth your fucking future or your fucking life. Now fucking swear to me this will not happen again. If you don't, I'm going to insist the medical team checks you over after every fucking slip, every foul. I will not let you kill yourself for a fucking game. We’d be better off losing a fucking match than you. No, we’d be better off losing every fucking match this season than losing you fucking permanently. The lads would probably prefer relegation again."

“Doubt that,” Jamie says.

“I fucking don’t!” Roy shouts.

"Fuck," Jamie says. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Like a fucking car wreck," Roy says.

"Okay," Jamie says. "I'll fucking tell someone if I'm injured again. Will you sit down and fucking relax now?"

"Fucking good," Roy says, and the tension leaves his shoulders. "Contrary to popular belief, I fucking care if you live or die, you fucking prick."

"That's the nicest thing you have ever said," Jamie says.

Jamie must move wrong in his sleep because he is gasping in pain as he wakes up. The room is dark, and he looks at his phone. 2:26 a.m. Fuck, he hurts. He gets up to try and find a way to make it hurt less. To get some painkillers. He looks around and remembers he is at Roy's. He didn't know where Roy kept anything. He headed to Roy's kitchen to at least get a glass of water. He had just sat down at Roy's table for a breather when Roy entered the kitchen. And Jamie thinks he might swallow his tongue because he has seen Roy without a shirt. He had seen it often when they were teammates. But this was a half-asleep Roy, in just pants, hair a mess from sleep. And fuck, Jamie had not expected to feel the urge to kiss Roy fucking Kent at 2:30 in the morning.

"Here," Roy hands him a pack of paracetamol. He then goes to his freezer and gets one of the ice packs he usually uses on his knee.

"Thanks," Jamie says as he takes the pills and accepts the ice pack. "Sorry if I woke you."

"It's fine," Roy says as he sits down at the table.

"I know but-"

"Jamie, I brought you here so I could help you with this shit. So it's fine."

"I know but-"

"No fucking buts, Tartt," Roy says firmly. "Just like with training, I want to help you."

"Okay, but-"

"Fucking hell," Roy says before he stands up. He pushes Jamie's chair and holds out his hand to help Jamie up. Jamie takes it. To his surprise, Roy doesn't step back but stays in Jamie's face. Roy continues. "I don't actually enjoy the idea of you suffering alone. Fucking lose sleep over it."

"You lose sleep over me?" Jamie says with shock.

"I lose a lot of fucking sleep over you, Tartt," Roy admits. He glances down at Jamie's lips.

"Why?" Jamie asks. Roy is so close Jamie wonders if Roy can hear how Jamie's heart beats insanely fast. Roy's face is so close Jamie could just lean forward and kiss him.

"For fuck sake," Roy mutters before closing the distance a bit. "Because you drive me fucking insane." Jamie can now feel Roy's words against his lips, and Jamie's brain must reboot because, without thinking, he pushes forward and closes the small gap, and presses his lips against Roy's. And Roy responds in kind. Jamie doesn't want this moment to end because Roy Kent is kissing him back, and his life could not be better. He never thought Roy could have feelings for him. Jamie had thought his feelings were one-sided, but clearly, he was wrong because Roy was pulling Jamie closer. Jamie goes willingly. At least until he shifts wrong, and it pulls at the healing cuts on his chest, and pain hits him. He must make a noise because Roy recoils like he was burned and puts enough room between them so he can see if Jamie's bleeding again. Jamie tries to brush it off and goes back to making out in Roy's kitchen at almost 3 a.m. Roy curses Jamie's lack of self-preservation and ends up dragging Jamie into his own bed.

"You clearly can't be trusted to look after yourself," Roy grumbles as he gets into bed beside Jamie.

"You up for the task then?" Jamie asks.

With a growl, Roy gently pulls Jamie against him. Jamie takes advantage of the situation and snuggles right into Roy's side.

"I'll take that as a yes," Jamie chuckles.

"Get some fucking sleep," Roy says. Jamie hums and falls asleep fast.

Jamie hurts like hell the next morning. Angry bruises now take up most of his chest now that the wounds have closed for the most part. Roy does not let him leave the bed most of the day. Insisting he will reopen them if he does. And Jamie thinks he'll be bored out of his mind, but Roy stays with him for most of it. He leaves for a few hours to go over match tapes with the other coaches, but he comes back with takeaway, and Jamie thinks he might be the luckiest man alive because he is in Roy fucking Kent's bed, being taken care of by Roy. After they eat, they end up making out like fucking teenagers. Jamie is annoyed that Roy won't take it any further because Jamie is now filled with bad ideas, and Roy refuses. Not because he doesn't want to but because he doesn't want to hurt Jamie or delay his healing process. No matter how much Jamie begs or pouts, Roy doesn't cave.

"Not fucking risking your health, Tartt. Get fucking used to it."

Jamie gets looked over by the med team and is not allowed to train with the rest of the team for almost two weeks, and Jamie hates it. Roy doesn't care because Jamie's health is too important to him. And that is the only reason Jamie hasn't lost his mind. Roy cares about him. A lot. Roy fucking Kent has spent most of his time keeping Jamie busy. Cuddling and kissing. It's been beautifully frustrating. Frustrating because he wants more. Really wants to show Roy he cares just as much but has no way to do it because Roy is holding Jamie back. It might be for Jamie's own good, but that doesn't mean he likes it.

The first match Jamie gets to play after the injury, the Richmond fans lose their shit. They scream for him, and he takes that feeling and uses it. And Roy is so fucking proud of him that it hurts. They win, and it's so different from his last match. Jamie is right there with the team celebrating. And it's not until Roy pulls him aside and kisses him that Jamie draws away from the team. And Jamie cannot remember ever feeling this happy. Roy promises that when they get out home, they can celebrate their own way, and Jamie trips over his own feet in a rush to get changed so he and Roy can leave. And Roy, of course, thinks that's the most amusing fucking thing he has ever seen. It becomes the second most amusing thing later that day because watching Jamie goes to fucking pieces at Roy's fingertips is fucking amazing, and Roy thinks there's no going back now. He is lost on Jamie Tartt. And Jamie realizes Roy's attention is something he is absolutely addicted to and never wants to live without. It won't be an easy journey having a real relationship between them, but neither of them has ever shied away from a challenge, and they agree it's worth trying.

#tw: Blood #tw: Injury #tw: PTSD #tw: Mentions of abuse #tw: mentions of violence #tw: pain #tw: bruising #tw: mentions of head injury #tw: anger #tw: cussing #tw: cursing #tw: swearing #roy kent #jamie tartt #jamie x roy #royjamie #roy x jamie #ted lasso fic

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trixie-troubleby · 11 months

Note

I know the romantic dialogue prompt post is from a lil while ago, but "is it so obvious how infatuated i am?" just screams SportaRobbie to me

thank you!! I’m still accepting this (and any other prompts tbh)

Robbie stormed away from Sportacus after his latest scheme to chase the elf away failed. He was exhausted, bruised and for some reason, Sportacus was still following him.

“Go away!” Robbie shouted. “I don’t like you! Just leave me alone!” The elf stopped following him.

“Is it so obvious how infatuated I am?” Sportacus looked down at the ground between them.

“What?” Robbie spun around on his heel. His face was red and his voice was several octaves higher than usual.

Sportacus blinked up at him. “That’s why… you’ve been trying harder to get rid of me, right?” He hesitated. “And all of the ‘I don’t like you,’ ‘we’re not friends,’ stuff.”

“Say what you said again.” Robbie demanded. “Repeat it so I can understand this.”

“I…” Sportacus hesitated. “I asked if my feelings were really so obvious?”

“More specific!” Robbie snapped. “Be more specific!”

“More specific how?” Sportacus asked with a frown.

“What feelings?” Robbie hissed, walking towards the elf. “What are you talking about?”

“Ah…” Sportacus said hesitantly, his cheeks flushing in a way that Robbie definitely did not find appealing. “Then you… didn’t know?”

“Sportakook I swear to god! If you don’t answer me–“ Robbie swore, towering over Sportacus as they got closer. Robbie didn’t know why he was so close. He should’ve turned around and leave when he got the chance, but… he had to hear the explanation. He had to know that what he thought he’d heard was wrong.

“I…” Sportacus swallowed, looking up to meet Robbie’s gaze, before he quickly looked away again. “I… have romantic feelings for you.”

“You’re not supposed to lie.” Robbie said, an exaggerated sneer taking over his face. He grabbed the collar of the hero’s vest. “You don’t have what it takes to trick me, dumbass. I know– I know every trick.” Robbie snapped as Sportacus stumbled forward, something like fear in his eyes.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Sportacus demanded, fear quickly replaced by frustration. He grabbed Robbie’s hands, removing them from his shirt. He held onto their hands between them, staring straight up at Robbie.

Robbie flinched at the intensity of his gaze, his heart racing with his hands in the elf’s tight grip.

“All of our games aside, why would I lie about this?” Sportacus asked. The emotions flashing across his face were far too many for Robbie to count, let alone comprehend.

“Games?” Robbie huffed, rolling his eyes and looking away from him. “I’m trying to get you to leave.” He yanked his hands out of Sportacus’ grasp, turning and starting to walk away.

“Okay. Make me leave then.”

“Pardon?” Robbie turned around, furrowed brow. He looked at the elf.

“Chase me off. Make me leave. Say you hate me and make me believe you and I’ll go.” Sportacus repeated, stepping towards Robbie.

“I hate you.” Robbie said, even as his chest constricted. Even as Sportacus kept stepping closer. “Everything about you managed to get under my skin in the worst possible way.” Closer still. “You’re judgmental, annoying, way too loud.” Robbie’s heart raced. “You’ve got a stupid mustache.”

Sportacus snorted. “Why don’t I believe you, Robbie?”

“I really think your mustache is stupid.” Robbie defended. Sportacus grabbed his wrist. “Hey–“

Sportacus smiled slightly as he pressed his fingers into Robbie’s pulse point on his wrist. “Your heart is racing.”

“You’re too close to me. It makes me uncomfortable.” Robbie excused himself. He wanted to pull away, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Sportacus brought Robbie’s wrist up to his lips. He brushed his lips against the pulse point, sending Robbie’s heart further into overdrive. “Robbie, I love you. I really do. I have for… for too long now.”

“I–“ Robbie stuttered, clutching his wrist to his chest after Sportacus finally set it free.

“You don’t have to say it back.” Sportacus said with a small sad smile. “But please believe me when I say that–“ Robbie cut him off, closing the distance between them by pulling him up into a kiss.

“Maybe I believe you.” Robbie mumbled into Sportacus’ neck. “But this doesn’t change anything.”

Sportacus laughed, loud and bright. He wrapped his arms around Robbie’s waist, holding him close as he pressed his nose into Robbie's shoulder. “I wouldn’t expect anything to.”

#trixie talks #lazytown #sportarobbie #fanfic

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stellanslashgeode · 3 months

Text

My ship didn’t get past the first round of the @sapphicstarwars rare pair voting but that’s okay. I’ve got a crack team of lawyers coming up with objections and am planning a rally (it will be wild) but until then I thought I would post a snippet from Sundari Accelerando.

It was the deepest sleep she had experienced since that terrible night of loss. Possibly since before Petranaki Arena. She felt a little warm, granted. But not uncomfortably so. No, it was more emotionally and physically spent. Oxidized serotonin sloshing around her nervous system. A patina of salt painted uneven across her bare skin. Her mind and body were like a landscape after a storm had passed someone would clean up the broken branches later. She smelled… chamomile and hair dye?

She opened here eyes and saw a head of messy purple hair. She had been sleeping on her side and Sergeant Rook of the Kyr’tsad was all snuggled up next to her like a nuzzle shrew in its cozy den. Her arm was tucked up under hers as if she were hugging it. Long, deep breaths. Legs tucked in and crossed. She seemed more at peace than Barriss.

She took great care to extricate her arm and gradually sit up without disturbing her. Her head felt a bit swimmy once she was upright. She swung her feet onto the floor, knocking over a foam container of instant blue noodles that one of them had prepared in the middle of the night.

She took a last look down at Kast before rising. She looked softer and more feminine in this pose, without the extra bulk of her armor. Barriss let out a deep breath and left to find where they tossed her clothes.

She put on her armor as well, maybe in a vain hope that the Karta Beksar would protect her heart for what was to come. She padded quietly, glad that her artificial foot had a rubberized sole, over to the cockpit to bring the ship out of low power mode.

“What are you doing?”

“Prepping the engines.”

“Another sensor sweep?”

“I need to get back to check on the wounded.”

“Oh…”

Kast joined her, going over to the navigation console and flipping some switches. Barriss looked over her shoulder. “Sergeant Rook, you are out of uniform.”

“In my defense, officer, it wasn’t my doing.”

She watched her for a moment, trying not to ogle. Quite a bit perplexed. Barriss always had a different posture, carried herself differently when nude. Hugging her chest, stooped. It was discordant to her seeing someone carry herself as comfortable as if fully clothed.

“Could you put something on? Please?”

Kast gestured with her palms turned upward. Barriss struggled to maintain eye contact and not to dwell on her toned belly, that muscle definition line running down from her hip bones to her thighs. “Why? Did we receive guests recently?”

Barriss turned her attention back to the flight controls. She heard an exasperated sigh behind her. “Fine!”

They called out their tasks to each other for their post-docking shutdown, then Barriss unbuckled her restraints and made her way out the cockpit.

“That’s it, you’re just going to leave?”

“I’ve got places do be. Why, should I stay so you can torment me more?”

“If that’s what you want to call it. It doesn’t matter, I’ve already won.”

“Pardon?”

“I defeated your Jetii inhibitions, inspired you to rut like a victorious Mando after conquest. Took less time than I had imagined.”

Barriss glared at her. “I’m sure you’re pretty pleased with yourself.”

Kast picked a strand of hair off her nightshirt. “When’s the next patrol?”

“I guess I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll be back. Now that you’ve had a taste you’ll be back for more.”

“Hardly. Goodbye!” She stormed away. Then somehow found herself back in the cockpit giving Kast another passionate kiss despite herself. She exhaled. Gave her one last peck. “Right.” Then departed.

Rook Kast watched the Jetii make her way across the docking bay. She took Barriss’ headband out of her pocket and felt the stretchy fabric between her fingers before making her way to the refresher to wash up.

#barriss offee #rook kast #kastoffee #star wars fanfiction #rare paring

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foundtherightwords · 8 months

Text

Sunlight Through the Mist - Chapter 1

Pairing: Hellcheer (Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham)

Summary: Having witnessed the broken marriage of his parents, Edward Munson, Baron Hurstfield, always regards love with a cynical eye. When circumstances compel him to marry and produce an heir, he quickly proposes to Christine Conyngham, a debutante whose reputation is hanging by a threat after an ill-fated affair. All Edward wants is to save his family estate, but as beautiful, fragile Christine finds her way into his wary heart, their marriage of convenience may become something neither of them ever expects - a union of love.

A/N: This is a rewrite of my Hellcheer Regency AU, "Love in a Mist", from the POV of Eddie/Edward. "Love in a Mist" was only my second-ever fic, so back then I wasn't confident enough to attempt a dual POV. Now, having written Edward's POV in the sequel and Eddie's POV in a couple of Hellcheer one-shots, I thought it would be fun to revisit this (yes, I know, how Stephenie Meyer of me.) The story is the same, but I cut some scenes and added others to make it different enough to stand on its own. Enjoy!

If you haven't read "Love in a Mist", I'd recommend that you read that first, or at least check out the A/N for the explanation of the names. Maybe one day I'll post a "director's cut" version with both of their POVs :))

Warnings: angst, past domestic violence, suicide attempt, smut (non-explicit)

Chapter word count: 4.7k

Chapter 1

One summer morning, the village of Hurst was awakened by the sound of hoofbeats tearing down the main road. It was early yet, both in the day and in the season, and the only people out and about were the farmers and their dogs, going to the pastures to check on the sheep. Curious heads turned to follow the horse, a chestnut stallion, and the rider, a tall young man dressed all in black, as they cantered through the village. Hurst was but a small, sleepy place nestled at the foot of the Pennines, and it didn't get many visitors, save for the occasional traveling salesman or vagrant, so the appearance of a stranger always garnered great interest.

The rider was no stranger though. From the way he pulled up at the smithy to give his horse a drink from the communal trough, he seemed to know the place well. He removed his hat to run a hand through his long brown curls and gazed with wistful eyes at the horse chestnut tree standing by the smithy, its branches frothy with pink and white flowers.

The blacksmith, a red-faced, barrel-chested man, came out of his house, paused, and looked at the young man with suspicion.

"Can I help ye, sir?" he asked.

The young man turned around. "Mr. Buckley," he said with a friendly smile. "Don't you know me?"

There was a trace of the Yorkshire accent in his voice, and Mr. Buckley crinkled his already crinkly eyes, searching the young man's face for familiar features.

"I was just greeting my old friend, your horse chestnut tree," the young man continued. "I could never resist its conkers, no matter how many times you chased me off with those red-hot pokers of yours. You used to call me the little devil."

At this, the blacksmith's brow smoothed out in recognition. "Why, 'tis Master Edward!" he exclaimed. Then he remembered, drew back a little, and said, "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, 'tis Lord Hurstfield now, isn't it?"

The young man's face darkened briefly. "I'm always Edward, Mr. Buckley. Just because I've inherited the title now doesn't mean you have to call me by it."

"Ye'd be on yer way to Hurstfield Hall, sir?"

"I am."

"Oh, folks will cheer to no end knowin' that ye are come back." The blacksmith had forgotten his earlier hesitation and clasped the young man enthusiastically on the back. "The Hall's stood empty for too long."

"Thank you, Mr. Buckley," Edward replied, reaching for the reins. "I hope to see you again soon. Please give my regards to Mrs. Buckley."

"Thank ye, sir. And bless ye."

Edward smiled again in reply, but as he rode away from the smithy, his somber look returned. The blacksmith's ecstatic welcome both warmed him and worried him. He was happy to be back to his home, but would he be able to meet their expectations as Lord Hurstfield? He had been Edward Munson all his life, and that title only conjured up images of his tyrant of a father...

Edward looked around, trying to focus on the green meadows full of wildflowers and the clear sky, letting them chase away his dark memories. I am not my father, he thought to himself, like a mantra.

The horse climbed a small hill overlooking the little dale where Hurstfield Hall stood, and Edward's heart soared at the sight of his childhood home. Some early morning mist still clung about the ground, but the sun was up, bathing the gray stone walls in a golden light, giving the place a warm, welcoming air. It had been eleven years since he'd last seen it. When he left it, he had been a child of ten, heartsore and frightened. Although he'd spent longer away from it than he had living in it, it was still his home, still where he had had a taste of happiness.

As Edward stood on top of the hill, looking at the sun-gilded roofs of his family estate, he made a vow. For the sake of his childhood memories, for the sake of his late mother, he would restore Hurstfield Hall to its former glory and make it a home once more.

***

It was easier said than done. Day after day since his return, Edward sat in the old study of Hurstfield Hall while the rain leaked through the roof and the moth-eaten furniture threatened to collapse under him, poring over the estate's accounts, feeling more and more dismayed. His father had left him nothing. No, worse than nothing—he had left a mountain of debts, debts that Edward had no way of paying off. The rent roll could barely hold the creditors at bay, let alone enough to restore the estate and turn a profit. Worse still, bad weather and flooding threatened the village with famine. The entailment forbade the selling of Hurstfield Hall, but even if it was possible, Edward refused to entertain the idea.

One night, Mrs. Wayne, the housekeeper, came in to find Edward slumped over the ledgers. She was draping a shawl over him when he jolted awake.

"Ye'll work thysel' to death at this rate, Master Edward," she chided.

Edward sighed. "Tell me what to do, Mrs. Wayne," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"Get ye to bed this instant."

Despite the worry gnawing at his insides, Edward had to smile at her reproaching tone. When his father whisked Edward to London after the death of his mother, he'd decided to bring Mrs. Wayne along, and that was perhaps the only thing for which Edward was grateful to his father. For four years, she had practically raised Edward, shielding him from the worst of his father's temper. Then, his father had died as well, a disgraceful death in a debtor's prison, and Mrs. Wayne had to return to Hurstfield Hall, while Edward was sent to school and spent his holidays being shuffled from one relative to the next. He had longed for the housekeeper's stern scolding and gentle affection then. It was another reason he'd vowed to keep Hurstfield Hall. It wasn't just his home. It was also the home of Mrs. Wayne and the handful of staff that had remained through the years—Henderson the gardener, Wheeler the coachman, and others. Sure, Edward could leave the place to rot and move to London to focus on his reform work, and perhaps even continue his study of English history and folklore in Oxford, but what would happen to them then? They were his responsibilities.

As he stood up from the desk, stretching the cramp out of his long limbs, Mrs. Wayne said, more seriously, "As for what to do... I hope ye don't mind me sayin' this, Master Edward, but ye need to get thysel' a wife. One wi' lots o' brass."

"Don't tell me you'd be willing to relinquish your control over the household for a new mistress," Edward teased.

"Aye, sir, I would," Mrs. Wayne said, handing him a candle, "if she makes ye happy." Edward was touched by the rough familiarity with which she said it.

"I was just teasing you, Mrs. Wayne. Come now, who would want to marry this?" He spread his arms, showing his faded clothes and general unkempt appearance.

"Ye're sellin' thysel' short," Mrs. Wayne said, with loyalty and maternal pride.

Later, as he lay in the damp bed and listened to the wind whistling through the boarded-up windows, Edward thought about what Mrs. Wayne had said. Yes, a wife—one with a fortune attached, or "lots o' brass" as Mrs. Wayne put it—would solve all of his problems. But Edward found the idea distasteful. Even if he could find an heiress who liked him—not love, never love—enough to marry him, he could never bring himself to take her money. His own father had married his mother for her money and squandered it all away with his drinking and gambling. And he was not his father.

He would have to get married sooner or later, he supposed. But he had never really considered the possibility, save for the occasional passing thought. He couldn't imagine what marriage would be like. He was only determined that, should he ever get married, it would not be the same as his parents. No, it would be built on mutual respect and honesty. As for love... he had no romantic notion of love. Of course, he had experienced the occasional stirrings of the heart and the body, but he always stamped them down with resolution, recognizing them for what they really were—infatuations, no more. To love someone, to really love, meant to make himself vulnerable, to open himself up for heartache and betrayal, and he would not risk that.

And then the matter was thrust upon him, without warning, one day in January, in the form of a letter from a London solicitor.

It informed Edward that his great aunt, Lady Catherine Munson, had passed away, and requested his presence at the reading of her will. Edward still remembered Great Aunt Munson, a redoubtable lady who seemed to have been born old. She had barely tolerated him when he was sent to her house for the holidays, and after he'd gone to Oxford, their contact had been reduced to twice-a-year letters at Christmas and Easter. It was true that she always included a generous check with each of these letters, but Edward had never had any expectations of her. Still, he was in no position to turn down a bequest, no matter how small, so he dutifully packed his bag and left for London.

"Lady Munson had left you her entire fortune, sir," said the solicitor, a sallow, weedy young man by the name of Byers, who looked more like an acolyte than a man of law. Edward could almost see Great Aunt Munson ordering this scrap of a solicitor about. "However, there are certain... conditions to her bequeathal."

"What are they?" Edward asked, bracing himself for the worst. Great Aunt Munson had always been known for her eccentricity. While he stayed with her for Christmas, common courtesy had never prevented her from chasing off guests who bored her, yet she'd also been known to throw open her doors for carolers if their singing was particularly sweet.

Byers cleared his throat. "Well, her will stipulates that you must be married and produce an heir."

"What?"

Byers shrugged and pushed the will across the table toward Edward. It was true. The money was put in a trust. He stood to receive £50,000 after his marriage and a further annual allowance of £2000 until the birth of his first child, after which he would inherit in full. However, if after five years, he remained a bachelor or produced no heir, he must forfeit the inheritance and it would go to an orphanage. "As I have no children of my own," the will stated, "this is my explicit wish in order to ensure my legacy is perpetuated."

Edward sighed. It wasn't that unusual, as far as stipulations went. She had even left another substantial amount for the orphanage, to ensure that Edward wouldn't simply use the orphanage as an excuse to give up. And five years to find a wife and have a child was reasonable enough... for anyone else. For Edward, though, who had never felt at ease in any social gathering, it was as challenging as swimming across the English Channel. Come to think of it, he would rather swim the English Channel.

"You know what your problem is, Munson? You think too much," his friend Gareth Walton said while they were sitting over ale at the Hideout, a coffeehouse by day and alehouse by night in Covent Garden, where Edward and other reform-minded people often congregated. Ever since Edward returned to Yorkshire, he had been too busy with the estate to keep in touch with his friends, and he had to admit, it was nice to be able to talk freely about these troubling matters - finances, inheritance, and matrimony - with those who he could trust to understand and not judge him for them.

"I agree," another friend, Geoffrey Beaumont, piped up. "Courtship really is not that complex, you know. You go to gatherings, meet young ladies, see who you like, get introduced to her, and spend some time with her until it is socially acceptable for you to propose. Simple as that."

The three of them and a fourth, Granville, had all met at Oxford. Unable to fit in with the clubs and secret societies of the other students, they had navigated toward each other, drawn by their shared love of fantastical novels and folk tales, which scholars dismissed as only fit for children. Granville was now traveling the country, trying to make a name for himself as a playwright, while Walton and Beaumont were in London to raise the funds for an expedition to gather and study the folklore and traditional tales of Eastern Europe. It may not be as fashionable as one of those naturalists' expeditions to South America, but they had high hopes of getting some support from the Society of Antiquaries.

Sometimes, Edward envied his friends their carefree lives. But now, their expertise as Oxford scholars was not much help to him in finding a wife. None of them knew any lady of marriageable age. Most of the women in their circle were the serious, middle-aged bluestocking type. Edward's relatives, who were all jealous that he was getting Great Aunt Munson's money and not them, had refused to help.

"And what if I don't see anyone I like?" he asked gloomily.

"It is literally teeming with women out there," Walton said, nodding at the busy street outside the alehouse's window. "Just pick one."

"Good God, Walton, you're not suggesting that he marries a prostitute just to get this inheritance, are you?" Beaumont exclaimed in mock offense.

"No. I'm only saying he needs to cast his net a little wider. Unusual circumstances call for unusual measures."

Beaumont rolled his eyes. "I have an idea," he said, turning to Edward. "You remember Stephen Harrington, from school?"

"Isn't he the one they call 'The Hair'?" Edward asked. The name conjured up the memory of a rather pompous, foppish fool, who cared more about how best to arrange his curls and how much starch was in his cravat, than his studies.

"The very one. He's on his Grand Tour now, but his aunt, Lady Harrington, is one of the most renowned hostesses of London. I'm sure if you write to Harrington and ask for an introduction, you could get invited to one of her balls or receptions and have your pick of the best debs the ton has to offer."

Edward hated how mercenary it all sounded, but his friends were right. He had to swallow his pride and follow social rules for once, if he wanted to save Hurstfield Hall.

***

As he entered the brightly lit ballroom of Lady Harrington's London mansion, all glittery with gilt from the furniture and jewels from the guests, Edward had to remind himself to relax. He had managed to secure an invitation to Lady Harrington's first ball of the season without really thinking about what it would mean, and now, somehow, he had to get through it.

He bowed to the hostess, who greeted him with the same rictus smile she used for all of her guests. Edward wondered if Lady Harrington had to smile so much that her muscles were locked into that position forever.

She then introduced him to an array of young debutants and their mothers, one quickly after another, until his head was positively swimming with names and titles. True to her reputation, Lady Harrington made no mention of his father's debts, only referring to his "vast" and "picturesque" estate in Yorkshire, which Edward took to be haut ton speak for "rambling" and "wild". He felt fourteen again, being paraded around at dinner parties and tea parties by his relatives so their guests could ooh and aah over how charitable they were for taking in a poor, orphaned boy. It was one of the reasons he'd enjoyed staying at Great Aunt Munson's more than anywhere else. She'd always told him to stay in his room whenever she had company, much to his relief.

And he had to survive a whole night amongst people just like those who had used him to boast about their kindness and those who had ogled him like he was some zoo animal, while secretly feeling thankful that they didn't have to take in such a sullen, ungrateful child.

He couldn't even tell them apart. With those ridiculous feathers towering on their heads, and frills and ribbons and bows ruffling on their dresses, obscuring their true forms, they all looked alike, like one of Chef Carême's pièces montées. He asked a few of the young ladies to dance and tried to engage them in conversation, but they were either too shy or found his frank opinions too shocking, for their answers were all monosyllabic, and after he led them back to their seats, more than one of them turned to their friends with derisive whispers, or worse, laughs.

It was enough to try anyone's patience.

After the sit-down supper, Edward started to look for a gracious way to leave early, but Lady Harrington was not going to release him that easily. Rethinking her strategy, she introduced him to the men instead, but these were even worse. They cast their arrogant eyes over his old-fashioned clothes and smirked upon learning of his Yorkshire origin. When one of them asked, in a rather condescending tone, what he did to fill his hours in the countryside, Edward made the mistake of being truthful.

"I've been trying to organize a school for the village children," he replied.

"A school! How did you ever convince them to send their children to school?"

"I haven't had much luck in that area," Edward said, and instantly regretted it, as the men exchanged smug, knowing looks.

"Be careful about pressing them too hard, or you may have another riot on your hands," another said, and Edward had to suppress a snort. These preening dandies, who looked like they had never done a day's work in their lives, were even worse gossips than the women. Some rag would publish sensational reports of the machine-smashing Luddites, and they would treat it as the definitive guide to the North.

"I don't think so, there are no mills or factories near my village," he said, deliberately taking the remark at face value.

"Oh, but these riots aren't just limited to mills and factories. The papers are reporting letter-writing campaigns that threaten the local gentries as well..."

Edward let out an irritated grumble. "My tenants have no need for letter-writing campaigns, sir, they know where to find me."

"Ah, but you have to admit, they're a dangerous, disorderly lot! How else do you explain their action, smashing up those machines that are there to make their lives easier?"

"Those machines take away their jobs and leave their families starving," Edward said slowly, as if to a child.

"That is no excuse for violence—"

"My God, man, we're not all Luddites and Speceans up north, you know!" Edward shouted, losing his patience.

Several heads turned toward his direction, but he didn't care.

"This school," cut in another young man. "It is a noble pursuit, to be sure, but I'm afraid it might be a waste of time and money." He was shorter than Edward, but his athletic build, Grecian profile, and most of all, the air of arrogance with which he carried himself, made him the center of attention. Next to such an Adonis, Edward felt like a Vulcan.

The man's lips curled up. That little smirk tore down the last remnant of Edward's self-control and courtesy.

"Oh, yes, it is a waste of time and money to educate children," he spat out, "as opposed to spendin' thousands o' pounds on balls and dinner parties, or on horses and hounds to chase after some poor wild creatures, or wagin' it on a turn o' a card!"

A hush fell over the ballroom, and Edward realized he had gone too far. It would not do to insult these people, thinking he was above them, when he was here for the same purpose as they. He turned away, intending to beat a retreat, and found his arm seized by Lady Harrington.

"Come, come, gentlemen," she said, with her ever-present smile, "no need to raise your voice. Let us speak of happier matters." Then, pulling Edward away, she hissed, her smile turning into a snarl, "Lord Hurstfield, I'm only doing you a favor out of my respect for your late mother, but if you brought quarrel and disruption under my roof, I would not hesitate to throw you out, sir!"

She stopped in front of another mother-and-daughter pair, both trying hard to pretend they hadn't been watching the little drama unfold in the corner. Lady Harrington put on her hostess smile and voice again. "Mrs. Conyngham, Miss Conyngham," she said, "may I present to you Edward Munson, Baron Hurstfield, just lately arrived in London."

Edward bowed out of habit.

Mrs. Conyngham scrutinized him, an eager look on her heavily powdered face. "Hurstfield. I've never heard of it," she said. "Whereabouts is your estate, sir?"

"North Yorkshire, ma'am," he replied, noting how her smile cooled as soon as he said it.

"Oh. It must be quite the journey for you." Edward's neck itched around his collar, under his hair, and he wished to be away, away from this interrogation, away from this place of all glitter and no gold. "And are you enjoying yourself in London?" continued Mrs. Conyngham.

"Not particularly, no," he said shortly. At that, he caught Miss Conyngham giving her mother a quick glance, before bending down and hiding a grin behind her hand. Some of his irritation dissipated. At least someone understood.

Lady Harrington seemed at a loss for words. "Well, you would enjoy yourself more after a dance with a pretty partner, perhaps?" She gave Edward a little nudge.

Oh, all right. He extended a hand toward Miss Conyngham. "May I have the honor...?"

Again, another quick glance at her mother. Mrs. Conyngham's rouged lips were set in a disapproving line, and Edward hung back a little, ready for the rejection. To his surprise, Miss Conyngham smiled brightly, put her hand in his, and let him lead her onto the floor. He was not used to such a warm reception, and for the first time, he looked at his dance partner more closely. Thank goodness, her gown was a simple one of silvery gray, with no frills or ruffles to hide her slender frame, and she wore no feather on her head. Her blond braids were held up by a silver ornament in the shape of a crescent.

By the time the music began, her initial warmth seemed to have been forgotten. While she made all the correct moves and steps, she remained distracted, her blue eyes moving around the room, searching for something, or perhaps someone.

"Am I boring you, Miss Conyngham?" Edward asked, surprising himself. He had no reason to hope she would be any different from the bored, simpering debutantes he'd danced with all through the night... but for some reason, that sarcastic grin in reaction to his words, that tiny spark of life behind her demure façade, kept him interested.

She returned her attention to him with difficulty. "My apology, Lord Hurstfield," she said. "I fear I've been very remiss in the proper attentions of a partner."

"And what are these 'proper attentions', pray tell?"

"Usually I would ask if you enjoy dancing, how long you have been in town, have you been to court, and so on," she said.

"That sounds awfully dull," he said, determined to draw out that spark again. "Why don't we talk of something more interesting?"

She looked away for a moment, stewing over the matter. "Well, you've said that you're not enjoying yourself," eventually she said, "so I was wondering... why do you stay in London at all?"

It wasn't a very stimulating question, but it was something. "May I be honest?"

"It seems to me, Lord Hurstfield, that you are nothing but honest," she said, with an encouraging little smile to show she meant it as a compliment.

"Well then, if you insist, Miss Conyngham," Edward said, emboldened by the frank curiosity in her eyes. "I am here for the same reason that you and other unattached ladies and gentlemen are here. Matrimony." Seeing her face fall, he shrugged. "Alas, I wish I had a more noble reason." He tried to sound dismissive, but he couldn't help feeling he'd disappointed her somehow. Strange. Why should she be disappointed? And more importantly, why should he care?

"So you believe that everybody is here simply to find a husband or wife, and none to enjoy the ball itself?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm not denying that there are those who genuinely enjoy a ball," he said. "But I don't see them here. Look at them." He nodded at the other dancers. "Some would rather be at home warming themselves in front of the fire. Some of rather be drinking at an alehouse. Some would rather be at a brothel." Miss Conyngham gave a little gasp, and Edward checked himself. He'd never spoken so freely to a young lady before. There was something in the way she looked at him, like she was hanging on his every word, that loosened his tongue. "I didn't mean to shock you. I merely think we would all be happier if we were permitted to follow our hearts, instead of doing what society dictates, don't you?"

"Some evenings I'd much rather stay home," she admitted.

The spark was gleaming under the surface again, though a little weaker. Afraid of losing it, he jumped to another question. "It is rather a waste of time, don't you think?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"All this... ritual, to find a mate. Dancing around each other, literally and figuratively, trying to gauge one's suitability." He gestured around them, getting into his stride. "I've heard that in China, parents who wish to marry off their daughter would simply write down their name, age, and dowry on a card and send it off to the families of prospective grooms. Whoever accepts would respond. It saves a lot of time and effort."

"But that sounds positively mercenary!" Miss Conyngham exclaimed. "What about love?"

Now it was Edward's turn to feel a little disappointed. So she was not much different from the other young ladies after all. He had to remind himself that it wasn't fair to her. His cynical view on love was the minority. Still, he couldn't help asking her, rather heatedly, "How many couples you know marry for love?"

She looked away again. "Do you talk this way to every lady you dance with?"

"Only those that accept my honesty," he said, gazing at her, hoping, wishing she would say something back, something real.

She lifted those questioning eyes to his face, but before she could say a word, the music ended, and with it, so did the connection between them. Any spark that he might have glimpsed in her eyes was once more hidden behind a veil of courtesy and propriety. She curtsied to him, and he responded with a bow, before leading her back to her frowning mother.

Edward made his way across the room. If I look back and she's looking at me, I shall ask her to dance again. He wanted to reignite that spark—the spark that he realized wasn't just in her, but in him as well.

He turned around. Miss Conyngham was looking elsewhere, her eyelashes fluttering shyly, her fingers touching the silver crescent in her hair, her face flushed as if lit by a fire from within. It was quite different from the hint of a spark that Edward had seen. What hope did he have to compete with such a fire? With a sigh, he made his excuse to Lady Harrington and left.

Chapter 2

#hellcheer #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #hellcheersource #eddissy #eddie x chrissy #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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mrsreginagold · 2 months

Text

Fic: Just You And I Love

Fandom: Nikita

Pairing: Ari Tasarov x Nikita Mears (Nikari)

Rating: R

Spoilers: AU for the end of the first season. Ari shows up at Nikita’s loft instead of Alex. Nikita and Michael did not get together romantically.

Summary: A major change of plans puts Nikita on the run with a man she once considered an enemy.

Author's note: This is my first fic for this pairing, written roughly a year ago. My sincerest apologies for any formatting issues, it's been a long time since I posted writing to tumblr.

Nikari Fanmix Here

On AO3

Just You and I Love

It had all gone wrong in the worst way.

“I had it planned perfectly,” Nikita Mears growled as she hurried up the stairwell, arm in arm with the man who had botched said plan. “And then you showed up.”

“If you’ll forgive my impertinence on the matter, I hardly see how that,” Ari Tasarov gestured at the looming wave of fire that was literally on their heels. “Is considered a plan.”

She pursed her lips but denied him a response. Instead, she focused on getting them both to the roof.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he stated, as if they weren’t fighting for their very survival and were having a completely ordinary conversation.

She glanced at him. “For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know: saving your life?”

“You took a bullet to the shoulder and then fell on top of me, how is that saving my life?”

“I beg your pardon, but I pushed you out of the line of fire. How we happened to land was a mere accident.”

“Was it now?” she arched an eyebrow, amused despite their dire situation.

After all – she and Ari had danced around each other flirtatiously from the moment they had met.

“On my honor.” He crossed a hand over his heart.

“Right. A criminal with honor. Silly me, should have seen that coming.” She shoved one final door open and stepped out into the chill of night.

Ari followed. “As ridiculous as an assassin with a conscience, then? What a pair we make.”

She whirled, fed up and exhausted. “Look. I have been chased, shot at, injected with multiple toxins…it has not been a good day. And the last thing I need is you lording over me with some bullshit superiority complex.”

His brow creased, genuine concern washing over his attractive features. “Toxins? Nikita: how are you even still standing?”

“Built up endurance. I admit that it slowed me down though,” she took a deep breath, shutting her eyes momentarily. “The fresh air is helping.”

In the next second, his fingers had curled under her chin to tip it up, and she blinked her eyes back open, his angular face looming closer as he inspected hers.

Unbidden, her lips parted when he ran his thumb over them, and she wasn’t certain what disarmed her more: his worried expression, or just how damn blue his eyes happened to be.

“We should get you somewhere safe where you can rest,” Ari finally surmised, his gaze drifting away from hers to survey their surroundings more closely. “If we procure a car, I can get us to shelter. First: we need a way off this roof.”

“I can rappel across to the other side,” she stepped away from him and looked over the ledge. “Can you climb down via the fire escapes?”

“Or I could rappel across the same way, I’m not an invalid.” There was a spark of irritation in the ordinarily dulcet tone.

She looked back over her shoulder to see him standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression mirroring his words.

Nikita cleared her throat. “And make your injury worse?”

“It was a graze, Nikita,” he put emphasis on every syllable of her name, which prompted a shiver that wasn’t remotely unpleasant to ease up her spine. “I’m perfectly capable of holding on.”

She planted her feet more firmly to the ground and frowned. “All right then, show me.”

It was finally his turn to blink rapidly in confusion. “Beg your pardon?”

“Show. Me. Your. Arm.” Purposely, she bridged the space between them.

Though it took him a second to process what she was asking of him, he shrugged compliantly out of his over-coat and then his suit jacket. He then passed both garments to her while he un-did the knot in his tie.

Despite her best intentions to not be affected, her breath still caught when he started to pop open the buttons to the crisp white dress shirt he wore, revealing pale skin inch by inch until it was loose enough for him to slide it down the injured arm.

She shoved the miniscule bit of disappointment that he hadn’t taken his shirt off entirely to the far, far away regions of her mind and turned her attention to where it was needed.

As Ari had stated, the bullet had grazed him, and as far as she could tell there was no shrapnel stuck in the cut. Still, once they were safe, she’d definitely ensure the area was cleaned and bandaged properly.

“What’s the prognosis?” He inquired; his voice softer now that she was so close.

“For now, let’s make a tourniquet out of your tie. We’re going to have to ditch these clothes eventually anyway.”

There was a low chuckle. “If you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask,” playfully, he began to undo another button on the shirt.

She stopped him before any more of his lean yet remarkably sculpted torso could be shown off. “Ari, be serious for a minute, please. It’s still bleeding, and I don’t want you getting weaker on me.”

He acquiesced and allowed her to wrap the silk around the junction of his bicep and shoulder blade.

Nikita apologized softly when he made a pained groan as she tied a firm knot to keep the fabric in place. “There, that should do it.”

He pulled his sleeve back up and re-buttoned his shirt most of the way, though he left the collar undone enough for her to get a glimpse of what lay hidden beneath.

She narrowed her eyes. He had to be doing so on purpose by this point.

In order to distract herself from staring at him, she moved over to a different part of the roof, where she’d hidden some emergency supplies and the rappel hook to get to the adjacent building.

Ari came to stand beside her once he was finished with putting his suit jacket and overcoat back on. “Is everything accounted for?”

“We should pick up some food and new clothes while we’re on the road, but other than that, I think we’re good,” she shouldered the duffle bag. “You want to go?”

“By all means, ladies first,” he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand.

“I guess chivalry isn’t lost,” Nikita murmured while she launched the hook across the building.

She tested the line for safety and stood on the ledge, about to grab on to the anchor so she could propel herself across, when he gripped her arm.

She paused. “What?”

“Be careful,” his gaze caught hers, the sincerity in it making her heart skip a few beats.

She tugged him forward by his coat collar, her mouth seeking his to initiate a tender kiss of reassurance.

His arms curled around her protectively and he deepened the embrace, his lips gentle and warm against her own.

Instinctively, she raked her fingers through his dark hair, allowing herself one light nip at his mouth before she pulled away.

He stared at her, those eyes glittering with a swirl of emotion that made her reluctant to part from him. “Make your way over once I send it back,” quickly, she grasped the carabiner and took off.

He followed soon after, landing on the parallel roof with grace and striding directly to her side. “See? Easy.”

She bit back a smile, took his hand, and together they headed down the stair-well.

“Next order of business is to get us some wheels.” Once they were out on the street, Nikita assumed immediate command. “Something that wouldn’t be traced right away so we have time to switch out the license plates.”

“I’ve gone on the run before, Nikita,” she was certain Ari was rolling his eyes judging by the sarcasm dripping in his tone. “Our best bet would probably be an impound lot.”

“Huh. You are more useful than you appear.”

His chest brushed against her back, alerting her to just how close he happened to be. “Darling, you’ll find that I’m full of surprises.”

Yes. Being a full-on temptation is arguably the biggest one of those.

They kept to the shadows and alleyways of the city until they found the local impound lot and Nikita quickly utilized her break-in skills.

From then on – it was a matter of finding a mode of transportation that was inconspicuous.

When they finally settled on a vehicle that was silver in color, she rummaged around in her duffle to see what she could use to hot-wire it, only for Ari to dangle a key in front of her. “I think it will be much easier with this.”

She gawked at him, wondering just how he had managed to sneak into the office and get back without her noticing. “When – how did you?

He exhaled, small clouds of breath emerging in the air thanks to the cold temperature and stuck his hands in his coat pockets with a shrug. “Stealth was my forte was I was in the field.”

Her eyes widened further, and her jaw dropped. “You were an operative?!”

“You could say that with less surprise you know.”

Impressed, she unlocked the door and flipped a switch that opened the passenger side. “It’s not that. I know you’re former KGB, but I guess I just figured you for more of an analyst.”

Ari’s mouth formed a bemused smile while he moved around to the opposite side of the car. “Let’s just say…I worked my way up.”

She slid into the driver’s seat, adjusted a few things including the rear-view mirror, and finally asked which direction they would be heading in.

“Go north, I’ll navigate.” He promised, settling as comfortably in the seat as he could.

Touched by his trust in her, Nikita put the car into the right gear and, with that – they were on their way.

They drove for several hours before stopping at a Walmart that remained open late, where they purchased some new supplies, clothing, and food.

Nikita finished changing in the gas-station bathroom first and waited, sipping at a hot coffee for both warmth and the necessary caffeine to keep going.

She was alerted to Ari’s presence when he cleared his throat, and once she got a good look at him, she nearly dropped the cup she was holding.

The man looked amazing in tailored suits, but a case could definitely be made for dark jeans, a flannel shirt, and a black leather jacket. Additionally: he’d tousled his hair so that it fell in looser strands over his forehead, and the effect was arguably a pleasant one.

He drew to a halt in front of her. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Yeah but you’re hot.” She blurted before she could stop herself.

He tilted his head, mirth lighting up his striking features. “Really?”

She coughed awkwardly, darting her gaze away. “I uh…I’m guessing they don’t have many of these places where you’re from?”

“What gave that away?”

“Well besides the fact that you have a taste for the finer things, I know that progress there is slower.”

“It’s a mix of modern and ancient, like many cultures,” he confessed, falling into step next to her as they exited the mini mart.

“Of course. I still can’t exactly picture you driving up to a McDonalds and getting a Big Mac, though.”

He snorted at the remark. “I prefer the Quarter Pounder.”

She laughed as well. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They reached the car and got back inside. Nikita immediately keyed the ignition so she could fiddle with the heater. “How much further do you think?”

“Another couple of hours.”

“And how’s the arm?”

“A bit sore.”

She laid a hand across his forehead to ascertain if he had a fever. “You’re a little elevated. There are some pills in the duffle. That should hold you over till I can dress the wound.”

“I’m trying not to read too much into how eager you seem to be to get my shirt off properly.”

She rolled her eyes and then focused on the road as she pulled out of the parking lot. “If you can flirt, you’re in no immediate danger.”

It was significantly late by the time they reached the cabin. Ari’s condition seemed no worse than before, but Nikita wasn’t about to take any chances.

He let them inside and she deposited her duffle and the additional bags of supplies and non-perishable food on the kitchen table before searching for the first aid kit.

Wordlessly, she guided her companion into the bathroom and took the liberty of unbuttoning the flannel.

He pulled his arms free with a wince.

She was unable to resist ogling his uncovered torso, her eyes roaming over a broad, beautifully muscled chest and abdomen. He was slender but toned perfectly for his build, and the only flaws she noticed were a few littered scars. She wondered if there were any special stories behind them, but shifted her focus to the task at hand and removed the tourniquet as gently as she could.

He hissed in pain when she doused the exposed cut with peroxide. She went about cleaning efficiently, utilizing tweezers to pull away small bits of fabric that had gotten stuck. “I’m sorry, I’m going as quick as I can.”

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

She completed the cleaning portion and grabbed antibacterial ointment. “I never thanked you for earlier. I’m sorry about that too.” She placed a fresh gauze bandage over the wound and taped it in place.

He cupped her chin tenderly. “Nikita, you don’t have to apologize.”

At this point, she loved the way that he said her name: with allure and deep meaning all at once.

For the second time since this whole thing started, she found herself kissing him. Like before, it was tentative – a way to search her heart and the bubbling emotions that he instilled.

With a remarkably quick motion, he trapped her against the wall directly behind them and deepened the embrace.

He teased at the shape of her mouth beseechingly until she opened for him and allowed that clever tongue to explore.

Giving in was easy when he was pressed close enough for her to feel the effect that she had over him, her hips bucking in natural response. She felt him smirk knowingly and gasped into the kiss when he hiked her leg over his waist, ensuring that they were touching as much as possible despite still being mostly clothed.

In retaliation, she dragged her nails through the hair that dusted the expanse of his chest, delighting in the heat of his skin and the low, incredibly sensual-sounding growl that emerged from him.

His mouth eventually strayed and gained purchase on her throat, trailing down further and further, nibbling purposely at the cleavage revealed by the low cut of her tee shirt.

At the same time, one hand skimmed under the hem, tracing a light circle over her taught abdomen, and eventually working its way up until he reached the base of her bra.

This was where he paused, pulling back to study her reaction.

Her heart cartwheeled at seeing the devotion in those gorgeous blue eyes. “Why’d you stop?”

“I just needed to be sure that this was what you wanted,” he admitted, a slightly bashful expression crossing his handsome face that felt somewhat at odds with his disheveled appearance.

“Well…I mean, we are supposed to be resting,” she looped her fingers into the beltloops of his jeans and gave a gentle tug so that he was back in her arms, which she wrapped around his torso.

There was a wry chuckle, and then he touched their foreheads together. “I suppose we could argue that it was my way of ensuring that you actually made it into the bed?”

“We could, though the second I hit those pillows all bets are off as to whether or not I’ll stay conscious.”

“You’re tired,” he observed, ducking a kiss to her cheek in understanding. “It’s all right. I’m exhausted too and the last thing I want is either of us passing out on each other.”

A peal of genuine laughter escaped her at the mental image. “You’re right, that would be awful.”

He stole another kiss, emphasizing that they would definitely continue what they had started when the time was right.

She curled into him, reluctant to let go but knowing that they were making the right decision given the circumstances.

“I’ll go get changed and make sure we have enough blankets,” he parted from her, but squeezed her hand gently before doing so.

She watched him walk off, admiring the sway of his hips for a moment, and then moved out into the kitchen to put some things away before she got ready to turn in herself.

“Well, this should be interesting,” Nikita murmured once she was in her nightgown, fluffing out her hair and smoothing over the silk fabric. She had completely forgotten that she had picked something so feminine until she put it on, and now her heart was thundering at what Ari’s reaction was going to be.

Timidly, she emerged from the bathroom, her long hair loose around her shoulders and her face fresh and clean of makeup.

She padded on bare feet to the bedroom, her pulse pounding with each step, until she finally opened the door.

The bed looked very warm and inviting; but it paled in comparison to the sight of her companion already situated against the pillows, reading a novel and still shirtless.

Ari peeked over the edge of the book, and she held her breath in anticipation.

She had never seen someone move that fast before. She was in his arms in the space of a heartbeat, lost immediately to his taste and touch, goosebumps erupting across her flesh when her night dress hit the floor.

“You’re very naked,” she mumbled while he guided her towards the bed. “I’m not mad about it.”

“I might have anticipated that you would change your mind,” he darted kisses along her neck and then reclined her onto the blankets.

She moaned when his tongue laved at the hollow of her throat. “We’re definitely not getting any sleep, are we?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“I can live with that,” her breath hitched when he slipped off her underwear, effectively removing the final barrier between them.

If someone had told her only weeks ago that she would not only find herself on the run with Ari Tasarov, but would willingly take him to bed, Nikita would have laughed in their face.

Now that she had him: she wasn’t about to let go so easily.

He rapidly proved that the feeling was very much mutual.

She pulled him to her while limbs entangled, unhurried kisses were exchanged, and hands took to task.

Talented fingers ghosted over the curve of her hip, their fleeting touch prompting a pleased sound and making her body arc into his.

His mouth drifted from hers to place gentle kisses along her shoulders, coasting lower and lower until he finally lay claim to her breasts and snuck one hand between her legs.

Intoxicating heat gathered at her core, arousal clouding her senses as she became lost to sensation.

Her experiences with seduction had typically been brief and to the point – a way to disarm a target.

This, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.

There was nothing to rush or distract Ari from being masterful in his art, culminating in her world shattering from the pleasure of it.

She lay there, boneless and trembling, one hand shakily running through his hair while he nuzzled affectionately at the crook in her neck until she calmed down.

“You all right?” his face loomed into her vision, the ocean-colored depths of his eyes catching her dark ones.

“I’m wonderful…though curious over how you managed to be so good at that.”

A rich, warm laugh was his answer, and he nudged her nose with his. “Uh-oh. I might have my work cut out for me.”

Nikita quirked a brow and slid a leg against his. “That may be, but first,” she twisted and toppled him under her, delighting in the surprised expression her action caused. “I have you right where I want you, and it’s my turn.”

He hissed softly when she straddled him and began to duck kisses to his chest, grumbling something in Russian that made her look up at him with a smirk, and then continue without preamble.

“You were wrong earlier,” Ari struggled to regain his composure after the onslaught of Nikita’s passions had slowed down.

“About what?” she ran her hands lazily over his chest, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing pattern.

“You’re not the one who’s going to pass out from exhaustion.” He arched one eyebrow and gave her a significant look. “You’ll have to be gentler.”

She winced slightly and grazed her lips over his collarbone. “Sorry. Do you want to pick this back up later? I’m okay with sleeping and cuddling.”

“I think I just need a little more time to recuperate,” he confessed, pulling her close so they could snuggle under the blankets properly.

She complied with a happy sigh, continuing to intermittently shower his chest and neck with light, feathery kisses and drawing invisible figures along his torso. “Truth be told, I think I needed this.”

His laughter puffed at her hair. “I think we both did.”

“It’s not easy, you know? This life. Constantly looking over your shoulder and uncertain of who to trust,” she nuzzled at his throat. “You forget how to feel after a while.”

“You’re right. It isn’t easy,” he shifted so they were facing one another, his expression serious. “That’s why I knew that I had to leave Gogol and cling to what humanity I have left.”

Her heart clenched in pity, and she leaned forward to kiss him softly. “I understand completely.”

“I know you do,” his words were muffled against her lips, In a graceful motion, he turned to pin her under his welcome weight. “And I think I’ve regained enough energy.”

She locked her legs around his waist, arching her hips in invitation. “Then don’t waste any more time.”

He didn’t.

With a fluid thrust, they were joined together.

She grasped at his back, crying out at the overwhelming feeling that being one caused after a gradual build up.

He was still at first, allowing them both to adjust to such intimacy, and then he slowly began to move.

Nikita let out a shaky breath, her fingers inching down his spine while she met his motions with her own and symmetry was gained.

He kissed her, soft and sweet, and murmured something in his native tongue before adjusting his angle and burying deeper.

Her head fell back, and the entire room seemed to spin. This felt beyond right, or natural, or any other platitude she could have come up with.

Ari felt like home.

They continued their dance, entwined together in a tangle, sweat-slick skin causing oh-so-perfect friction.

And when they finally careened over that proverbial edge – it was as one.

Nikita was uncertain of how much time had passed by the time she woke.

She stretched, lazy and cat-like, not willing to rise just yet, flinging one arm out to Ari’s side of the bed.

When she came in contact not with his warm skin but a cooling space where he had slept, her eyes finally flew open in alarm.

“Ari?” she sat up abruptly, gathering the sheets to her chest.

It took her another moment, but then she heard the sound of the shower running.

Relieved: she pulled the sheets with her as she got out of the bed and made her way over to the bathroom.

There was still a pleasant numbness from the previous night’s proclivities, as Ari had proven a thorough and giving lover and she’d lost track of just how many times they made love before succumbing to slumber.

With a fond smile, she pushed the door open and dropped the sheet on the floor, wasting zero time in joining him under the soothing hot spray of water.

She snaked her arms around his waist from behind and pressed a kiss in greeting to his left shoulder blade.

He glanced back at her. “You finally returned to the land of the living I see.”

“Stop,” she laughed against his skin. “How long was I out?”

“…it’s roughly one P.M…”

Her eyes went wide. “What?!”

He was quick to turn around and hold her. “You looked so peaceful, my love. It would have pained me to wake you.”

Her embarrassment at having slept so long dissipated when she was distracted by how attractive he looked with water dripping over his well-built frame.

“Well, I’m fully awake now.” She slipped her arms around his neck, pressing their nude forms together. “Not to mention starving.”

“I can make us something,” he reached to turn off the water, but she stopped him, shaking her head and touching her lips to his.

“Not for food.”

He raised a brow but didn’t hesitate to capture her mouth with his.

It would be a little while longer before they exited the bath.

Nikita was certain that Ari had put some kind of adrenaline booster into the food she was currently devouring. Not only was it absolutely delicious, but she felt a gradual buzz of energy building within her.

“Okay,” she set down the fork and eyed her partner suspiciously. “There’s got to be some kind of special ingredient in here.”

He merely rested his chin against his hand and grinned. “Not telling. My recipe. My secret.”

“Well, that settles it: you’re incorrigible,” she settled back into the chair. “Absolutely determined to drive me crazy.”

He laughed sharply. “You’re already quite aware of that, darling.”

“Don’t start.” She looked away from him to the maps and documents scattered across a nearby coffee table. “When did you start plotting our next move?”

“While you were still asleep. I took a walk, and then began going through some things.” He rose, gathering their empty plates so he could clean them.

She moved to inspect all the work he had done while he did the dishes and was engrossed in a specific map by the time he returned to her side with a much-appreciated cup of coffee.

“Here,” he sat next to her, one arm draping over her shoulder so he could take a look at what she was so enthralled by. “Ah. Yes, the intel suggested one of the boxes is there.”

She accepted the drink, taking a sip and then settling back more comfortably against him. “It feels so surreal. When we first met you suggested that we work together to find them and now, here we are; and I’m sorely tempted to just throw all of those into the fire and run off to some island somewhere instead.”

He set his mug down and shifted so he could embrace her. “Not the worst idea. That being said: is it really what you want?”

Nikita groaned, unsure, and put her own cup aside so she could turn and curl up in his arms. “Right now? I just want you.”

He brushed his lips along her temple. “Besides that, Nikita.”

“Is it so wrong to want a home? A normal life?”

“Of course not, but I’ve been watching you for some time now.”

“That’s called stalking.”

“Where I come from it’s called surveillance. And that’s not the point I’m trying to make here, what I’m trying to say is: I’ve seen what drives you. It’s helping others and making an actual difference. You won’t be satisfied until Division is taken down. And I won’t be satisfied until you are. We’re in this together now,” he tucked a stray lock of hair over her ear, looking deeply into her eyes.

She searched his gaze; her heart flipping at the sincerity and love apparent there. “You know…when you first showed up at the loft, I thought things were going to go very differently. And then: you saved me. And I never asked why.”

He stroked along her arms. “I saved you because I’m in love with you. That’s it. Plain and simple. I just never thought you’d accept that.”

“It’s more than accepting it,” she cradled his face between her hands. “I’m in love with you too.”

His reply to her confession was to kiss her so ardently that they toppled backwards on the couch.

It was not long before they were irrevocably lost in one another, but what mattered the most was that there was a future – and they were going to face it together.

The End

#ari x nikita #nikari #mine #mrsreginagold #peter outerbridge #again posting in his tag for those interested #nikita 2010 #fanfiction #ari tasarov x nikita mears #otp: enemy mine #otp: this is the life we've chosen

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junosartsthetic · 2 years

Text

My Beloved

My stupid dumb-dumb brain can’t write good at the moment so I’m posting this which I ended at a weird place and will maybe write a sequel of but I want to give y’all content so here. Also it’s pol because of course it is. Okay thanks bye.

Moving to France on a whim with nothing to your name but the clothes on your back and a one-way plane ticket sounded idiotic to anybody with common sense. Lucky for you, that was something you possessed very rarely.

There was nothing for you in your home country, having no living family or friends. Your job gave you no joy. You had no pets to take care of. You had nothing to lose because you had next to nothing to begin with. You sold your small family home and used that money to buy yourself a ticket. The rest of the money you stored in a savings account, vowing to use it only for emergencies, leaving only a few hundred dollars to make a new life here.

As your plane pulled into the terminal, you focused your eyes on the beautiful night-scape of the French countryside. It was refreshing compared to the hustle and bustle of the city you once called home. There was no light pollution plaguing the sky, only twinkling stars illuminating the scattered homes.

You turned from the window, listening to the captain explain the deboarding procedures. Jet-lagged with your head in the clouds, you didn’t notice the man heading down the aisle just as you stepped out of your seat.

Letting out a gasp, you braced yourself against the stranger’s broad chest.

“Excusez-moi,” the tall and well-muscled man exclaimed, his hand resting against your back to steady you. “Pardon moi, madame.”

“Désolée,” you squeaked, overwhelmed by the scent of the gentleman’s citrus cologne. You backed up to get a full look at the man you just bumped into, only to blush violently.

You were met with a strong featured face, featuring prominent brow bones, soft freckles, and lovely light blue eyes. His long silver hair fell messily around his pale features, tied behind him in a loose pony-tail.

A black tank-top showed off his well-built and scarred body, leading downwards to white pants. You noted a small string-pull bag slung over his shoulder, held there by one of his massive hands.

His hand that had held your back moved to smooth down his hair. You noted some fingers were prosthetic. You could help but wonder what happened?

“Tu vas bien?” he spoke, French obviously natural to him with the way it rolled eloquently off his tongue.

“Oui,” you stuttered. “Uhh, et toi? Pardon, monsieur, Je ne parle. . . pas bien francais.”

“Is English better? And don’t worry. I’m okay.” He lightly tapped his chest. “I’m pretty solid.”

You nodded. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, I must’ve been spaced out. Umm. . . care to get a late-night coffee as an apology?” You weren’t sure what came over you. You were never the type to ask somebody out on a whim, but something about a new country brought about new impulses as well.

“Merci beaucoup,” he replied. “Lead the way!”

With that, you stumbled off the plane, head still in the clouds from the flight, wheeling your small suitcase behind you. The French gentleman followed smoothly behind you.

Down the terminal you went, heading towards the symbol of a coffee cup gently illuminating the large airport.

You set your stuff down at a table and chairs, leading the Frenchman to do the same. With that, the two of you made your way to the coffee shop counter.

After getting your coffees, the two of you took a seat, immediately falling into comfortable conversation.

“My name’s (Y/N), by the way,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee. It smelled amazing, and tasted even better. This whole situation felt like a dream.

“Enchantée, (Y/N). Call me Jean Pierre. Jean Pierre Polnareff.”

You smiled softly at him from behind your coffee, causing the muscled man to blush warmly. “What brings a lovely lady like yourself to France?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Honestly, I’m not really sure. All I know is I didn’t want to stay where I was, so here I am, I guess.” You gestured to Jean. “I’m assuming you’re from here?”

“I lived here a while ago, but there’s not really anything for me here now. I just didn’t really know where else to go. . .” His chipper demeanor deflated, leaving him to stare down at his coffee in thought. He took a sip.

“Seems like we’re both kinda lost in life,” you mumbled, resting your chin on your hand as you drank the hot beverage. You stared out the large glass window behind Polnareff, the night sky brilliantly bright and enticing you forward.

You reminded yourself why you were here. This was your chance to live life how you wanted it. You could live at your own pace, find your own way, and choose who you wanted to be. A part of you already missed your home, but a bigger part craved to explore your new environment.

You looked back at your new friend, noticing the sadness crossing his handsome features.

“Are you okay?” you prompted, reaching out to place a hand on his own resting on the table. He jumped in shock, a blush appearing on his features.

“Apologies,” he replied, his happy-go-lucky energy returning. He shot you a wink. “I’m just fine, don’t worry about it! I shouldn’t be moping, especially in the presence of such a pretty woman.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. What a flatterer. Though you could tell something tragic had happened to him. “Don’t worry about it. It seems like you’ve been through a lot. At least you have a chance to take a break, right?”

You pulled your hand back to hold your coffee with both hands. It was rather cold in the airport, actually.

“I had plans to come back to France with some friends, but. . . they passed before I could show them my homeland,” he said. “But you’re right, now that I’m here, and all that has passed now, I can live my life how I want.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you replied, a sympathetic look on your face. He smiled at you, as if to say thanks. You glanced down at your watch. It was getting later by the second. You really should find a hotel, but you wanted to continue your conversation with the Frenchman.

“You said you’re from around here. Right? Is there a hotel nearby?”

“Oui. Only a few blocks from here. I was going to stay there for a while until I found a place to stay. Would you like me to walk you there?” he offered.

You really shouldn’t walk alone in the dark with a stranger, but you didn’t have another choice. Plus, your gut feeling told you that you could trust this man. There was something about him that seemed to draw you in and comfort you. He felt like. . . home. . . but not like your previous home. He felt like a new home. A new beginning. A chance to reach out and grab what you wanted in life. And you couldn’t help but say yes.

“I’d appreciate that,” you said, grabbing your luggage and standing from your seat. “Thank you for your kindness. I’m glad I bumped into you.”

“My pleasure,” he replied. “Here, I can help with your luggage. I insist. It’s not that long of a walk, but a gentleman should always help carry a lady’s bags.”

You accepted his offer, handing a particularly heavy backpack to him. He slung it around his shoulder like it was nothing, the other strap dangling as he began to walk towards the door. A funny flustered feeling overtook you. You shook it off.

The walk to the hotel was nice. The cool night air prompted the two of you to stick close to each other, your arms barely bumping each other as the two of you chatted. He told you about his childhood in the countryside, describing the beauty of it. You listened eagerly, absorbing every word. His way of story-telling charmed you. Before you realized, you had arrived at the hotel.

The quaint baroque-style building stood between two newer townhouses, standing out with its faded yellow walls and traditional style. A cracked sign above the single door simply read ‘hotel’.

Though it could be seen as creepy, you quite enjoyed the run-down atmosphere. It looked lived-in and comfortable.

Polnareff opened the door for you, and a bell hung on the inside knob rung, signaling the entrance of you two.

The inside bore lighter wood floors and lavender wallpaper—an odd choice, but somehow flowing with the overall environment. Small stairs let to the second floor.

Two small armchairs resting against the back wall, facing the check in counter. Traditional hotel keys hung behind the counter.

A back-door stood behind the counter, and an older woman appeared in the doorway, hobbling to the desk to greet the two of you.

“Bonsoir, madame et monsieur,” she spoke, her voice filled with excitement despite her older age.

You looked at your companion. “Do you think you could ask for a room for me as well? My French isn’t great and I don’t want to mess up. Just let me know how much it is and I’ll pay you back.”

He nodded. “No problem!”

You stepped away from the counter to sit in one of the arm chairs, letting out an exhausted sigh. You couldn’t wait to fall asleep in a warm bed for the night, already dozing off in the soft chair.

“I got us a room,” Jean said, waking you from your little nap. “But there was only one room left. . . is it okay if we share?”

You grunted tiredly. “That’s fine. All I wanna do is curl up in bed. I’m so tired.” You let out a yawn, standing hesitantly. “Would you mind. . .?” you trailed off, holding out your other bag for him to carry. You didn’t want to seem like an asshole, but you really didn’t think you’d be able to make it up the stairs as is, much less with a bag full of stuff. He didn’t seem bothered at all, already carrying his stuff and one of your bags, so you assumed he’d be fine with carrying something else, at least temporarily.

You let out a gasp of surprise when he picked you up, managing to carry you bridal style while balancing all the bags all the while.

“It’s no issue,” he quipped, heading up the stairs. He didn’t even break a sweat, walking to the room and opening it, revealing the small space.

“Here we are!”

He set you gently on the bed. . . the only bed in the room. You thanked Jean, sitting up to swing your feet off. A blush heated your cheeks. “I appreciate you getting a room for us. . . but. . . there’s only one bed in this hotel room. . .” You didn’t mind sharing a bed but. . . it was still a little awkward.

He set his and your stuff down, letting out an awkward laugh. “Apologies, I’m more than okay with lying on the floor for the night or until another room opens up.”

“Don’t be silly,” you said, slipping your shoes off to get comfortable. They ached. In fact, your whole body ached. “If you’re comfortable with it, we can just share. It’s a king-sized bed so we shouldn’t even notice the other is there.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, already plopped down on the floor with his shoes off. He let out a yawn.

You nodded. “Just don’t like. . . secretly be a serial killer or something, okay?”

Jean laughed, digging through his small bag to pull out a tooth brush. “I swear I’m not, but I guess that’s something a serial killer would say, huh?”

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo's #jojos #jean pierre polnareff #jean pierre polnareff x reader #jjba x reader #fluff #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #my writing

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