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snackhobi · 3 years

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min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear.

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif and @morndas for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable.

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance.

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t.

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business.

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always.

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot.

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to.

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating.

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?”

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel.

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs.

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth.

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement.

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good).

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself.

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.”

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too.

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says.

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him.

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy.

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern.

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin.

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates. Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him.

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare.

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead.

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob.

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment.

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull.

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair.

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy.

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features.

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart.

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you, pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself.

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause.

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words.

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness.

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

#btswritingcafe #houseofddaeng #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #btsguild #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #bts #bts x reader #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #let's see if this appears in the tags this time! fingers crossed!#wow can you believe I wrote like 4k words of smut or something close to that

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dirt-cup-draco · 4 years

Text

Jaskier x Reader - One Night Stand, Life Long Commitment

Can I request a Jaskier x female reader fic with the prompts “i love you.” + “i'm going to marry you someday.” + “Are you scared?” + "I can’t believe you’re carrying my child.” please? Thanks so much!! 💕

You couldn’t believe the news. It wasn’t that it wasn’t suspected, you had been feeling different for some time now. Exhausted, nauseous, moody. You thought you’d just been bloated for god’s sake! Yet, it was still surreal. You were going to be a mother. The only problem was the father. Jaskier. You hadn’t seen the man in some time. You would say about three or four months had passed since you had last seen him and been coupled with him in bed.

He often passed through your town, singing songs and making the patrons of the bar you worked at laugh and hoot long into the night. You were always, or mostly happy to have him. He used to get into a lot of trouble, always following women and men he shouldn’t be and trying to get them to spend a night with him. Jaskier was easy to love but he was still a rascal.

Thankfully, he had focused his eye on someone who belonged to no one. You. The flirtations had been light and silly and they put a smile on your face. You could remember it like it was yesterday.

“Are you new around here? I’d never forget such a beautiful face,” He’d said impishly, winking as you laughed aloud, sliding his ale to him.

“We see each other every time you come in Jaskier, if you can’t remember me, you are drinking too much,” You couldn’t help but giggle at his antics. He was handsome and childish but charming all the same.

“No such thing as drinking too much my lady!” Jaskier had grinned, settling in a stool in front of you, which you knew was quite unusual for him. After performing until his voice was hoarse he would typically venture around the room until some maiden or man had him wrapped around their finger. You were convinced Jaskier fell in love at least once a day.

It was some time later, the room had thinned considerably. Your feet were aching and you were about to take your leave when Jaskier grabbed your wrist across the bar top. You were expecting his voice to be slurred, trying to think of how many drinks he’d had but if memory served you well, he had only had one.

Instead, his voice and eyes were as clear as a bell and he asked quietly, “Come with me to my room?”

You don’t know what had possessed you. Jaskier’s touch had been gentle on your wrist, fingers calloused from playing. Maybe that had been all it took, a kind touch. Or maybe it was the way his eyes pleaded with yours, a soft expression that you hadn’t ever been witness to before. Either way, no matter the reason, you had found yourself nodding.

Jaskier had been a generous lover, muttering praises against your skin as he brought you to the edge and pushed you over it time and time again. By the time the both of you were too tired to go on, all you could think of was the his skin felt against yours and how the only word you knew was his name.

When you’d woken up, he’d been gone.

You hadn’t expected something like this could happen, you hadn’t tried to protect against it but you hadn’t considered the thought that you might get pregnant. It was only once, how could you get pregnant? You weren’t ready, you realized. Especially not alone. But how were you supposed to tell him? You didn’t even know where he was right now, let alone how many people he had been with since the night you two had shared.

Your heart ached at the thought of that. Jaskier had been the only one you had been intimate with since your teenage years when you had been far more wild and free loving.

You had been on auto pilot since realizing you were pregnant. You wiped at a used table absentmindedly but you were snapped from your various thoughts when a familiar voice burst through the doors, singing of a Witcher, of all things. Your head whipped in his direction and you paled considerably. A woman you worked with, Amelia, noticed and went to your side immediately, rubbing your arm soothingly.

“Alright?” She asked, giving you a worried look. Amelia had quite a few kids of her own and she had been the first person you had talked to about the news. You were lucky to have her support. You clung to her and nodded, swallowing down the sudden bile that rose in your throat at the shocking events.

“‘Sorry, yes I’m fine,” You reassured.

“You do what is best for you, Y/N, and everything will be okay,” She gave you a bit of advice. It helped you considerably. This whole time you had been wondering what to do about Jaskier, how the baby would feel if they didn’t know their father. You realized, you didn’t want to be without their father but not just because you weren’t ready to be a parent alone.

You had dreamt of Jaskier more than once since that night. He had always been so kind to you. Warm and sweet and never failing to bring a smile to your face. You had fallen in love, you realized. You took a deep breath and went behind the bar top, watching as the clueless father of your child leaped around, asking patrons to toss a coin to a witcher. You smiled into one of the cups you were drying. He had such a presence about him.

You were disappointed however when at the end of his charades he didn’t sit at the bar. Instead he went to the back, taking his place across from a hulking figure with piercing eyes a scowl on their face. My god, You thought, It’s actually a Witcher.

You hadn’t been expecting Jaskier’s ballad to be true but here you were witnessing this dangerous friend, dare you say, of his.

“She’s been staring at you all night,” Geralt growled to the jovial man in front of him. Jaskier wasn’t ready to look. He had quite honestly been avoiding you since arriving. He had been pleased when Geralt had decided to stop here on their way to another town plagued by some creature only a Witcher could handle. It was a nice break and he felt oddly at home here.

He knew part of that was due to you. You always gave him the brightest smiles, cheered him on the loudest and laughed the hardest at his antics. The night he had spent with you had been one he would never forget, nor would he spoil the memory by being with anyone else. He had flirted around, tried to get his mind off of you, but he had failed miserably. Any time Jaskier had gotten close to being with another, you had flashed in his mind, beautiful and bare as the moonlight had lit up your features as you writhed beneath him.

It took everything in him not to go to you and kiss you. “I know she has,” He croaked as he drank more. “I can’t explain to her why I left. I don’t even know why I left,”

“Because you were scared, presumably,” Geralt said dryly.

“Fuck off,” Jaskier said grumpily. It was probably the first time the Witcher had seen his companion in such a state.

“Go talk to her,”

“No, you go talk to her,”

“Alright,” Geralt said, standing swiftly. Jaskier watched as the white haired brute he had come to care for slightly, swaggered over to you, asking for another pint. He hoped that Geralt would come back but after a moment, he slid into a bar stool, the same one Jaskier had sat at some months ago.

You gulped with the imposing man made his way to you. You had been staring unabashedly at Jaskier and supposed you made his friend uncomfortable with your unending gazes.

“Another,” He simply sad and you nodded, getting him a drink. You didn’t notice as his golden eyes widened considerably. You weren’t overwhelmingly large yet but he could still see a hefty bump taking up your midsection when the rest of you was decently small. It was clear to him you were with child.

“How far along?” Geralt nodded to your stomach as you blushed, eyes dodging his. He could feel Jaskier absolutely burning a hole in the side of his head.

“Couple months, I believe. I feel silly, thought I was just bloated,” You laughed airily but he could sense the nervousness in your voice.

“Father not around?” You winced, eyes making an imperceptible dash to Jaskier before you were looking back to Geralt, shrugging.

“You could say that,” Your voice was quiet and you cleared your throat. “What brings you here, Witcher?” You asked to change the subject.

“Just passing through,”

“A-and the bard?” You stuttered. “Is he passing through as well?”

“I think that depends?”

“On?” You asked, interest piqued.

“If you two ever gather the nerve to speak to one another,” Geralt said, becoming tired with the way you were both avoiding each other.

You blushed another shade of red. “I don’t wish to be intrusive, but he’s been talking my ear off about you since we got to this town. I don’t think he is going to do anything though so I thought I’d come talk to you,”

“He talked about me?” You sounded surprised.

“Too much, in my opinion. I’m sure you’re lovely but he never shuts up,” Geralt said more lightheartedly and you giggled.

“Thank you, Witcher.” You said.

“For?”

“Helping me realized what I must do,”

You went to Amelia and she gave you leave for the night. She understood that this was important to you and she wouldn’t complain if she made some extra money in tips while you spoke to Jaskier. Geralt walked with you back to the table. Jaskier’s back was still turned to you.

“What did she say?” Jaskier asked, turning around as he saw Geralt’s looming shadow pass over his table. His words died in his throat however as he saw you, smiling gently. Your cheeks were rosy and you seemed to glow. “Oh,” He croaked.

“I have quite a lot to say, I’m afraid,” You said and Jaskier’s eyes were trailing down your full bosom to the bump that he couldn’t unsee.

“You mean-?” Jaskier choked, gesturing between you and him, lost for words for once in his life. Geralt took his leave and you settled across from Jaskier. “And you’re sure that I- that I’m it’s um... That I am the-” He was having a terribly time and you understood how he felt.

You nodded and let Jaskier process what you were now admitting. Jaskier was the father, undoubtedly. “I haven’t been with anyone since you,” You admitted and Jaskier’s heart jumped gleefully at that.

"I can’t believe you’re carrying my child.” Jaskier sighed out the same time you blurted out, “I love you.”

Jaskier settled into silence but soon your words caught up to him. It was as if he hadn’t heard you and then all of a sudden your voice had traveled through his ears. “You what?” He asked and you winced.

“It’s as true as the fact that I am with child, Jaskier. I have loved you for some time, even before we- well you know,” For some reason you were embarrassed. You hadn’t really ever felt love towards someone before, infatuation you had, lust certainly, but not love. It was a rare and beautiful thing and Jaskier had been the one to bring it out in you. “I-I know you might not feel the same but I-”

“I'm going to marry you someday.” Jaskier interrupted.

Now it was your turn as you gaped at him. “You what?” He laughed breathlessly.

“I felt the same, still feel the same. Geralt was right, I left the morning after we had spent the night together because I was scared. When I woke you looked so serene. The sun was on your face and you were curled up against me and I knew right then that I would never be able to be with another again. A-and I havent, in case you’ve been wondering. I couldn’t, not after I was with you.” Jaskier’s words melted your heart.

“And if we are going to be having a child,” He continued, “Then I want to marry you someday and raise that child,”

“Do you promise me that you wish to raise this child because of love and not because of responsibility?” You asked, suddenly stern. You would not let a moment’s decision brew resentment in the future.

Jaskier took your hands in his and marveled at the warmth and familiarity. You felt like peace and home. He hadn’t had a home in quite some time. “I can promise you that, Y/N,” Jaskier said and you had never seen him look so honest. You let yourself smile.

There was a lot about the future neither of you were ready to think about quite yet, even outside of this moment. Would Jaskier leave with the Witcher? Would you marry soon or after the birth of the child?

There were many unknowns. But for now, you were both content as you held hands in a crowded inn, knowing that you loved each other.

#Jaskier #Jaskier x reader #witcher #the witcher #wticher x reader #fluff #cuteness #I LOVE THIS DOPE #Thank you for your patience!!!#im sorry this took so long #also #im not ashamed to say #jaskier is probably a type of man who loves to love all people #he doesn't have a label in my mind #but you cannot convice me he is completely straight

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starkerisendgame · 5 years

Note

this is my cheesy cliché-romantic prompt, please write it if you like this kind of stories, lol: Peter has had a crush on Tony since forever. He has confessed his love to Tony three times, and Peter has been rejected each time. The first one was when he was 10, the second one at 15, and the last one at 20. After so long, Peter decides to give up. He starts dating other people, trying to find love, then one day Tony reappears again into his life.

I’m so sorry this took so long! But I really hope it was worth the wait and that you enjoy it. This is in two parts because it ended up being way longer than I initially planned it. No smut in part one, but 90% of what Anon asked for happens in this chapter.

Prompts are always open

[P. 2 | P. 3]

Peter meets the love of his life aged ten, lounging in the grass of a local park and devouring the Chemistry book that Aunt May got him for Christmas. A pair of glossy combat boots stop right besides his pink lemonade, a figure casting a dark shadow over his book.

Peter looked up slowly, scowling at the interruption. How was he supposed to study hard and become a world famous scientist if people kept interrupting him? The boots give way to skinny black jeans that clung to legs longer than Peter could ever hope for his to grow. The legs faded into a black t-shirt sporting a cat playing the drums, and then to the prettiest face Peter had ever seen.

“Page fifty-eight is wrong, y’know,” the boy commented casually, hands tucked into his jean pockets. Peter’s scowl deepened, and he stared for a moment longer before furiously flicking through the pages. Page 58 turned out to be on metals and their chemical properties. Peter scanned it, before looking up again.

“It’s a professional science book. It can’t be wrong. And even if it was, how would you know?” he asked, reaching for his lemonade and sipping. The boy actually laughed, soft and amused before crouching down, elbows braced on his thighs. One long finger tapped a single paragraph on the page.

“The book claims Tungsten to be the strongest natural metal, and Chromium to be the hardest. Both of those are wrong. The world’s strongest and hardest metal is one in the same: Vibranium.”

Peter frowned a little, reading the paragraph quickly as the boy spoke. Vibranium? That sounded made up. And he’d never heard of it before.

“You’re just making that up,” he pouted, pushing away the boy’s hand. He chuckled again, low and soft and it made Peter’s tummy feel funny. All flippy, like he was on a rollercoaster.

“Am not,” the boy shot back, teasing and mocking. Peter pouted harder, drawing his book closer. “Vibranium was discovered in the 1800′s, and is pretty much a secret outside of a select few Government organisations and my family; who have a big clump of it sitting in a secure storage facility out in Antarctica,” the boy remarked. It was Peter’s turn to laugh, now.

“You’re a big, fat liar,” he dismissed, then frowned. “Wait. I’m not supposed to be talking to strangers. Go away before Aunt May confiscates my Game Boy again,” he huffed, looking back down at his book. He missed the soft smile the boy gave in response, and missed the scent of aftershave as the boy got up and walked away.

One week later, Peter was back at the park, sprawled out on the grass with several packs of snacks and his chemistry book. He’d brought a notebook this time, jotting down notes and little doodles to help him remember things. There was a science expo next month, and he was determined to be super smart and science to impress the important scientists there.

Something thunked into the grass before him and rolled, all the way through the grass until it bumped into the edge of his chemistry book. Peter eyed it warily. It was a metal ball, about the size of a ping-pong ball. Bright silver and it looked really shiny, like it had been polished. Peter looked up further, and saw the boy from last week strolling towards him.

He walked all the way up and sat down opposite Peter, long legs crossing in the grass. Peter watched him the entire time, hand still paused mid-sentence. The boy was wearing dark grey jeans today, and a white shirt with an AC/DC logo across the chest. His head tipped, and he watched Peter with a soft, curious expression.

“Half a pound of Vibranium. Super-forged and polished into a perfect sphere, just for you,” the boy remarked, pulling a lollipop out of one pocket and peeling off the wrapped. Peter looked down and after a moment he put down his pen, reaching for it. It felt light, for its weight, and the metal was cold, perfectly smooth to the touch.

“This is probably just steel or something,” he pointed out, and the boy shrugged, sucking the lolly with a wet sound.

“You can do whatever you want to that, and it won’t break, scratch or dent. The only thing that can damage Vibranium is more Vibranium,” the boy tossed back, taking the sphere from Peter’s hand and tossing it up and down like a regular ball. “You could take a chainsaw to this thing and all you’d get is sparks.”

He tossed the ball back to Peter and they spent the next two hours going through his chemistry book together. The boy turned out to be called Tony, and he was super smart. He was turning twenty next month. Peter worried a bit about talking to someone that much older, but Tony was sweet and smart and helped him to take notes.

Tony’s phone went off a little while later, and he checked it before pulling a face and looking across at Peter.

“Well, I gotta go. But try to scratch that thing. Let me know if you succeed,” he grinned, ruffling Peter’s hair and standing. He was already walking away by the time Peter realised he had no way of letting Tony know either way and he watched helplessly as Tony slipped into a sleek, black car on the sidewalk.

That night Peter attacked the ball with several kitchen knives. He threw it down the stairs. He tried to chew it. He tried everything he could within the house to damage it, but nothing worked.

Eventually he gave up, sitting on his bed and staring in wonder at the still perfectly smooth ball before he snuck an egg cup from the kitchen and put it in pride of place on the middle of his shelf.

He went back to the park on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday of the following week, but Tony didn’t show up.

He was already there the following Tuesday however, sprawled on his back on the grass with his eyes closed and his face tilted up towards the sun. Peter approached slowly, two bottles of cola tucked under his arm, chemistry book tucked under the other. He was almost above Tony when the boy smiled, slow and sweet.

“Sorry I haven’t been around much, Pete,” he murmured. His voice was thick, raspy. It was then that Peter noticed the dark purple bruises under his eyes, and the large, blotchy red patch on one side of his jaw. Peter shuffled nervously in the grass, dropping his head.

“Um… If you’re sick, we don’t gotta study today,” he mumbled in response, shrinking when Tony cracked open one eye to study him. After a moment though, he was smiling again, pushing himself up onto his elbows to pat the grass besides him.

“I’m okay. We can still learn about atoms,” Tony comforted softly, and that’s what they did. For over an hour, until Tony looked up, face falling as a tall, kind of fat man in a suit approached then. He looked like he should be dressed for a funeral.

“Mr. Stark, its time we should be going,” the man greeted quietly. Peter’s pen slipped across the page when he twisted in shock, staring accusingly across at Tony with wide eyes. His best friend wasn’t just Tony, but Tony Stark. Son of Howard Stark, one of the world’s leading inventors and scientists.

Tony glanced across at him with a small, half amused and half sad smile, pushing to his feet.

“I’ll be back on Thursday, kiddo,” Tony hummed, dusting off his pants and following after the man, who gave Peter a polite nod in goodbye. As they walked, the man held out a tie and a jacket towards Tony, and it occurred to Peter for the first time that Tony had been wearing a smart shirt for once.

The next morning, as Peter sat at the table eating his cereal, the news turned to Tony Stark, dressed in a suit with a pair of deep red sunshades on. What remained of the Stark family announced that Howard and Maria Stark were dead - Victims of a terrible car crash due to bad weather. They had been buried late yesterday afternoon, a quiet and private affair.

Peter’s heart sank. Tony had must’ve gone straight to the funeral with that man. He fretted about it all day, nervously chewing at his pen and bouncing his leg the entire time. He wanted to go to the park, wanted desperately to see Tony, but Tony had said Thursday.

The day couldn’t come quick enough, and Peter barely breathed as he stuffed his dinner into his mouth, ignoring May’s alarmed looks and almost headbutting her with how quickly he gave her a goodbye kiss on the cheek, jacket half-on as he fled through the door.

Tony was waiting for him again, sat cross-legged in their spot. He was wearing the same shades he had been on the news the other morning and wore a large, soft black hoodie. He looked up when Peter came scurrying across the grass, mouth quirking into a friendly smile.

Peter skid through the greenery, sliding onto his knees and crashing into Tony with almost enough force to knock him over as he wrapped his arms tight around him.

Tony stiffened under his touch, arms hanging hesitantly in the air, but Peter squeezed him a little tighter, tucking his head down and after a moment Tony relaxed, arms coming loosely around Peter’s waist.

They met up every week after that, always in the same spot near the holly bush. They got through Peter’s book pretty quickly and Tony brought more, an endless supply of books on anything Peter could think of.

He also brought Peter stuff, sometimes. A tiny, tiny 1ml science beaker from the lab at Stark Tower. A weird type of berry from Africa, where Tony went for the weekend while Peter was home with the flu.

Two weeks before his eleventh birthday, Peter looked up from his book on stars, squinting across at Tony, who was doodling a dog wearing sunglasses on his notebook.

“I love you.” he announced after a moment, confident. He’d asked Aunt May what it meant to love someone, and if it was okay to tell them. She’s told it was when even the thought of someone made you happy. When you wanted them to be in your life for a long time and when you felt comfortable around them.

Tony paused, and then laughed, sharp and short. “No, kid. You love pancakes and your Aunt and sleeping in on a Saturday. You don’t love me.”

Peter frowned and went to argue but then Tony was quizzing him on what gasses stars were made up of, and it was dropped.

Peter lay awake that night, tossing and turning as he thought about it. He was pretty sure he loved Tony. He always looked forwards to seeing him. Tony made him happy and made him smile all the time. He knew Tony’s favourite colour and how he liked his toast and he always felt like he could tell Tony anything. That was love… Right?

Aged fifteen, Peter buried his face in Gwen’s shoulder and whined, shoulders slumping. His phone lay screen-up on the table, depicting an image of Tony stepping out of a fancy restaurant, arm wrapped tight around a pretty blonde girl. It was his second girlfriend of the year, a nice but kind of snooty girl named Alita.

“You’re jailbait anyway, Pete. Find someone your own age,” Gwen advised, voice cool but not unsympathetic as she turned the page to her book. She was right; Peter had known Tony was too old for him the moment he realised that Tony’s smile made his tummy flip in a funny way. The moment Aunt may blew up when she found out just who Peter was always running off to study in the park with.

(Tony had promptly arranged for them both to have dinner at the Tower, and had immediately wooed Aunt May. She had come around to them being study buddies by the end of the night; how could she not? Tony was sweet, charming, quirky. It hadn’t taken Peter a year to fall in love with him, after all.)

“She’s just… I mean she’s obviously… She isn’t…” Peter couldn’t think of anything to say. Alita was actually pretty nice, if you got past her picky, high standards for living. She had been super friendly when Tony had brought her along on one of their study meets, and had been pretty interested in their current topic - physics.

“Not you,” Gwen finished for him, pushing his head up so she could give him one of her Mom looks. Peter scowled and looked away, stabbing his breaded chicken with a little more force than required. Alita and Tony had been dating for three months now, and each morning the heavy, cold feeling in Peter’s stomach grew. He thought back to being ten, to telling Tony he loved him in the middle of the park, to the way Tony laughed, like it was a big, bad joke.

They didn’t go to the park often, these days. Tony was now the big boss at his parents’ company and spent most of his days learning how to run it and making lots of big changes. They still saw each other each week, but school and a big company didn’t leave a lot of time for laying around in the grass.

“Have de-ageing or ageing machines been invented yet?” he questioned aloud, and shrieked when Gwen slapped him with her book. That was a no, then.

Tony was waiting for him at the school gates, leaning against the bonnet of a fancy car that Peter had forgotten the brand name of. He had rich, glossy blue shades on today and was wearing a loose, matching blue silk shirt. Several other kids were hanging around, phones out and obviously trying to engage.

Peter felt rather powerful striding across the grass and towards Tony. Tony straightened when he approached, uncrossing his legs and opening the car door with a flourish for Peter.

“Your humble ride home, Little Prince,” Tony greeted, voice thick and soft as he mock bowed. Peter snorted, sliding onto the rich, buttery leather and tossing his beg into the footwell.

“You’re so embarrassing,” he grinned, but he didn’t mean it. Not at all. His heart actually felt like it was going to burst. A few months ago for his fifteenth birthday Tony had given him an official internship at Stark Tower, as his personal assistant.

It basically meant Peter could come around whenever Tony was there, and usually ended in them making up crazy things and ordering takeout.

It also meant Tony picking him up from school like this. Peter had lost count of how many times he’d daydreamed of just running over to Tony, jumping into his arms and kissing him. Tony was starting to grow a little facial hair now, a light dusting of stubble that made Peter feel all funny whenever he thought about it.

“So, how was school, Petercakes? That kid still being an ass? What is it…Flake?” Peter snickered, slouching back into the seat and pressing the button for his window as Tony started the car, peeling carelessly out of the parking lot.

“Flash,” he corrected, with a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, he believes me about the internship now you’ve started picking me up, but. I don’t think anything would shut him up completely.” When Peter glanced across Tony tipped his head, that challenge accepted smirk on his face, and Peter pointed at him.

“Tony, no.”

“Tony, yes,” he shot back gleefully, before reaching across to nudge Peter gently. “Relax, I’ll probably just arrange a field trip to SI or something. Sing your praises in front of everyone. Hey - bet I could get photos of you framed on my walls by the end of the night.”

Peter groaned, sinking lower into his seat.

Today’s Important Science encompassed going to the movies to see the new Fast and Furious film, before eating their weight in ice cream to determine if chocolate chip mint was better than toffee crunch delight. Tony got them two small cones to go, and they parked up at the beach front, watching the lights twinkle off the dark water.

“How was your date with Alita yesterday?” Peter asked in the comfortable silence that fell, cringing immediately afterwards. Great. A perfect, private evening together and he was bringing up his girlfriend. Besides him, Tony cringed in tandem.

“We, uh… Actually broke up. That’s why we went out to dinner. As a break up… Thing,” Tony mumbled in response, turning away and looking out of the window as he crunched the last of his cone. Peter almost dropped his in surprise, blinking across at Tony. But… They had looked so cosy leaving the restaurant.

“She was just… We weren’t right for each other, I guess. Y’know how it is,” Tony shrugged after a brief pause, pulling a wet-wipe from the glove compartment and cleaning off his fingers. Fidgeting, mostly. Peter could relate. He suddenly felt itchy within his skin, too warm. Tony was single again. He bit at his lip, trying to think of what to say.

“Oh. Well… I still love you,” he breathed out, stiffening when he realised what he’d said. Across from him Tony chuckled, reaching out to fluff up his hair and casting a fond look over the rim of his glasses.

“I’m glad me being a lonely old man doesn’t change the way you think of me,” Tony responded, voice light and teasing. Peter shifted his gaze away, out to the illuminated waters.

He didn’t know if Tony thinking he was joking was worse than Tony realising Peter had meant it. He stuffed the last of his cone into his mouth to avoid saying anything else, and another few moments passed before Tony begun to drive him home.

Peter leaned across the centre console when Tony pulled up, dragging the older man in for their customary hug. Tony was broader than he used to be, shoulders filling out, biceps bigger and rounder. His tummy was different, too. Thick muscle and lean abs in place of where he used to be slim like Peter was now.

His hair was soft, fluffy. A little longer than Tony usually kept it, and his aftershave was musky and heavenly when Peter nuzzled into the crook of his neck, squeezing tightly.

“I meant it,” he breathed against the warm skin there, closing his eyes tight. “I do love you. I know I do. And you can laugh like you did last time, but that doesn’t change it.”

Tony briefly stiffened against him, before he relaxed, petting gently at Peter’s hair. “You don’t know love, Peter. You’re fifteen. You’ve still got years left to learn and grow and experience things. To learn love and how it feels. To find someone. Now go on, before May shouts at us again.”

Tony let him go, pushing his shades higher to his eyes again, and Peter’s heart broke as he scooped up his bag, fleeing for the safety of his bedroom. He cried that night, tucked up against his pillow, duvet pulled up to his cheeks.

He knew what love meant. He had since he was ten, looking into Tony’s honey-coloured eyes and wishing he could look at them forever.

He knew he loved Tony. Knew belatedly that he always would. But this was the second confession of his love, and the second rejection of his feelings.

He fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, eyes red and cheeks ruddy. He stayed in bed for most of the day, avoiding his phone and citing illness when Aunt May lingered in the doorway, brows pulled in concern.

Tony picked him up on the Sunday. Neither of them raised what had happened, and neither of them acted differently to before. Peter supposed it was as much as he could hope for.

His twentieth birthday rolled around sooner than he could have expected, frantically finishing his entry exams for MIT and dealing with moving out of Aunt May’s apartment.

His faux internship in his teenage years had developed into an actual job at Tony’s marketing and research department. Tony was thirty these days, a heart-stopper and a bonafide billionaire thanks to his savvy, smart business choices.

Where Peter had remained a baby-faced, slim figure, Tony was tall and broad. He worked out daily and it showed in the expanse of his shoulders, the ripple of his biceps when he wore tank tops in the experimental labs. SI was branching into medical aid these days. Tony had grown his facial hair into artful stubble, thick and accentuating the sharp line of his jaw.

He was jaw-droppingly attractive, and Peter’s harboured love had only grown as he watched Tony go from a lost and uncertain young man into a grown, confident man.

Other people had seen the change too, and Peter had lost count of Tony’s partners at this point. One-night stands and brief stints at relationships. Time together cut short or cut completely because Tony was whisking away his latest slice to some Malibu getaway.

Peter tried not to be bitter, even when Tony begun a two year relationship with Peter’s manager, Ms. Pepper Potts. He tried to be supportive. Tried to be understanding whenever Tony cancelled their plans. Tried not to let his sadness show at the dark hickeys he often found littering Tony’s throat. His love never waned, not even slightly.

He rejected any advances from anyone else, knowing that he would be unable to stop himself thinking about Tony. Imagining it was Tony taking him to the movies or Tony kissing down his chest. Gwen watched disapprovingly each time he batted away an attempt at flirting, but remained the supportive (if blunt) friend.

He was laying on his bed, frowning at his latest set of study papers when the door flung open and Tony strode in, pausing only briefly to toe off his dress shoes and to flick the door shut behind him. Peter jumped at the sounds, craning across to try and see who was invading. He really didn’t have the energy to fend off a robber at this point in time.

“I’m hosting a party at the Tower, for your birthday,” Tony had announced, kicking Peter aside and taking his warm spot on the large queen that Peter had invested in. They still tried to make time for each other these days, but this was the first time Peter had seen Tony outside of work in over a week.

“Are you?” he asked lazily, frowning down at the now disorganised mess of paper. Tony dipped his glasses down and cast Peter with one of those flat do you dare doubt me looks that Peter had learned early to not to second-guess.

And that was how Peter ended up on the balcony of the Tower’s penthouse, gazing out at the stars and desperately trying to distract himself from the fact that Tony seemed to be flirting with everyone in the room except for him.

It had been an alright party, all things considered. Tony had invited Gwen and a few of their mutual friends from Stark Industries, and apparently several other people he knew but Peter didn’t. They were all nice people, chatty and knowledgeable and all ready to drink until they passed out.

Tony had brought lavish gifts in a pile almost as tall as Peter and the majority of the guests had all brought a gift or two along as well. Peter now had more ties, watches and bottles of alcohol than he had space for but he was delighted at each one, taking a shot each time he opened a present as instructed

Tony had bought him a dorky lab coat, (”in honour of how we met, Petercakes.”) and two soft sweaters. A gorgeous, deep red tie that Peter was sure matched one Tony owned himself. Three bottles of expensive, fruity alcohol and several small baggies of various chocolate covered fruits. A pair of classy, dark shades and a massive bath set filled with fruity scrubs and fizzy bath-bombs.

Peter had no idea ho he was gonna get all of it back to the Tower, and he vaguely mused on just leaving it all here for the night and picking it back up in the morning. He let his head loll against the cooling breeze, grip slackening on his flute of champagne. He’d lost count of how much he’d had to drink.

“What’cha Bruce Wayne-ing for out here, Peter?” came Tony’s slightly slurred, drunk-high voice from behind him, and Peter couldn’t help stiffening a little, gaze lifting from his arms to the city line before them. His stomach twisted with the thought of Tony mingling in the crowd, chatting up girls and flirting with boys.

“I’m not Batmanning,” he pouted, forcing himself to look when Tony came up half-besides him and half-behind him. Tony smelt like expensive whiskey and musky aftershave. His hair was mussed from the sleek style it had been in earlier, and three smudged lipstick prints dotted the line of his jaw.

Peter turned his gaze away.

“Out here alone, gazing moodily at the dark night, while a party in your honour is in full blast behind you,” Tony hummed, leaning against Peter’s shoulder heavily as he joined him in staring out at the twinkling lights of New York.

It took a moment for Peter to hone in on the scent of smoke, and he turned his head in alarm, only to find Tony grinning across at him, holding out a tiny cupcake with a single candle.

“I’ve already done the cake,” Peter mumbled, watching the small flame flickering in the breeze. Tony had custom-ordered a massive cake, with icing and sprinkles and little white chocolate cookies and all other sorts of decoration. It had taken Peter eight breaths to blow out all the candles. Tony met his gaze, eyes dark and pupils blown.

“I know. But… This is special. Just for us,” Tony murmured, still watching him. Peter’s heart immediately begun to race, pounding against his ribs as he met Tony’s stare.

“Make a wish then,” Tony coaxed, a lopsided grin quirking his mouth as he shifted his weight against the balcony. Peter kept his eyes as he listened, putting all of his faith and effort into thinking his wish before he leaned down, blowing the flame out with a short, sharp puff.

“What’da wish for?” Tony asked not even a second later, plucking the candle and tossing it aside to the floor as he offered Peter the cupcake. Peter hesitated, taking it and staring into the icing while he gathered his courage. Should he say it? Didn’t that ruin the magic?

He shifted uneasily, looking back out across the city as he sucked in a breath. “I wish you believed me when I say I love you,” he spat out in a rush, clutching the cupcake so tightly that it crumbled under his grip, icing folding across his knuckles. Tony stiffened besides him, pulling away a step and turning to face Peter, but he continued before Tony could say anything.

“I’m old enough to know love. I have been since I said it the second time. And… And I wish you loved me back. I really do. I know you don’t and I’m not gonna force it but I just… I mean it, Tony. And you know I do. I love you. I always have, and I think I will for a long time. Maybe always. But I just… That’s what I wished for. That you stopped treating it like a joke.”

Part of the cupcake fell away in a sad, dramatic slide and Peter forced himself to drag his gaze up, away from the view and across to Tony. Tony, who looked…Devastated. The expression on his face was enough of an answer for Peter, if the look in his eyes had failed to get the message across.

“Peter…I’m sorry, I…”

Peter let the rest of the cupcake fall, dropping his gaze to his trembling hands as he shook his head, unwilling to hear it. Unwilling to hear another rejection. He spun on his heel, almost stumbling as he fled for the door, pushing through and into the bright, loud warmth of the room.

He stuck the wall, desperately skirting anyone who noticed him with an apologetic smile as he fumbled for his jacket, forgoing the elevator for the stairs.

He made it down four floors before he sank against the railing, gasping for air. His vision blurred with tears and he dragged himself to the elevator, hitting the button miserably as he stared down at his icing smeared hands, willing the crushing sensation to give him enough time to get home.

His phone buzzed three times in his pocket, but he ignored it, stepping into the elevator and huddling into the corner as it carried him down to the foyer.

The night security looked surprised to see him, but obligingly ordered a car to be brought around, waiting with him and helping him into the back when it arrived. He wiped at his eyes, faking not feeling too good when the driver (Harry? Henry?) asked if he was alright.

When they arrived outside his house, the driver got out and helped him up, patting his shoulder comfortingly. He caught Peter’s eye, expression almost…Knowing.

“Whatever he said or did, kid… Don’t hold it against him too much. Tony hasn’t been right in himself since his parents. He’ll make it up to you. You’re the best thing that’s happened to him.”

Peter almost threw up on the spot, mumbling in response and darting for his door. The driver waited until he was inside, safe, before he left. Peter sank back against the door, finally giving into the burning sensation in his throat and howling as the tears begun to pour. Three times, he thought miserably.

He doesn’t love you. Never did. Never will.

A distant memory re-called itself to the front of his mind and through the haze of depression Peter fumbled for his phone, slick fingers sliding on the screen as he took several attempts to log into the Stark employee server. The announcement was still there, and his heart thumped with an icy determination as he scanned it.

Stark Industries was opening a new PR division in Malibu. 121 positions available.

He flipped to his email, thumbing in Pepper Pott’s ID. Despite her and Tony’s break-up she had remained a valued member of the company, double-acting as Tony’s PA and a member of HR.

His heart sank lower and his blood run colder with each word, until he felt numb as he hit send. He let his head fall back against the door, phone sliding to the carpet and he squeezed his eyes shut.

It was for the best.

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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 4 years

Text

Buaxfell

Summary: A girl finds herself in a strange forest surrounded by strangers with magic powers and no memories. They go on a quest to find her memories and figure out where she belongs. (AKA, an original work I wrote forever ago that I want validation for.)

Main Taglist: (Send an ask to be added or removed!) @starlocked01 @spoopy-turtle @lizluvscupcakes @more-fandon-than-friends, @i-cant-find-a-good-username, @vindicatedvirgil, @star-crossed-shipper

NOTE: This might be a dip in quality from what you’re used to, I wrote it when I was about 12-13.

Day 1

When I woke up, I was in a forest. There were trees all around and I seemed to be lying on a cloak of some sort.

"Good, she's awake." Someone said.

I looked up to find probably seven of the most handsome men I have ever encountered. They were all dressed similarly: brown pants that looked funky and white, button down shirts. Their cloaks were all different colors as well: red, green, blue, brown, pale blue, yellow, and gray. Their hair matched their cloaks but in different shades.

The one with the brown cloak knelt next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Are you alright now, miss?" I identified his voice as the one who told the others I was awake.

"I'm fine, but may I ask who you are?"

They all introduced themselves one by one but tagged something weird on the end.

"Kenna, fire." The red cloak said.

"Beryl, earth." This came from the green one.

"Ackerley, healing." The nice brown one.

"Caol, water." The dark blue.

"Akiro, light." The yellow one.

"Draven, shadow." The grey one.

"Vale, ice." This was reluctantly given by the light blue.

Ackerley took back over as he started to examine my arms. "Are you sure you're fine? You took a nasty tumble there."

"I can't remember anything after going to sleep last night and have no idea where I am. Other than that, my head hurts slightly."

His hands moved to gently run over my scalp, looking for a bump. "What are you doing?" I asked him.

"As I said earlier, I'm a healer. I can relieve the headache if you tell me where it is."

I was still very confused but went along with it. "It kinda starts from behind my ears and goes up to encase the front of my head."

He nodded as his long fingers reached behind my ears. Almost as soon as he started pressing, the pain went away. "How's that?" He asked before standing up and helping me to my feet.

"Much better, thank you." I looked down at the cloak that I was lying on and found that it was light blue, the same as the one who said his name was Vale.

"Nice!" He said when he saw my cloak. "Another ice!"

I looked at him in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to know anything about this, could someone please explain."

The one with the red cloak, Kenna, stepped forward. "We," he gestured to himself and the six men around him and included me as well, "are wizards."

"I kind of got that. What I want to know is what a wizard is."

He nodded. "Well, a wizard would seem to be self explanatory, but I guess the nasty bump must have knocked all that out of your head. So, there are many different types of wizards. It is not specifically stated that different power marriage is forbidden, but it is strongly discouraged. It hasn't truly been tested but there are some that are not even thought of for obvious reasons. If, for example, a fire and water or ice wizard had a child, the child would either take on one power or would have potential for both.

"Sometimes, the child is able to choose which power they want, but those are times when both powers are the dominant ones. The child could be completely conflicted. Just the same, there are powers that could coexist peacefully such as earth and healing or water and ice. These powers are able to be used in harmony. On the side of that, the marriage could fall apart. The fire could be too hot headed while the ice could be too cold and shut off. A light wizard could be very bubbly and outgoing while a shadow is asocial and closed off. Does this help?"

I stared at him. "No." All that did was give me more questions to deal with, not that I was going to mention this to them.

Vale patted the older boy on the shoulder. "Let me try." Kenna nodded before moving back to rejoin the others.

"He explained more of the mixs, but what I think you're looking for is what a wizard is and how their powers work. Am I correct?"

I nodded, allowing him to continue. "When a wizard is born, it takes them about a year before their powers start to show. A mix may take a bit longer on account of the powers fighting for dominance. As the power becomes evident, small parts of the wizard's personality will appear as well. An earth will enjoy playing outside, a healing won't bruise easily since they will heal quickly, a water and ice will enjoy taking a bath. The way to tell a water from an ice is that the ice will prefer the colder water while the other will prefer warmer water. A light will always want a light on while a shadow will be very sensitive to light. A fire is the hardest to control while in the beginning stages. They will be cranky, like to stay in the kitchen or near the stove when the mother is cooking. As a result, most fires end up as bakers.

"The way a wizard works their powers is harder to tell than it is to demonstrate. Would you mind if we give you a show?"

I shook my head, signalling for them to go ahead. He at least explained how to identify a wizard if they don't have their cloak. Although, I wondered if the hair color had anything to do with the power or if they had just dyed it. Pulling a lock of my hair over my shoulder, I found that it was indeed a light blue, almost white. Looking at Vale's versus mine, his was darker with a few light highlights. I lowered myself back down onto what I guessed was my cloak while the seven men still set up.

They started first with the one introduced as Beryl, the earth wizard, walking into the middle of the clearing. The others were on one side while I was on the other. He knelt down and closed his eyes as he placed both his hands flat on the ground. After a few seconds, he raised them. The ground came with him, creating a small hill with a flat top. He walked off, leaving that there while Kenna, the fire wizard, walked up and pointed his finger at the mound. A large flame appeared on the top but didn't scorch the grass underneath. The one with the dark blue hair, Caol, came up next to him and put it out. He knelt on the ground just as Beryl had done, but when his hands came away, a large water bubble came with it. He directed it at the flame, allowing Kenna to walk back to the rest. Caol pulled more water from the ground and started playing with it, twisting it into intricate shapes. Vale came up next to him and froze the water. I watched in awe as the ice crystals quickly wrapped themselves around the water, freezing it solid yet still keeping it up in the air.

Kenna came back and melted the ice, allowing it to fall to the ground and get soaked up. All three men walked away, allowing three more to take their places. Akiro, the light wizard, held his hand in the sky as a ball of light began to grow in his palm. He allowed it to grow until it was the same size as his hand before Draven, the shadow wizard, grabbed his wrist. The ball of light seemed to sputter and shrink. Akiro grimaced as his face seemed to drain of color. The light almost looked as if it was being physically attacked, it squirmed and twisted as Akiro eventually fell to his knees. Draven immediately released him as Ackerley took over, putting his hand in Akiro's still outstretched one. Soon the color came back and he was able to stand back up with Ackerley's help.

I stood up, grabbing my cloak and throwing it on as I came towards them. It seemed to be muscle memory to clasp the cloak onto the ochre colored tunic that was over my brown tights. "That was amazing guys but what happened towards the end?"

Draven rubbed the back of his neck. "I've been working with my shadow powers since I was able to understand them, but I'm an orphan. I had no one to teach me how to use them so it's a bit unstable compared to the others. Also, since Akiro's and my powers are conflicting, we aren't the best when working together."

I nodded before turning to Akiro. "Are you alright?" I placed a worried hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, I'm alright, but could you remove your hand? It's cold."

"Sorry." I said as I took it off.

He gave me a bright, box smile. "It's fine. Ices seem to radiate a cold atmosphere and have a lower body temperature than others. It's another way to tell wizards apart. Fires have a high body temperature even in the winter, earths have a steady temperature, waters seem damp or the atmosphere will feel humid around them, lights glow in the dark slightly while shadows are able to see in the dark. Healings seem to be the same as earths but have more of a mothering instinct."

I tilted my head a little as I processed this new information. "So, fire wizards or fires, as Akiro called them, and ices are more likely to shed their cloaks, waters are going to be the one staring at the fountain in the center of town, earths are going to be interested in pottery or gardening, shadows are going to look like vampires while lights are going to have a very hyper personality? What I'm getting out of this is the healings are the normal ones but also good listeners."

They all smiled at me, minus Kenna who just stood there. "That's right. Are you remembering things now, miss...?" Draven stumbled over not knowing my name. As our conversation continued, they somehow managed to herd me down the road.

"Sorry, I was just repeating what I had gotten out of the things you guys are telling me. As to my name, I don't know."

Beryl started jumping around. "Oh, oh, oh, oh! Can we name her! Please?" He did puppy eyes and clasped his hands directly below his puffed out lower lip. His head swiveled between Draven, who seemed to be the leader and Ackerley, seemingly the eldest. "Pretty pleeeeeaaaaase?"

Ackerley looked at me. "Would that be alright if we give you at least a nickname? Something to call you besides just 'the girl'."

I nodded. "That's fine by me."

Each of the boys began spitting out names, only to be shot down by Ackerley and Vale.

"Keara."

"That's a shadow name, Draven. No."

"Serafina. She could be Sere for short."

"Kenna, that's a fire name, not an ice. Denied."

"Afra!"

"One, we're looking for ice names and that's an earth name. Two, calm down, please, Beryl."

"Jora is a nice name. 'Autumn rain'."

Ackerley looked at Vale. The younger male got the message and hit the back of Caol's head. "That's close, but you need to freeze that." He said.

"Asia! Please, pick Asia!" Akiro hopped around, causing me to laugh.

Vale, however, was not amused. "No."

"Anahita."

"Caol." Draven looked at him.

"Yeah?"

"You got no jams. Be quiet." Caol pouted but obliged.

"Kalama."

"No, Kenna, try again."

"Nara. That's an ice name." Caol looked at the eldest with hope in his eyes.

Ackerley, in turn, looked at me. "What do you think? Do you seem like a Nara?"

I gently shook my head. "Sorry, but no."

"Come on guys, let’s keep trying."

"Why don't you try one Vale." Akiro sassed at him.

"I will. Once you guys are out of options."

"Levina."

"That's another light,Akiro."

"Koral."

“Denied!” The rest called.

I walked over to pat his shoulder. "Good try, but it doesn't fit me much." I said in an attempt to cheer him.

Ackerley snapped his fingers. "Eleanor!"

I shook my head again. "It just doesn't seem to fit. Sorry."

Kenna looked at me. "People can sense if a name is theirs. Don't apologize because it's not your name. Simply accept it and move on."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"Ainsley."

"Try again, Akiro."

"Ryo."

"Kenna, isn't that your sister's name?"

"I thought it sounded familiar. Oh, well."

"Levana, I'm quite sure it's an ice name."

"It's a nice name, but no."

"Kaia?"

"Nope, sorry, Beryl."

"Neci. That's a cool name."

"That's a fire name. There's nothing cool about it."

"Kimana, meaning butterfly. If you shoot this down, it becomes her nickname. Deal with it." Beryl put one hand on his hip as the other pointed a finger between the eldest and youngest.

The two boys looked at each other before focusing their gazes back on Beryl. "Nickname, yes." Ackerley said.

"Real name, no." Vale finished.

"Blake."

"Draven, that seems like a boy's name. No."

"Alright, Leila. 'Dark beauty'."

"Once again, we're looking for ice names. Stop giving us shadows ."

"Akiko."

"N to the O, Akiro."

"Fiona."

"She doesn't look it."

"Elvira!"

"Icess!"

Vale looked up from the road when Beryl and Kenna called the names out at once. "What about, Miyuki?" He said.

Ackerley looked at me. "All three are good names. Which one?"

I pondered it for a few minutes, watching my feet as we traveled on the dirt road. "What do they mean?"

Ackerley looked at me with a gaze that held a tint of pride in it, almost as if he was proud of me. "'Elvira' means 'white', Icess is a good ice name, and 'Miyuki' means 'snow'. Does that help at all?"

I looked at Vale. "I quite like Elvira. Although, I don't know how to actually use my powers. Could you teach me? Or at least give me a quick refresher course?"

He nodded. "Sure, Elvira." I smiled at my new name, Elvira, as well as my nickname, Kimana. It just felt right when they called me those.

Our whole group pulled off to the side of the road, the six others quickly forming a circle around us. Vale unclasped his cloak, allowing it to slide down his lean frame and unhinder his movements. Gesturing for me to do the same, he stepped to the center of the circle. I followed and mimicked his stance.

"Lesson one," he said, "you must let the cold embrace you. This is why we moved to the shade of the forest, also there is more dew here. Lesson two, you must have water near you, it helps. Hence, the dew."

I nodded. "That kind of seems obvious." I replied.

He chuckled. "You would be surprised. Moving on to lesson three, kneel down and put your hand flat to the ground, just as you saw Beryl and Caol doing."

I followed his instructions. "You need to reach down with your mind and try to find the water. Since your purpose is to freeze it once it comes up, the water may not want to come. Once you find it, call it to you. You must pull hard."

I looked at him. He had knelt next to me on one knee versus my both knees. "How do I do that?"

"Look inside yourself. Feel the inner wizard in the back of your mind. She is telling you what to do."

"Wait. Inner wizard? Like an inner wolf on a werewolf?"

"No. More like, the wizard instincts that you are born with. You will unconsciously know what to do. Try it."

I closed my eyes, blocking out all distractions that come with having seven gorgeous men in front of you. Searching my brain, I attempted to locate the 'inner wizard' he had been talking about. Sure enough, the knowledge was there. I used it to do as he had said, search for water. Ironically, there was a huge cluster right under Caol. I tried to get a bit of it, but heard the boys laughing. Opening my eyes, I made a very big mistake.

I had drawn more water than I should have and it ended up coming as a fountain and lifting the water wizard into the air. "I'm so sorry!" I said as I tried to pull the water towards me. Again, it was too hard and took Caol with it.

Luckily, he was able to take control of it and stop it. Vale created an ice slide out of it, allowing the boy to get down. Vale came towards me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't feel too bad. It's hard for the first timer."

Kenna snorted. "Says the one who was able to make an ice sculpture on his first try. You know, a skill only someone who had trained and honed their power for at least fifteen years could accomplish."

"When did he do this?" I asked as I stood up and retrieved my cloak.

"When he was ten or eleven." Beryl replied.

"Wahh." I exclaimed, trying to clasp my cloak. My fingers kept fumbling with the latch and I couldn't do it properly.

Just as I was about to give up, Vale came and clasped it for me. "You need to give your fingers a bit of time after using your powers. For an ice, they will feel frozen. You also need to put this back on as soon as you can. Ices cloaks are specially designed to insulate them and keep them at a temperature that they won't freeze but will still be able to work their magic. The cloak is a critical part of any wizards trade."

"Noted." I said as he stepped away. We all continued on our path. "Where are we heading?" I asked.

"We," Akiro said mysteriously, "are going to the city of Tueneraza."

"What the heck is that?" I asked, completely confused.

"It's the capital city." Draven answered.

"So, are there any other types of wizards besides the seven presented here? Also, are there any normal people who are not wizards?" I gestured to the seven boys with me.

"Yes, there are a few more." Beryl responded. "There are the animals and the winds, close cousins of mine. There are also the metals, but they are rare. As for the second, no, everyone has powers."

"Then why are they called wizards and not simply by their powers?"

"If you notice, we had introduced ourselves only by our powers. We call us wizards to distinguish between the element and the person. For example, if you asked me 'could you get me water?' and I brought over Caol instead of an actual glass of water."

"Interesting. Are there any special ones that resulted from mixes?"

"Like what?" Draven asked.

"Like, clouds. Would there be wizards with that power? If so, would they come from a mix of water and light? Are there any wizards besides the animals that can talk to the creatures?"

"Interesting questions." Kenna took over. "To answer them, not that we know of. However, there are still places that we have no idea what lives there."

"Cool." I said.

"I'm fire. I'm not cool.”

After a few hours more of walking, bickering, and bantering, we crested a hill and met one of the most awe-inspiring sights I had ever seen. The city lay in front of us in all of its glory. I saw a flash of light and looked to see a section of the city release a bright pulsing light. The boys, especially Akiro, seemed to get excited at this. They began to run, Vale dragging me along.

"Come on, Elvira! They're waiting for us!"

"Who and why?" I shouted as I ran with them.

Akiro grabbed my other hand. "My family!" He said, not answering the second half of my question.

We got there in no time and the gate opened for us. Akiro left us to run ahead and embrace an older couple with cloaks the same color as his, just a bit darker, standing outside what I guessed to be his home. The rest, including me, slowed down and approached them on a walk. We could hear Akiro shouting that he had missed his parents and siblings, making me wonder how long they had been separated.

"Guys, come on!" He said. We were obviously taking too long since he came over and grabbed two random hands, pulling Beryl and Ackerley along. "Mom, Dad, these are Ackerley and Beryl." He ran back for two more random hands, this time latching onto Draven and Vale, the latter dragging me with him.

"These are Draven and Vale. The girl is a new friend we found today. We named her Elvira." He ran back for Kenna and Caol, leaving it a bit awkward with us.

"These are the last of them. Kenna and Caol." He seemed like a child bringing his friend to meet his parents.

"They all look very nice, Akiro dear." His mother said.

"What do you mean by 'named her'?" His father asked, crossing his arms.

"Oh! We found her in the woods. We had heard a giant THUD! and thought that we should investigate. So we walked and found a tree branch right next to her." He wrapped an arm around my shoulders but quickly pulled away due to the cold radiating off of me in waves. "Ackerley healed her of a nasty bump on her head and bruises all along the side that she fell on. When she woke up, she didn't know who or where she was. So, we named her and asked if she wanted to come with us. Now we're here!"

His parents looked at me. "What did you say they called you, miss?" His mother asked.

"We had decided on Elvira, Ma'am."

Beryl walked sideways until he was next to me. "I call her Kimana because I like that name."

"Isn't it an earths name though?" Akiro's father asked.

"Yes, but it works for her."

"Well, let's go inside. We're leaving tomorrow anyways." Akiro herded everyone into the house.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We only came to this part since my parents want to meet with me at least once a month. Otherwise, I do my own thing."

"Okay. Where next?"

"Next, we're going to the ices' district. There, we can see if we can find your family." Draven said as he took off his cloak. Most of the others followed, but Vale and Kenna left theirs on.

"Is there a reason why you didn't take your cloak off?" I asked Kenna, knowing Vale's reason and deciding to keep mine on as well.

"Just like yours will warm you up, mine will cool me down. Especially in the presence of ices like you and Vale. It basically steals the cold you radiate. I could just stand next to you with both of us having our cloaks off, but that could hurt you since I radiate a temperature higher than what your cloak uses to keep you at your perfect temperature."

"Ah." I nodded and followed the rest.

"We'll stay for the night before moving out in the morn. It's too dark to travel right now, especially in the city with a lady with us." Draven said as we all came into what looked like the living room.

The room had pale yellow walls, not too sickly looking, not too bright, just enough to create a calming effect. The fireplace had a lit log in it, which Kenna gravitated to like a moth to a candle flame. He sat by it and looked at home. Akiro sprawled out on a soft-looking, brown chair. Draven was standing in front of the fire and to Kenna's left, allowing the red head to still see the whole room. Ackerley sat on the floor, leaning against Beryl's leg, who was sitting in a matching chair to Akiro's. Caol, Vale and I sat on a bench pushed against the wall. Akiro's parents were nowhere in sight.

We all nodded in acceptance of Draven's statement of staying. Akiro seemed glad. "Sleepover!" He shouted, pumping a fist into the air and letting off a bright flash.

Draven groaned at the light in his sensitive eyes while the rest of us laughed.

"Yay!" Caol said, equally as enthusiastically.

Vale jumped up from his position next to him. "You leaked!" He said.

"What!" Caol screeched. "I did?!" His enthusiasm quickly turned into alarm.

"Yes!"

"Where?!"

"Right there!" Vale pointed at a spot on the bench and froze it.

"Ah!" Caol cried out, not liking the cold.

"Boys!" Ackerley's voice rose above the ruckus. "Vale, defrost Caol right now!"

Vale looked at Ackerley with a clearly fake innocent face. "Sorry. I only know how to freeze, not un-freeze."

Ackerley sighed. "Kenna! Defrost the poor thing so he can shut up."

I clapped and pointed at him as Kenna came to do as he was told. "Savage Ackerley! I like this!"

"Ouch!" Caol's voice whined it's way back into my focus.

"Not sorry." Kenna shrugged before walking off, Caol now rubbing his burnt bottom.

"Vale!" He yelled. "I'm going to kill you!"

Vale stuck his tongue out at the older boy before running off, Caol hot on his trail. I took this opportunity to lie down on the bench, now that the water was gone. I had no idea what would happen if I had tried to freeze that water. It might have caused bigger damage.

"Hey, Kimana." Beryl came to sit on the floor a few feet away from my head. Looking at his previous seat, it was now occupied by a tired and dozing Ackerley.

"Hi, Beryl." I said as I looked back at him. "Did you need something?"

"No, I just wanted to see how you were holding up."

"Please, rephrase and expound on that." I asked.

He chuckled. "You fell out of a tree from probably a long way up, poor tree; failed at correctly using your power when, at your age, you should have at least gotten it under control; had to deal with seven noisy five year old brains stuck within the bodies of grown men; and just had three people scream in your ear. How are you not sleeping like him?" He gestured to Ackerley.

I smiled. "My stomach was waiting for food."

He nodded. "Understandable since we found you after lunch. Akiro's mom should finish dinner soon. He says that she normally has it done around the time he gets home."

As if she had been summoned, Akiro's mother stood in a doorway that I assumed led to the kitchen, where that heavenly smell was coming from. "Dinner's ready for whoever wants it." She said.

Akiro jumped up and ran over, giving her a bear hug. "Thanks, Mom." He said before passing her.

The others and I, minus Caol and Vale, quickly followed suit, giving her a brief bow on the way past. My bow went a bit deeper than the rest as I knew that she wasn't expecting me. Soon, a loud thunk was heard. We all looked up from the bowls of delicious stew to find Caol pinned under Vale.

"Hi, guys." He said awkwardly before the younger allowed him to get out of what looked to be some sort of wrestling hold. We all laughed at how stupid they looked before turning back to our dinner, Akiro pointing out where to get their portions.

Once we all finished eating, Akiro took us up to his room. He allowed the boys to crash on his massive bed and clean floor before taking me to the guest room close by. "Thanks again, Akiro." I said, standing in the doorway of what was to be my room for the night.

He gave me his box smile. "It's no problem. I only met you a few hours ago, but you seem like my sister already. Please, just call me Akiro from now on, alright, Sis?"

I giggled. "Alright. Goodnight, Akiro."

He threw a "Night, Sis." Over his shoulder before closing the door to his and the six others' room.

A few minutes after I had closed the door, a knock was heard on it. I opened it, thinking it was one of the boys. It turned out to be Akiro’s mother, who gave me a bright smile. "Hello, dear. Akiro told me that you didn't have any night clothes, so I brought you this." She handed me the bundle in her arms. "It was his older sister's before she grew out of it. She's now married happily so you can have the gown if you want."

"Thank you so much, Ma'am, but where will I store it?"

"Your cloak has pockets that can hold almost anything that can fit through the opening. As long as it's not full, the gown should fit in it."

"Thanks again. Goodnight, Ma'am."

"Goodnight, dear. Sweet sleep."

I closed the door and set the gown on the bed before looking about the room. It was a good sized bedroom, with a window that had the curtains drawn, blocking out the city sound while still allowing light to see by. Whipping off my cloak, I set it on the bed and found the pocket Akiro’s mother was talking about. Looking at the other side, there was another pocket in the same spot. I stuck my hand into one and patted around, trying to see if I could find anything to tell me who I was. I came out with a beautiful silver necklace that had Elvira written on the snowflake shaped locket.

"I guess it actually is my name." I muttered as I clasped it around my neck.

Digging further, I couldn't find anything else in that pocket. I moved to the other and came up with a strange whitish root thing. I put it back, intending to talk to Ackerley or Beryl about it tomorrow. Changing quickly, I climbed into the warm bed. It felt a bit suffocating, so I carefully folded the blanket down to the bottom of my bed, making sure that my cloak was off to the side and hanging on the back of the chair.

Day 2.

The next day, the sun shone beautifully through the guest room window. I got up, feeling refreshed and awake. Bouncing out of the still cold bed I made my way over to the chair I had laid my cloak on. I quickly pulled out yesterday's clothes from the pocket I had shoved them in before bed. Surprisingly, they were clean and ready to be worn. Even the few holes it had gotten from the fall were patched. I changed into them, carefully folding the night gown and putting it in the same pocket. It felt good to feel the cool metal of my necklace against my skin.

When I got downstairs, the boys were already at the table, halfway through their breakfast. "Good morning." I muttered as I served myself.

"Morning, Kimana." Beryl greeted me as I sat down next to him. The others quickly greeted me.

"Eat up, Elvira." Draven said. "We have a ways to go today. The city is vast and the ices live on the opposite side from the lights."

"Can't we just hire transportation?" Ackerley asked.

"No. The reason: everyone turn out their pockets."

Doing as Draven told us, we all emptied them out. I was shocked at what the youngest three had in theirs. "How the heck did you manage to fit a rock in your pocket, Akiro. Follow-up question, why do you have the rock in the first place?" I asked, incredulous.

Caol held out his hand. "You don't want to know." He warned.

"What's with your rock, Caol?"

" Mine is useful, his is not."

"How so?"

" Mine is what is called a wind stone. It can call wind and tell which direction it's coming from. There are such things as paired wind stones, which means that in addition to doing the actions already mentioned, it also knows where the other is. His, on the other hand, is just stone wind. It allows you to use wind as a messenger and hear wind in the rock. It's about as useful as a conch shell at the beach."

Akiro hit Caol's arm. "Not fair. My message might save a life one day." Seeing my confused expression, he continued. "Stone wind is only good for one message per stone. So, best make it count."

Looking at the others, Kenna also had a rock, but it seemed to be flint. Beryl had a small jar of dirt, Ackerley had herbs and bandages, Vale had a few coins in a small bag, and Draven had a rock that looked like a cross between Caol's and Akiro's only grey.

"What's the story behind your rock, Draven?" I asked, my curiosity taking over.

Kenna looked at me. "What are we doing, comparing rocks now?" He asked with sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Draven held up a hand. "It's fine, Kenna. My rock, as you so elegantly put it, Elvira, is called a shadow stone. It helps control my wayward shadow powers if I really need it. I try not to rely on it, but sometimes I have to use it. What do you have?"

I pulled out the root I had found last night. "I was only told about the cloak pockets last night by Akiro’s mother. I found this root-like thing and this necklace." I took it off and passed it around, putting it back on when it got back to me.

"May I see the root?" Beryl asked.

I nodded and handed it over. Since Ackerley was sitting next to him, they both examined it. "This is rare, Kimana." Beryl said as he gently passed it back.

"What is it exactly?" I put it back in the pocket as the others put their things back as well.

"It's a snow root." Ackerley said.

Vale perked up. "A snow root?! Don't tell me it's an actual snow root !" He leaned across the table to me. "May I see it?"

I pulled it back out. "Only if you calm down, alright?"

He nodded and I handed it over. He gingerly turned it over in his hands, as if he held a precious artifact. He let out a low whistle while looking at the whitish root. "Awesome." He whispered.

"What's so cool about a root?" I asked, slightly annoyed.

He looked at me. "This isn't just any ordinary root. This snow root comes from one of the deepest forests known to us. Very few who have ventured into it make it out alive, especially with something like this. If ground up, even a little bit will help control an ices powers, much like Draven's shadow stone. If we use just a little bit now, we can start to get that power of yours under control. We wouldn't even need that much of the root. Is that alright with you?"

I smiled. "It's more than alright. Thank you, Vale."

Draven cleared his throat, calling our attention back to him. "As you can see, really only Vale has money that we can use for transport, but it's not enough and we'll need it for lodging later." He said.

I furrowed my brows. "Can't we try to use Caol's wind stone thing?"

Caol sighed. "It can only call a breeze. You really need a wind wizard to enhance the power or get a bigger stone. Mine was a gift from an honorary uncle who was one. He tried to put as much power in it as he could but, it was on his death bed and he wasn't that strong."

"Wonderful!" Kenna exclaimed sarcastically. "We're stuck with walking. In the mud. With those four."

He was referring to Vale, Akiro, Caol, and Beryl, who were currently goofing off.

"What's so bad about that?" I asked.

He heaved a deep sigh. "Everything. They're loud, annoying, never stay to the path, always going off on side trails, and never stay out of trouble that we have to rescue them from." He gestured to himself, Draven, and Ackerley.

"Well, now you have me."

"That has yet to be decided if you're an asset or a hindrance." He muttered. Soon after, he stood up, sweeping his legs over the bench and walking away after putting his plate away.

"What's his problem?" I muttered as I finished up.

"Don't mind him, Elvira, he'll warm up to you eventually. Let's go to the yard." I looked up to find Vale standing next to me, holding his hand out to help me over the bench.

I accepted his hand, allowing him to lead me. He didn't let go of my hand as he led me through the house and to the backyard. Once there, he grabbed a stick and drew a large circle that was more or less closer to an oval. "Is that supposed to be a circle?" I asked with a bit of a giggle in my voice.

He glared at me. "Shut up." He completed the ovalish circle and stood up from his crouched position. It had been fun to see him duck walk around while drawing whatever it was that he drew.

"Nice, an oval. What do we do with it?" I asked.

"Were you born sarcastic or have you been spending too much time with Kenna?"

"It seems to come naturally, if that answers your question. Now, what to do with the oval."

"It's a circle. " He hissed at me as he removed his cloak. "Now, give me the root."

I grabbed it from the pocket and handed it over before discarding my own cloak. The warm sun shining down felt suffocating yet slightly pleasing but I immediately wished for the cold that comes with the cloak. It felt like I was going to burn to a crisp at any second. "Can we just start?"

My voice startled him out of his thoughts. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure." He looked around for a second before pointing at a pump in the corner of the yard. "There should be a tin cup by that. Fill it with water and bring it here, please."

I did as I was told, excitement buzzing through my nerves as I wondered if I might actually be able to control my powers today. I brought the cup back to see that he had finished with the root. There were three small shavings sitting in the palm of his hand. I finally noticed the hunting knife he carried at his belt as he put it away. Handing him the cup, my hand shook slightly as I thought about the last time I had tried to control ice.

"Calm down, Elvira. It's going to be fine." He said as he dropped the shavings into the cup. They dissolved almost instantly and the water remained clear. "Drink it." He said, handing it back.

I took it and threw it back like a shot of whiskey. It was cold and had a tang to it while giving an invigorating feeling. I was more awake than I had been and felt ready to take on anything. In short, it was like an instant sugar high. I was high as high can be.

I stood still, tilting my head to the side as I stared the water pump down. The water from the trough below the pump lifted slightly before freezing into a hailstone the size of a child's ball. It then started bouncing around the backyard, heading straight for Vale's head.

"DUCK!" I shouted, dropping to the ground.

"What the heck!" He called as he followed my directions, the ice flying over his head. It came to a stop when it hit the back of the house, resulting in a giant THUD that the occupants most likely heard.

Meanwhile, Vale was stalking towards my prone figure, still not moving from my position on the ground. "What on earth was that?" He asked with his hands balled into fists by his side.

"A big ice ball?" I said, my eyes widening slightly.

He glared back at me. "What did you do? I didn't tell you to do anything yet."

"I looked at it."

"Very funny. What really happened?"

I stood up with a bit of effort. "It's true. I just stared at it like this-" I moved to repeat my actions but his hand went in front of my eyes.

"Do not demonstrate! One dent in the house is enough."

"I dented it?!" My eyes widened as I stared at the house. "I didn't mean to!"

The door banged open and the rest of the group, plus Akiro's parents, came out, Ackerley in the lead. "What happened?" He called. "Is everything alright? Are you two hurt anywhere?" He ran to us, cloak billowing behind him.

Vale spoke without taking his eyes off me. "We're fine. I can't say the same for the house however."

I glared up at the giant man. "I said it was an accident!"

Ackerley went in between us, checking for cuts. "You're positive you're fine?" He clearly didn't believe him.

I pushed his hands away. "Yes, mother, I'm fine."

He put his hands on his hips. "I get enough sass from Vale and Kenna, I do not need it from you, young lady."

I lowered my head. "Yes, sir." I then raised it. "It technically wasn't my fault."

Vale threw his hands up. "How could it not be your fault?! I told you to drink the mixture, not to take it like a shot of beer before blowing a hole in the wall!"

"You should have been clearer in the instructions! You also left me alone after telling me, allowing me to do it. Therefore, it is basically your fault." I smiled, a smug expression clear on my face.

Vale spluttered. "This girl is impossible!"

"Then why do you try?" Beryl asked. Peering around Vale and Ackerley, I saw that he was almost finished with fixing the wall.

I walked past the others, moving to stand at his side. "Cool. I didn't think you could do that."

He chuckled, eyes never leaving the wall. "Think about the contents of the wall. It's just dirt, clay, and water. Basically, I can manipulate the dirt and clay back into place with Caol helping after I'm done. With that knowledge, what do think Caol will do?"

I thought about it briefly before responding. "He could gently place water on the wall, causing it to be sucked up by the clay and dirt and go back to being a wall, but that would result in a wet wall that wouldn't be able to hold the roof. He could also use the existing water that was in the wall to rebuild it."

Caol's voice came from behind me. "Very good, Elvira. That's logical thinking, so we at least know that that part of your brain wasn't damaged from your fall."

"Unlike your magic!" Vale shouted.

I glared back at him. "I told you what happened, you didn't want to believe me. You now have no room to talk. Shut it." I stormed over to my cloak, angry fingers taking a few tries to clasp it before I turned to Draven. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as they finish the wall." He said.

Kenna came over to me. "You have quite the temper for an ice, you do realize that, right?"

I shrugged him off, trying to block out distractions. Reaching into my inner being, I tried to reconcile with myself on why I can't use my magic properly, how I got here, who I truly am. I looked deep inside myself and found something that I couldn't quite recognize. It felt like a string that was calling me to pull it. When I did, it dragged me deeper into myself,to a place I didn't even know existed. Looking around, it was like nothing and everything I had seen before. I realized that it was where my memories were kept. Unfortunately, most of them were behind a stone wall that I couldn't get through. The majority of the ones I could get to were of the boys and me. A few shocked me, not just for being so out of place, but also for being about ten portal looking things on a wall that could fit hundreds. The rest must have been behind the wall.

I stepped towards them, first one, then another until I was directly in front of them. Reaching out, I touched the center one closest to me. Instantly, I was dragged through the portal to a place I didn't recognize.

✽✽

Kenna watched as Elvira shrugged off his help, closing her eyes and standing as still as can be. What seemed a few seconds later, she took a step forward, then another. He followed, unsure what was going on. Ten steps later, she collapsed, Kenna rushing forward to catch her before she injured her head even more. A small part of him wondered if hurting her head again would reverse the memory loss.

"Ackerley!" He called out.

Just as Kenna knew, Ackerley was by his side in a second, dramatically sliding a few feet away on his knees until he was next to the slightly younger male. "What's wrong with her?" He asked.

Kenna deadpanned at him. "I don't know, how about the healer take a look at her?" He asked sarcastically.

"Alright, alright." Ackerley said before examining her. "She had said she was fine but I shouldn't have trusted her." He muttered as he ran his graceful fingers over her scalp.

After a while he sat back on his heels, turning pitiful eyes to Kenna. "I can't find anything wrong with her. Maybe she's just lost in her mind?"

"She collapsed . How can that be 'lost in her mind.'"

"I've heard of this." He muttered. "People with a high brain capacity can actually delve inside their own brain, sometimes going in there for days. Our only choice is to take her with us until she recovers, which could take a few hours or a few days. We won't know until she wakes up."

Kenna sighed, preparing to carry her across the city. "Alright."

✽✽

When I came back to my senses, I looked around. I seemed to be some sort of ghostly figure. The weird thing was, my cloak was red, not light blue. Tugging on my hair, it was a very light red, almost strawberry with streaks of the previous light blue. I looked at my surroundings again and saw what seemed to be a younger version of the red me playing with my parents. They both had their cloaks off while I didn't have one yet. Looking at their hair, my dad's red while my mom's was the same light blue that I have. It would explain the ice name I have, why I have a hard time controlling my magic, and why I have a very short temper.

"I'm an ice and fire. That's why I get along with Vale and Kenna so well, because I have bits of both my parents personalities." I mumbled beneath my breath. "The ice must have been the dominant gene while the fire is the dormant. Or, am I missing something?"

Suddenly, my father looked up. Even though I was in a ghost form, he still seemed to be looking directly at me rather than through me. He walked towards me, leaving the younger version of me and my mom. "It's good to see you again." He said, kneeling to stick a hand in the red cloak that was at my feet.

"What do you mean? I don't understand anything, Daddy. I'm so confused."

He smiled up at me before standing up, an object clutched in his fist. "Ask Kenna to go into more detail about mixes, you'll understand more. For now," he stood up and faced me, "always remember that we love you very much." He placed the object into my palm and curled my fingers around it. "Take care of this for me, will you?"

"Will I be holding it when I open my eyes?"

"Good question. No, you won't. It will be in your left cloak pocket. Although, it may have upgraded slightly since you last saw it." He started walking away.

"Wait! What is 'it'? What do you mean by it may have upgraded?"

He stopped, looking back at me over his shoulder. "All in good time, my daughter. All in good time."

He kept walking away as I felt the pull of the portal behind me. There was nothing I could do as it pulled me back to the first room I came to. I looked around again and a few more portals were added to the portal wall. There were now double the number that there first were. Half of me wanted to stay and explore more, the other half telling me I need to wake up. I listened to the more boring, yet logical, part of myself and woke up.

✽✽

Kenna put Elvira down, her weight finally getting to him. "I'm done with this. Caol."

"Yes?"

"Water ball."

"Why?"

He looked at him. "Do I need a reason?"

"Nope. One water ball coming up." He began making it and was done in seconds, Vale coating it with a layer of ice thick enough that Kenna could hold it.

As soon as it was in his grip, Kenna dropped it on Elvira. "Kenna!" Ackerley called as he ran over.

Elvira sat up, wiping water off her hair and coughing slightly. Kenna looked at Ackerley, unrepentant. "It worked, didn't it?"

✽✽

I became aware of my surroundings again...just as a cold ball splashed onto my face. I sat up, spitting it out and trying to wipe most of it off. "It worked, didn't it?" I heard Kenna say.

I looked up at him. "I would so kill you right now if I didn't need your help with something."

"Oh, so scary. I'm shaking in my boots." He mocked.

Vale stepped over, hovering a hand over Kenna's shoulder. "I wouldn't test her. She almost whacked my head off the last time she used her powers."

"I actually found the reason for that, thank you very much, Vale." I stood up, shaking out my cloak.

Remembering what my dad had said, I felt around in the left pocket but felt nothing. "It's just like the old coal." I muttered as I dug around in the right pocket, the one that would have been his left. Finally, I came up with something other than the nightdress. Pulling it out, I almost cursed.

"What the heck is that?" Vale asked in clear disgust.

Kenna, on the other hand, was ecstatic. "Don't tell me that's what I think it is." He said, practically vibrating where he stood at the thought of what I held in my palm.

It was a dark, slightly porous rock, most likely obsidian. It felt heavy in my palm yet, it was a good weight. The thing that made Kenna so excited was that it had names carved into it with ice that didn't melt. He seemed to know exactly what it was so I handed it over to him.

"Yes! Oh my gosh, this is just what I was thinking of! Where did you get it?" He attacked me with his enthusiasm, starting us off down the road again by pulling my by the arm.

"I don't know what it is, even though you seem to. I got it from my father while exploring my brain. If you can even call it that."

"Nice. So, this is what is called a mix stone. Yes, another stone."

"Cute. What does it do?"

He glared at me. "It doesn't do much. It just tells us who your parents are and what their powers are. In most cases, the mother's power is used to write the names on a substance associated with the father's. For your case, Seymour Fireburn is your father while Kamryn Bayard Fireburn is your mother. It can be safe to assume that your full name is Elvira Fireburn. A very nice name for a mix."

I nodded. "Could you go into more detail about mixes, ices and fires to be specific? Dad said that you would know what I need to."

"That's true, I do know a lot about mixes. Once upon a time, I had researched them as a living. So, you are a fire and ice, huh?"

"Yeah. You said that they are rare and hard to control. What did you mean by that?"

"Well, think about it. Fire and ice are complete opposites, hot and cold. At one point it was thought that they were incapable of mating and actually producing a child. Many mixes are in danger of tearing themselves apart, especially ones like you. Their power development stages are the most dangerous since that is when their powers are fighting for dominance. This perfectly explains your lack of control over your ice."

"What also explains it, is that, according to what I saw, I used to be fire."

He stopped dead in his tracks, Draven bumping into his back. "Come again?" Kenna asked.

I took off the snowflake locket, struggling to open it. I wanted to see if my suspicion about the 'it' was correct. Once I did, I showed it to him. "There's me, and there's my parents. You can clearly see the red hair with streaks of light blue." I put the necklace back on as we continued walking, slowly migrating to the back of the pack. "What I'm wondering is how I changed from fire to ice."

He was staring thoughtfully at Ackerley's back, not truly seeing it. "It is possible." He muttered.

"Explain, please." I said, furrowing my brow.

He grabbed my arm, dragging me to the front where Draven was. As we passed Ackerley, he took him with us. He pushed me to Draven's other side while he kept Ackerley on his left. "I need a slight detour that could add as much as an hour or two to our journey. My question for you two is, do I just take the girl or does the whole group come?"

"Where are you going?" Draven asked.

"I'm going to the Central Library."

"It's not that far. What do you think, Ackerley? Should we let them go?"

Ackerley nodded. "I'm fine with it. Kenna can protect them and Elvira can cause damage if needed."

I pipped up from Draven's right. "I can also accidentally kill Kenna instead of the attackers. Don't try to use a broken weapon, guys."

Draven pointed at me with his thumb. "She has a point."

Ackerley shook his head. "Kenna can protect them. Besides, by inviting her to come with him, he is placing her under his protection by law. He has to take care of her. With that logic, they'll be fine."

Draven nodded. "I agree. You can go, just meet us at the Silver Eagle Inn and Pub by sundown. If you don't, we come after you."

"Deal." Kenna said before again grabbing my arm and dragging me away from the group. Behind us, I could hear the others asking questions.

"Where are they going?"

"What are they doing?"

"Can I go with them?"

"Why are they leaving us?"

They were asking more questions, but we were quickly lost in the crowd that I just now realized had been with us the whole time. Kenna's hand slipped down my arm until he was holding my wrist rather than my upper arm. He dragged me through the crowd, keeping me close or letting me go first in the tight spots. We traveled through the city for about half an hour and in that whole time he never let go of my wrist. We approached a gigantic building which Kenna directed me through as if he owned it.

We only stopped when we came to a section close to the back. Once we were there, he gently let go of me, placing his hand lightly on my shoulder and his head close to my ear. He was so close I could feel his lips graze my ear as he whispered to me. "How about you sit down at one of the tables, I shouldn't be long. It's cold enough in here that you can take off your cloak without overheating. I'll rejoin you shortly."

I did as I was told, sitting in one of the chairs in the corner and taking off my cloak. I laid it neatly on the table next to me before idly fishing around in the pockets. I turned up nothing more than the nightgown I had gotten from Akiro's mom. Looking closer, I found one small pocket in the middle of the back. Reaching in, I pulled out a small bag of powder, which I put back for Kenna to look at later.

Getting bored, I looked around. I was surrounded by books that seemed to be older than my family line, not that I could remember how far back we go. I would have read the one nearest to me but I was afraid of breaking it if I touched it so I opted for reading all the titles, counting as I went. I had reached at least two hundred before a heavy book was placed on the table and Kenna sat in the seat beside me. I quickly brought my head back to its natural position, having had it tilted back to read the higher titles.

Unfortunately, I had moved too fast and pulled a muscle slightly. "Ouch." I muttered, discreetly rubbing it.

He chuckled. "Yeah, that hurts. Anyways." He sobered within a second as he reverently placed a hand on the book in front of us. "This is the Book of Mixes. Centuries ago, a brilliant scholar brought all known information about them and put it into this book, adding his own notes in the margins or even within the text. I used to study this for hours on end every day when I was still a child."

As he was talking, he carefully opened the cover and flipped through the contents with confidence. He knew exactly what he was looking for and went straight there. My eyes were focused on his hands the whole time. They were slightly rough from recent physical labor but looked like the hands of a scholar, which he had been.

His fingers suddenly came up to snap in my face, breaking me out of my study of his hands. "Found it." He muttered as his other hand scanned down the page.

I leaned a bit closer so I could look over his shoulder. "What does it say?"

"It talks about a mix switching power. Here it is. 'A true mix can switch powers as many times as they want.'" He read off. "'Yet, they can only switch between their parents' powers. There are two ways of doing it. The first yet least common is that a traumatic event must take place in their life. The second and more common but still slightly more rare than mixs themselves is that they can train their mind to change between powers. This is easier done if both parent powers are of equal strength, light and shadow as example.’” He looked up at me.

"What does that mean for me?" I asked.

He sighed, both of us leaning back in our chairs. "It means that you must have switched powers, simple as that."

"But how? I don't remember any traumatic event, unless the tree counts but I don't remember that, and I think I would remember if I had trained my mind to do it."

He snapped his long fingers. "There is a way. Back to the depths of the shelves." He held out his hand. "Shall we?"

"Wait, you want me to come with you this time?"

He nodded, his gummy grin on display now that he was in familiar territory. "The last time I wasn't sure how long I would take. This time, I know exactly where this book is since it's seldom used."

I nodded in excitement as I eagerly put my hand in his. "Sure, let's do this."

He pulled me up, grabbing my cloak from the table and handing it to me to hold while he carried the Book of Mixes. He led me through the labyrinth that is the bookshelves, heading deeper into the Library. I smiled at how he nodded to the few bookworms that we passed, wizard and actual worm. Fascinating creatures, bookworms. I may need to look up more about them later but for now, Kenna stopped. I almost bumped into his back, he stopped so abruptly.

He turned around. "Sorry about that, but we're here." He moved to the side for me to see a large bookcase.

Somewhere along the way, he had disposed of the Book of Mixes so he was able to scramble up the ladder like some sort of spider monkey. I took a few steps back while looking up in order to keep him within my sights. He stopped at one shelf and slowly scooted the ladder to his right. I could see his hand moving along the spines, reading each one he came across until he finally pulled one out and practically flew down to the ground.

"Found it!" He said, holding it up in the air.

I looked at it, then back at him. "What am I looking at?" I asked.

He frowned, slowly lowering the ancient book back to his side before clasping it in both arms. "Vale's right. You can be rude." His lower lip came out slightly in a mock pout.

"I'm sorry, I don't have a filter and I really want to know what I'm doing." I spoke honestly, trying to get back on his good side.

He nodded, transferring the book to one hand so he could hold the other up in defeat. "Alright, alright. No need to get touchy."

He led the way back to the table, placing the book on the surface before seating himself again. He gestured for me to sit down. I did so, again leaning over his shoulder. Just as before, my eyes were captivated by his hands as they sped through the book, this time pausing every now and then to scan a certain page before going back to flipping. His hands once again stopped at a specific page before he turned his head to look at me.

"Right here." He said, pointing at a paragraph. "It says," he turned his head back to read it out loud but still quiet. "'To train one's mind to conquer their powers, one must have a high IQ. They must also have patience and endurance. It will take time. If they try hard enough, a mix has the ability to change between their parent powers. Not only will their power change, but also their hair. It is most wise to have a spare cloak that corresponds to that power to make for easier switching. Depending on the experience level of the mix, it can take from two minutes to two hours to change powers.' It goes on to describe how you are able to change. Do you want to try it, see if any of the steps seem familiar to you?"

"Heck, yeah I do. If it means figuring out which power I can control better, fire or ice, then I'm willing to try. Where do you want to do it, just in case it gets ugly."

He thought for a minute before grabbing my wrist and dragging me from my seat, him picking up the book while I grabbed my cloak. I got tired of carrying it around, so I tied the sleeves carefully around my waist. Eventually, Kenna stopped just long enough to push open a door before continuing onward. We came to another halt as we were faced with yet another intimidating piece of wood. He pushed it open with his shoulder, gesturing for me to go first. I gave him a quick mock curtsy before going in.

I was met with a large room that matched the imposing door we had to get past. It seemed like it was an abandoned ballroom, which is crazy since this is a library. Kenna came up behind me and guided me over to a table with a hand on the center of my back. "Yes, this is a ballroom." He muttered into my ear as he placed the book down and turned it back to our page.

I moved to face him. "Can you read my mind now?" I asked sarcastically.

He smirked. "No. It's just what everyone thinks when they see this room." He turned to survey the grand room, his hands clasped elegantly behind his back. "The Central Library used to be a palace until a stupid king decided to make a new one in a different spot, close to the city wall. Not easily defended. The old palace became the Library, only a few modifications necessary. Most of the bedrooms were converted into sections of the library while a few remained bedrooms for the librarians. This room did not have a purpose in the new library and was easily forgotten. Now, shall we start?" He turned, cloak flaring slightly as he strode back to the table.

"You know, you do cut a very dashing figure." I muttered.

He turned to me, smirk still in place. "My thanks, I do try."

I waved a hand at him, trying to appear nonchalant. "Just read the first instruction."

He chuckled. "Sit in the center of the room and close your eyes. You have to trust me for this."

"Surprisingly, I do." I said over my shoulder as I unhesitatingly made my way to the center, laying down.

I once again heard his chuckle. "I said sit , not lay down . Up, please, Elvira."

I sat up, eyes still closed. "I'm ready."

I heard the sound of his boots against the floor, coming in my direction. The rustle of cloth and a small grunt told me that he was sitting in front of me, the book most likely on his lap. "Alright. Next, you have to reach into your mind. Back to where you had gone in the backyard. But first, I want to know if you had heard anything we had been saying when you had gone there."

I shrugged. "I don't really remember. I was more focused on figuring out what the place was. Can you go ahead and give me the step after that, just for good measure?"

"You need to find any memories of using the other power, in your case it's fire, and see if you can call it. I recommend the simplest trick, a small flame dancing above your palm."

"Nice. Simple, yet elegant. I like the way you think, boy."

"One, I'm older. Two, just do it."

"Alright, grandpa."

I reached inside my mind for the second time today, finding the string easily. I tugged it, allowing myself to be pulled back into my mind's room. Instead of looking around, I headed straight for the fire wall. Scanning the portals, I grabbed a ladder that was nearby and propped it up. The twenty that I had last seen were still there, along with three more. Looking at the new three, I saw myself playing with the flames in the middle one so I decided to touch that one, instantly getting sucked into the memory.

Unlike last time, I was actually seeing this as first person rather than seeing myself. It may have been that I had only heard stories of that memory that it had turned into a half memory. Anyways, I looked around, not disrupting the scene. I reach into the thoughts that came with the memory, thoughts that are strangely clear. I see how I am forming the fire on my palm and memorize it, committing it to my current memory and making sure that I have it down before I pull back.

I open my eyes to see the ballroom, now slightly darker yet lit by candles. "How long?" I asked.

"About an hour, maybe longer. We have another three-quarters of an hour to meet the group at the Silver Eagle." Kenna was still sitting in front of me. I could now see that he was sitting Indian style with the book closed and off to the side. "Now," he said, "let's see what you've got. Your hair changed, that's for sure."

I pulled a lock over my shoulder and found it to be an almost strawberry red with streaks of light blue running through it. It must have been stunning. Focusing on my palm, I thought back to how I had seen myself do it in my memories. I called the fire from within me rather than the ground like the ice. It easily came and stayed controlled in my hand.

I looked up at Kenna in shock. "Cool!"

"No. Fire is hot, not cold. Ice is cold. Did you mess up your head in there or something?"

I let the small flame dissipate before pushing his shoulder. "Brat."

He gently pushed my shoulder back. "Rat."

It became a shoving war, both of us taking turns hitting the other's shoulder and saying a playful insult. The game didn't last long as we both soon grew tired of it. Kenna eventually stood, helping me to my feet before allowing his eyes to scan my figure. I gave an exaggerated twirl.

He smirked slightly. "You should probably let me put your cloak in one of my pockets. It's safer for a person to walk around without a cloak than with the wrong type."

I agreed, handing it over. "I will get it back once we rejoin the others, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Let's go." He grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the ballroom, depositing the book on a cart filled with similar ones before we made our way out the door.

"What is it with you dragging me around?" I muttered. "Is it fun for you or is it instinct?" I liked the way it made me feel cared for so I wasn't complaining, simply asking a question.

"Hmm?" He looked back at me, then down at his hand on my wrist. "Sorry." With one fluid movement, he moved his hand from clutching my wrist to intertwining his fingers with mine, holding my hand. "This better?"

I sighed, giving up on him. After a half hour straight of sitting cross-legged on the ground, it felt good to be walking. I surveyed my surroundings, looking at the tall buildings around us. There were people everywhere with all different cloaks. I saw the colors that I had become accustomed to: red for fires, green for earths, brown for healings, dark blue for waters, yellow for lights, grey for shadows, and light blue for ices. Mixed in with that are crème colored ones that seemed to be in constant movement, obviously winds.

The animals were the most interesting to see. They had cloaks that looked like animal skins, which I guessed told of a specific type of animal while there were others who simply had a bright orange. The mixs seemed to get the most fun with theirs. Some had it like stripes, others had solid halves, still others had it as their dormant being spots on their dominant background. I wondered how many of them decided to keep their second power hidden and walk around with a normal cloak.

My attention focused back on Kenna, his dark red hair that just barely brushed the tops of his eyes and the back of his neck, his shoulders that were almost as broad as Ackerley's. Now that I was walking next to him, I could see that I came up to his shoulder. He wasn't as tall as the others, about average height for a man.

"Enjoying the view?" Kenna's voice broke me out of my revery.

"I might be." I teased back.

He chuckled, briefly squeezing my hand. We kept walking for a while, staying on main paths, until we came to a part of town that seemed cozier than the rest. As if less crime went on here, if that's even possible. It looked friendlier, that's for sure. Nestled between a cobbler and cloak maker was the Silver Eagle. It had a beautiful sign above the door, proclaiming what it was. Kenna pushed me over to a side alley before turning me around to face him.

"How about we have a bit of fun shall we?" He asked with a wicked grin.

"How?"

"I give you back your cloak and you keep the hood up until we get to their table or room. Before we go in, we can stop off at the cloaker and get you a red one. I'm definitely not letting you use mine."

I shrugged. "I'm game for both. Also, don't get so defensive of your smelly old cloak anyways. As you said, you're older than me, you never know how much junk you have stuffed into the pockets."

He gently whacked the back of my head before walking out of the alley, me on his heels. It took us about a quarter of an hour to get the measurements for the new cloak and for me to pick the shade of red. The cloaker had assured us that we could pick it up in the morning.

It took my eyes a second to adjust to the dark interior of the pub part of the Inn and Pub. I had retrieved my ice cloak from Kenna and now needed to endure the chilly atmosphere within it while we tried to find the others. They were hiding at the back of the pub, a few already having mugs of beer. I laughed when I saw that Vale was stuck with lemonade.

"Pull up a chair!" Akiro said as soon as he caught sight of us.

I had my hood up so I just nodded as I sat between Vale and Kenna. "Do you want anything?" Ackerley asked.

"Maybe food and a lemonade." I replied.

Kenna nudged my arm, leaning over to talk to the others. "Says the girl who just laughed at the youngest for having lemonade."

I pushed him away. "That's different."

"How so?"

"He's male . It's expected behavior for him to have beer. I, on the other hand, am fe male, meaning that I'm expected to have a lady-like drink."

"Then someone get the girl a glass of wine."

I chuckled. "Very funny, grandpa."

He scowled. "I don't even know how old you are but you shouldn't disrespect your elders."

"Ha! For all we know I could be the eldest at the table, so shut your mouth, young man."

Beryl burst out laughing at my statement, almost falling out of his chair if Caol hadn't grabbed him and shoved him back. "It seems that you two have gotten close in the space of your two hours together." Draven observed.

I looked at Kenna. "We found mutual subjects, yes."

"Really?" Vale said. "Name three?"

Kenna smirked. "One, we are both sarcastic."

"How is that a 'mutual subject'?"

Kenna continued as if he hadn't heard him. "Two, we have found a mutual love for all things relating to books."

"Well, you know I'm an avid reader, Kenna." Beryl said. "You could have come to me if you wanted to talk about books."

He again ignored the interruption. "Three, we both like a certain subject that would not appeal to Beryl. Shall we show them, Elvira?"

I nodded. "Now, or later?" I knew he wanted me to do it now, I just wanted to keep them in suspense for a little while longer.

Ackerley leaned forward. "Now you have to show us." He said before Akiro pulled him back in his chair.

"Alright, give me a second." I said, motioning with my hands for them to settle down. Kenna nodded at me as I slowly pulled my hood back before letting it fall to my shoulders, exposing my new hair.

"Nice!" Akiro yelled as he leaned forward, gathering a few stares from surrounding tables. "You got your hair dyed! Although, you missed a few parts." His face turned serious as he studied the 'missed' parts.

I giggled. "Akiro? Never grow up."

"You see," Kenna said, "I've been telling him the complete opposite since I first met him. Now, you're just ruining my hard work."

"Like you were getting anywhere with the three year old." Vale mumbled before taking a sip of his lemonade.

While they were busy arguing, either Ackerley or Draven had ordered food and it arrived as they were still debating on whether to let Akiro grow up or not. I left them to their talk while I dug in, not having anything since breakfast this morning and it now being evening. Kenna was eating calmly beside me while still talking with the others.

Once we were finished eating, Draven cleared his throat. "Alright. I have a few important questions before we go to our rooms. Elvira, are you comfortable with sleeping in the same room as us or do you want your own room?"

I smiled at their care of me. "I think I would feel safer in the same room as you guys."

He nodded. "Good. Now, since they only allow four to a room and we have eight, who wants to room with who?"

The debate for rooms went on almost as long as the Akiro's age one did. It was eventually decided that Ackerley, Beryl, Caol, and Vale would share one room while Kenna, Draven, Akiro, and I would get the second room. Draven had already rented the rooms, so we all just went up and said goodnight at the doors.

I found a way to hang my cloak in the corner in a way that would allow me to change without the others seeing. I stayed there until they said I could come out, them having finished changing as well. Most of them had changed into what looked to be thin shirts and pants but Akiro didn't even bother with the shirt. I giggled at him and his cheeky grin before putting my cloak on the ground, inside facing the floor, so I could use it as a mat. Laying my head down, I felt something slightly poking into my arm. Looking at it, it was the bag. I pulled it out and turned to look at Kenna, who was already asleep. I shook my head and put it back, determined to ask him tomorrow. That night, I fell asleep to the comforting sound of the others' breathing.

Day 3

I woke up the next morning feeling a bit disjointed with the world. The others were still sleeping so I quickly got dressed, eyes still trained on the sleeping forms of the three grown men. I smiled as I saw that Draven had laid in front of the door, ready to use his shadow powers to defend us if needed. I then frowned as I realized that the door opened inward, leaving me with no way of seeing if the four boys in the room next door were awake. I leaned against the wall, tapping lightly. Surprisingly, someone tapped back.

I whispered the first name that came to mind. "Caol?"

"Wow, the walls are thin." I had guessed wrong, it was Vale. "Also, good morning, Elvira."

"Morning, Vale. Are the others up or is it just us?"

"Um, I don't know."

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Nope." Even so, it didn't sound convincing.

"Sure. You do realize that you have a slight hitch to your voice and it goes up when you lie?"

"As well as when I sing, but that's irrelevant."

"Now I'm curious. Can you sing without waking the others?"

"I can sing while waking them, they need to get up anyways."

I laughed, putting a hand in front of my mouth to keep it down. "I can't stop you, go for it. Just, don't wake the guests on your other side."

"Shoot, I forgot about those guys. Oh, well, let's get the others up."

I heard him start singing. I have no idea what language we are using since I instinctively started using it, but he swapped to a different language that was beautiful in the way it flowed off his tongue and out his mouth. It was soothing while being totally foreign to me. Soon enough, I heard Caol start shouting before Vale shushed him. Caol seemed to be in the same language as Vale was because I have no idea what he was yelling. Eventually, once he was calmed down, I could hear Caol sit down on the other side of the wall.

"Good morning, Elvira." He said.

"Morning. What did he do, freeze you?"

"Yeah, was I too loud?" I could imagine him rubbing the back of his neck.

"A bit. I didn't mind it, but I can't say the same for the neighbors. What was that you were speaking with Vale just now?"

"Well, that's a language that all of us know. Do you want to learn it?"

"Sure. Maybe you could teach me a bit at breakfast?"

"Fine with me."

I had my head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed as I conversed with the other side. My head shot forward and my eyes flew open when a weight suddenly found its way onto my lap. I held the back of my neck in pain while looking at the red mop of hair attached to the person who's head currently occupied my lap.

"Kenna, what are you doing?"

"You guys are so loud. Also, you really need to stop moving your head so fast. Ask Ackerley to deal with it later. For now, shut up."

Another tired voice joined us from the other room. "Good morning, Kimana, Kenna."

"Morning, Beryl." I said.

Absentmindedly, I started to run my fingers through Kenna's hair, only realizing it when he nuzzled my hand. "Sorry!"

He chuckled. "Just keep going, it feels good." I did as requested, Kenna being in a talkative mood. "I blame this on Beryl."

"How so?" He piped up from the other side. "Wait, what is getting blamed on me?"

"Me turning into a half cat." Kenna retorted. He once again nuzzled my hand, this time placing his own on top of mine and moving it until I picked up on his intent.

"Oh. Yes, you can blame that on me."

"He always wants to be pet if he's had a bad day." Kenna explained.

"I didn't ask."

"Sometimes, your body language gives you away."

Draven woke up with a start, muttering something about not breaking something. He looked around and tried to keep his eyes open. He briefly waved at us before collapsing back onto his cloak.

"Good morning to you too, Mr. Not-a-morning-person." I muttered as I scratched Kenna behind the ear.

Kenna actually giggled. "How long did you stay up, man?"

"Quite late. Why, is it obvious?"

"Kind of." "Yes." Kenna and I both answered at the same time, Kenna coming right out to say it as I tried for the nicer approach.

Draven laughed. "Thanks. You guys are so helpful."

Looking around the room, Akiro was still asleep while I could hear all the boys from the other room moving around. I felt myself drifting off to sleep again and allowed it to claim me, for some reason sensing that we won't be moving out any time soon.

✽✽

Our lives were intertwined from that day forward, we became family. We were all constantly there for each other, backing one another up. It seemed that we took on a moto, just like a band of fighters from old, "One for all and all for one." We were forever there for each other.

I learned how to control my ice and sporadically changed powers to keep it interesting and the boys on their toes. It was fun watching the others prank each other, even more so when they pulled me into the planning. I found that I preferred ice but loved to use my fire as well. Vale and Kenna taught me how to do tricks with the respective elements. The small bag of powder that I had found turned out to be a color changing powder. If sprinkled on the cloak, it would change it to whatever color I desired. I had fun changing occasionally to the others colors and confusing them.

The End.

#original fiction #ace writes

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mikhailoist · 5 years

Text

the things we left unsaid

Rowena’s death plays in his mind like a recording on repeat. She holds onto him, drawing him closer to her while his hand rests on the blade that presses against her stomach. He wants to pull away, toss that damned thing to the floor because they don’t need it — Rowena doesn’t need to die. (But she does.) She asks him that question, the one he’s still hearing hours later. The one he should’ve answered yes to.

“Will you let the world die, let your brother die, just so I can live?”

She knew that would be the only way to get through to him. Of course she did. That sneaky witch knew Sam better than almost anyone (even better than Dean, in some ways); she knew that Sam didn’t have it within him to let the world crumble beneath the weight of another apocalypse. That’s not who he is. It never has been. So if it was Rowena or the world, or Cas or the world, or anyone else or the world, it would always be in Sam’s blood to choose the world, every single time.

But now, as he squeezes his eyelids shut and sees the blood spreading across Rowena’s middle, sees her stepping over Hell’s edge while carrying the weight of a billion souls, Sam wonders why he couldn’t just have both.

He lowers his face into a pair of trembling hands. There are tears brimming at his eyelids — not the first wave of tears today, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, desperate to erase the memory from his mind. All that blood. The tear in the earth, slowly closing up over the fiery pit that swallowed Rowena whole. ”That’s my boy.”

“Sam.” Dean appears in the doorway of Sam’s bedroom, startling the younger brother. He lowers his hands into his lap and looks up, not bothering to hide his broken expression. Dean’s seen him worse for wear countless times, anyway.

“You okay?” the elder asks. He asked him the same question about an hour ago, when he came in here and attempted to give the routine you had no choice, at least we saved the world speech. Sam’s grateful for the gesture, he is, but he doesn’t want to hear it right now. He doesn’t want to think about how they saved the world yet again — and this time, it wasn’t their doing, anyways. It was Rowena. She’s the one who died to save them — to save the world.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asks, because he really doesn’t want to talk about Rowena right now. Not with Dean, not with anyone.

(He doesn’t want to talk about it because that would make her death real, and he doesn’t want it to be real yet. He just wants her here.)

“Gone,” is Dean’s vague answer. There’s a trace of venom in his voice, along with something else Sam can’t quite put his finger on. Dean’s doing a pretty good job at masking his feelings for Sam’s sake. He’ll give him credit for that.

“What do you mean gone?” Sam asks.

“Needs a break, I guess. You want something to drink?” Dean’s sudden eagerness to change the subject doesn’t go unnoticed by Sam. He knows something much bigger is going on between Dean and Cas (hell, you can just sense it when you stand beside the two of them), but if he’s being totally honest, he doesn’t give two shits right now. That’s Dean’s mess to clean up, and right now — well, right now, Sam’s got some problems of his own.

(He doesn’t say a word about it to Dean, but a sharp pain runs through his shoulder. The aches come and go, brought on by the Equalizer wound, no doubt. He barely gives it a second thought, however, not when the events of earlier are still the freshest wound he bears.)

“I’m okay,” Sam says. “I think I’ll probably just get some shut-eye.”

“Okay.” Dean turns to leave, but not without sparing one more concerned glance at his little brother. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods weakly. “I will.”

Dean leaves, and Sam falls back onto his mattress, the back of his head roughly hitting his pillow. He doesn’t have much energy left, so he falls asleep in his flannel and jeans, though it takes him a while. And even as unconsciousness wraps him up like a pitch, dark blanket, he still can’t shake the memory of a certain red-haired witch.

I’m sorry, Rowena, he thinks, as the tears dry on his face. I’m so, so sorry.

The pain only gets worse. Not just the pain of losing Rowena, but the pain in his shoulder, too.

He starts to avoid Dean, if only just a little bit. He tries not to make it too obvious that he’s hiding from his older brother, but he just doesn’t want him to worry. What used to be an injury that acted up once or twice a day now has him in constant agony, and sometimes, he needs to find a way to be alone so he can just cry, because it hurts so fucking much. He’s never felt anything like it. He’s been shot before — too many times to count, really — but for some reason, this is different. He supposes the wound was caused by a terribly angry, all-powerful villain, and maybe that’s why it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. The bullet was crafted by magic, but not just any magic — dark, evil magic that was meant to kill Jack, one of the only people Sam knew who could have rivaled Chuck.

But now, Jack’s gone, Rowena is still gone, and Sam is in so much pain he can barely breathe.

He makes up an excuse for Dean to get out of the bunker — “I’m hungry, can you get us some pizza?” — and barely takes notice of Dean’s disgruntled expression as the older brother walks out. As soon as he hears the door slam shut, Sam lets out the agonized gasp he’d been holding in for nearly an hour. He makes a beeline for the bathroom while his hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Once he reaches the mirror, he pushes the unbuttoned shirt down past his arms and recoils at the sight of his shoulder reflected by the glass.

The wound definitely looks infected. The hole where the bullet broke past his skin has turned a shade of deep red — like the color of blood, but darker. Thin lines of crimson extend from the wound and travel across his skin like spiderwebs, nearly coating his entire shoulder.

It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before, and it terrifies him.

Sam reaches up with one hand to gingerly touch his shoulder, but the moment skin meets skin, he’s overwhelmed with a pain that seems to set his body on fire. He doesn’t remember much of what happens during those next few seconds — he thinks he might have blacked out — but he knows for certain that touching the wound was like pulling a trigger. The second his hand makes contact, a gate in his mind busts open and he’s flooded with flashbacks of trauma, memories he’s tried his hardest to bury for years. He sees himself drinking demon blood. He sees a man in a crisp, white suit — a man he knows is not him, but gleefully wears his body. He sees Dean dying, he sees Cas and Jack dying, and—

There she is again.

”Goodbye, boys.”

Sam wakes up with a gasp on the floor of the bathroom. He’s not sure how he ended up on the ground, or even how long he was unconscious for, but he’s lucky enough Dean hasn’t come home yet. He sits up, pressing his back against the wall and pulling his knees to his chest. He can’t control the flow of tears that overtakes him once again, nor can he put a stop to the panic that wrecks his body.

He just feels so guilty.

He never wanted Rowena to die. That was never a part of the plan. It all happened so fast — the original spell didn’t work out, and all of a sudden Rowena was carving her last resurrection seal out of her shoulder and placing a blade in Sam’s hand.

”It has to be you that kills me.”

She never should have died. It was never supposed to happen. Not like that.

And now, she’s all Sam can think about. The blood on her dress. All the souls from Hell pouring into her body, like she was nothing but a vessel that they would discard as soon as the crack in the earth closed up. (Which is surely what had happened — Rowena had said her body would crumble under the weight of the souls until nothing remained.)

But her death is not the only thing Sam remembers.

He winces as a new kind of pain blossoms in his chest, his heart longing for the bond he shared with the witch and all the things they left unsaid.

—

“Samuel,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

He rolled over on his side, his eyes adjusting to the dark room. As he squinted against the shadows, he could just make out Rowena’s head of scarlet hair, along with the lipstick smudged around the edges of her smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m awake.”

“You were pretty good at that,” Rowena commented, reaching over to trace a finger across Sam’s bare chest. He smiled a little sheepishly, his cheeks turning warm.

“You were better.”

“Can’t argue with you there, my boy,” she teased. “Maybe I ‘ought to teach you a thing or two.”

Sam fell quiet. As much as he wanted to capture Rowena’s lips in another kiss and go for a round two, something stopped him. It was like the blood in his veins froze, chilled by a fear he was sure he had kept locked away for years.

“Sam?” Rowena’s voice softened as soon as she realized something was wrong. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Yeah, I… I’m just—” He stopped with a frustrated sigh, because the words rested on the tip of his tongue and he just didn’t want to let them fall. He rolled over onto his back, glueing his eyes to the cracks in the ceiling.

Unfortunately for him, Rowena seemed to have the ability to read his mind. (Though he truly wouldn’t have been surprised if that was actually one of her powers, knowing her.)

“You think this should be a one time thing.”

Sam looked over at her. He could make out the expression on her face now, his eyes well adjusted to the darkness of midnight in the bunker. She didn’t look hurt or offended, which is what Sam might have expected, had the woman lying next to him been someone else. Rather, she looked understanding. Like she knew what was on his mind, and she saw it coming from a mile away.

“Everyone I’ve ever been with,” Sam said. “It hasn’t… it never ends well.”

“I’m not afraid of what might happen, Samuel,” Rowena replied. “Fate has already decided that you’ll be my undoing, hasn’t it?”

“Stop.” He turned his head away. “Can we… can we not talk about that? Please, I just…” His voice trailed off, the sudden whirlwind of emotions rendering him speechless. He couldn’t think about losing Rowena. Not right now. Not when they lay side-by-side, tangled up in his bed sheets, sweat drying on their skin. He could still taste her on his lips, and he craved more of it, but not just the sex. He craved the connection he felt with the witch. He craved the bond they shared, a bond he was sure he’d never shared with anyone else before.

He craved that feeling of their hearts intertwining, their bodies becoming one — like it was always meant to be this way.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t let himself fall in love again.

(Because everyone he fell in love with always died,

and if Rowena was fated to die at his hands?

Well, that made it even worse.)

“I’m not afraid of you, Sam,” Rowena whispered. She shifted her body closer to his, tentatively placing her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. She was so small, so gentle, and yet at the same time, she was the only thing capable of setting his soul on fire. She was insufferable at times, with her snarky comments and witty remarks. She was playful grins and pure magic and stolen kisses at midnight, and here she was, relentless, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

Neither of them would ever admit it (if only they had, because just a few weeks later, she would be gone) — but they cared for each other, deeply. They wanted to love each other.

If Sam was capable of letting his walls down, and if Rowena realized that love was more than weakness, then maybe, just maybe, they would have.

—

Sam thinks he might be going crazy.

He decides to go out for a walk one evening, get some fresh air. Dean took a case in Sioux Falls with Jody — a little vampire issue, nothing too serious. He wanted Sam to tag along, but it’s been less than a week since Rowena died, and Sam doesn’t cope with tragedy the same way Dean does. While his brother lets off steam by chopping off vampire heads with a machete, Sam thinks a better way to heal might be to walk around town for a bit, maybe stop by a café for a late night cup of joe. He wants to take his mind off Rowena somehow, and killing monsters — seeing all that blood — he’ll just start seeing the blood that stained his hands after…

Stop, he thinks. He’s sitting at a booth in a tiny coffee shop, empty save for an awkward teenage couple getting to know each other over some iced lattes. Feeling suddenly restless, he grabs his coffee and high-tails it out of there, desperate to find something else to focus his attention on. Anything to get those memories out of his mind.

He rounds a corner and finds himself in an alleyway. He heaves a sigh, leaning against the brick wall. He can feel beads of sweat forming on his face and neck, and he tries to steady his breathing, tries not to think about it, about her.

The panic subsides after a few moments, maybe a few minutes, Sam isn’t really sure. When it passes, he straightens up and inhales deeply. He settles his gaze on Lebanon’s sunset, watching as the sun disappears from the sky and the clouds overhead are washed out with a shade of deep, dark blue. It’s a nice night, the air is clean, a cool breeze ruffles Sam’s hair and he thinks he’ll be okay. He will. He takes another deep breath before bringing his coffee to his lips.

“Samuel.”

The styrofoam cup slips out of his hand and hits his feet. Coffee splatters across his shoes, but Sam doesn’t care — because he heard her — it was her.

He heard Rowena’s voice, clear as day. It sounded like she was standing right next to him. But when he spins around to find her, he finds himself alone in the alleyway, and it hits him — she’s not there. She’s dead.

“Samuel, it’s me.”

Sam grabs onto the sides of his head, his nails digging into his scalp. Her voice, it sounds so real — but it’s just in his head. She’s not here. She’s dead. This isn’t real.

“Help me, Sam.”

“Stop,” Sam mutters. “Please, please, just stop. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”

The more he says those three words to himself, the quicker Rowena’s voice seems to fade. He can’t seem to breathe, his throat feels tight with the tears that threaten their arrival — but she’s not here. He’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse, but he doesn’t want to stick around here to find out. He should sleep, or call up Dean and check on how the hunt is going. Maybe he’ll text Cas — he hasn’t heard from the angel in a while, and Dean still hasn’t told him where he went — but Sam just needs a dose of reality.

Rowena’s voice? Not real. Not real. She’s dead.

(The pain that lights up his shoulders as Sam hurries home, leaving the discarded coffee cup behind?

Definitely real.)

—

Hearing her voice is only the beginning.

At first, he hears her every once in a while throughout the day. It starts out as a whisper, a breathy voice right by his ear — quiet, but clear enough that he knows it’s her. She’s usually just saying his name, asking him for help, wondering if he’s there. He knows it’s not real, though. It’s just some sort of fucked up way for his mind to relive the trauma of losing her. People see and hear the people they care about everywhere after they die.

(That’s what he told himself when Bobby died, and days later, Bobby showed up as a ghost.

But there’s no way Rowena’s a ghost.

He watched her fall into Hell — he saw the ground close up over her body.)

He tries to tune out her voice, but what starts out as a brief whisper turns into a daily struggle. He’s hearing her when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep. He hears her when he and Dean have burgers for lunch, or share a drink at the map table.

She’s still calling out to him when Sam forces himself to go on a hunt with Dean. It’s just a ghost thing, easy enough — but Sam’s so fucking sloppy and nearly gets himself and Dean killed because he just can’t get Rowena’s voice out of his head.

Dean’s worried about him. Sam can tell his brother is starting to notice that this is more than just grief. It’s getting to his head in a way that could be dangerous for the both of them.

But Sam doesn’t want to tell him.

(Because then he’ll have to admit that he’s losing his mind.)

And there’s something else, something that scares him a little more than the witch’s voice engraved in his brain. It’s the fact that his shoulder is in constant pain now, and the infection is starting to inch its way down his arm. Of course, Dean doesn’t know about this, because Sam keeps his arms hidden under layers of flannel. It’s okay — it’s not a big deal. It’s just a wound; it’ll heal. He doesn’t want Dean to worry more than he already is, about Cas, or about the fact that Chuck was in control of their lives this entire time and Sam doesn’t know how to tell Dean otherwise.

The wound seems to be more than just a wound, though. Sam isn’t just hearing voices anymore — he’s seeing things, too. He’ll look in the mirror and see himself dressed in white. He blinks and he’s back to normal, but he can’t shake the feeling that maybe — just maybe — that reflection was real.

Maybe the wound is trying to tell him something.

He sees the Mark of Cain show up on Dean’s forearm. He knows it’s not there, because they got that thing off years ago, but maybe it is there. Or it will be. Sam’s not really sure anymore.

And when he goes to sleep and sees himself, with black eyes, snapping his brother’s neck with a tilt of his head—

He knows it’s not real.

(Or does he?

It feels real.)

And yet, all of this — these images in his mind, the hallucinations that flash across his gaze for a fraction of a second, all accompanied with the pain in his shoulder — none of them prepare him for what he sees in his room at midnight, exactly two weeks following Rowena’s death.

He sits on the edge of his bed, his shirt heavy with sweat. He’s pretty sure Dean’s asleep and won’t barge in unannounced like he tends to do sometimes, so he peels the shirt off and tosses it to the floor. He cranes his head towards his shoulder, which is now nearly blackened, akin to a nasty bruise. He drops his head back, his face turned towards the ceiling. It’s hard to breathe through the pain — it’s worse tonight, a lot worse — but he tries. Inhale, exhale.

“Samuel.”

“No.” Sam squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “You’re not real.”

A hand rests against his, and Sam nearly jumps off the bed. He opens his eyes and whips his head around, and there she is — real and alive, sitting beside him on the mattress. There’s not a trace of death on her, no sign that she ever sacrificed herself to save the world. She greets him with a glowing smile, her eyes sparkling at him under lids coated with eyeshadow. Her hair is down, and it bounces off her shoulders like waves of fire. She’s so beautiful and she’s here.

“Rowena?” he whispers.

“That’s right,” she says. “I’m here, Sam.”

He should tell himself it isn’t real. He knows it isn’t, but right now, all he wants to do is shove that thought to the back of his mind. He wraps his arms around Rowena and pulls her to his chest. He can touch her, and she feels warm, which means there’s blood running through her veins, which means she’s alive.

“How…” Sam pulls away, but he keeps his hands on Rowena’s arms, desperate not to let go of her again. “How are you here?”

“Sam.” Rowena’s eyes soften. She reaches up and cups the side of his face with a gentle hand. She smiles at him, but her smile looks sad, so sad, and Sam’s heart drops.

It’s just another hallucination.

“You’re really dead,” Sam says. “Aren’t you?”

Rowena nods slowly. Sam drops his hands away from her arms and places them blindly on the mattress, unsure of what to do next. He’s not even sure what to think, because of course she’s not real, but she is. She’s here. He can feel her.

Why isn’t she real?

It’s not fair.

“Why…” Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t even try to stop the tears — he just lets them come. “Why is this happening to me?”

Rowena moves her hand away from his face and rests her palm against his wound. It’s the gentlest of touches, and Sam doesn’t even flinch. He’s just aware of her touch, and it fucks with his mind, because she’s here and she’s not, all at the same time.

“That’s some magic you’ve got running through your veins,” she says.

Sam looks at her. The tears have begun to cloud his vision, but he can still make out her expression. It’s one of curiosity. She’s intrigued. Careful not to put too much pressure on the wound, she moves her body towards Sam, peering down at his shoulder to get a closer look.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Sam says. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“I might have an idea.” Rowena looks back up at him. Her hands return to his face, and she brings their foreheads together with care. “I can help you, Samuel.”

“How?” Sam asks, his voice breaking. “You’re dead.”

“My body may be dead,” Rowena says, lowering her hands. “But my soul is very much alive.”

Sam pulls his head away to stare at her, bewildered. “What are you saying?”

“Samuel, this wound of yours — it’s defying all the laws of magic. I can feel its power all the way down here in Hell. It’s raw and untamed, and so strong.”

“You mean—” Sam protectively reaches for her hand, locking their fingers together. “You’re in Hell right now?”

As soon as the question slips past his lips, he knows how stupid it sounds.

Of course she’s in Hell.

She stepped over the edge to Hell, carrying the weight of every single damned soul to return to Hell. She’s in the worst place imaginable, a victim of endless torture — and yet, somehow she’s here too, safe, with Sam.

“I am,” Rowena says. “But something about this wound of yours has allowed me to come and speak with you. Like I said, it’s defying all the laws of magic. I can’t quite comprehend its power, but I can feel it opening gateways to other dimensions, doors to the past and to the future.”

Sam thinks back to everything he’s been seeing over the past couple of weeks, and it starts to make sense.

“I saw Dean with the Mark of Cain, even though we got rid of it years ago,” Sam says. “I saw… I saw myself, but it wasn’t me — it was Lucifer wearing my body. That happened years ago, too.”

“Sam.” Rowena gives his hand a squeeze. “I think Chuck may be planning something awful, and I have reason to believe the wound on your shoulder is trying to warn you about it.”

Together, they glance at his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, he’s able to silence the pain and notice something else instead.

He feels it.

There is magic running through his veins.

“What do I do, Rowena?” he asks, panic rising in his voice.

“I can help you,” she says. “I can teach you how to control it, understand what it all means. But I can’t do it from down here, Sam.”

“I’ll get you out,” Sam says. “There has to be a way.”

Rowena smiles. She lifts their still intertwined hands to her lips and places a warm kiss to the top of Sam’s knuckles.

“That’s my boy,” she whispers.

Sam can’t help himself. He’s overcome with too much emotion to handle — fear, confusion, love. So screw it — maybe it’s not real, maybe it’s a hallucination, or maybe Rowena is really here, using magic to speak to him from Hell. She sounds real, she feels real. And when he impulsively presses his lips against hers, kissing her like it’s the only thing he was made to do, he knows in his heart that she is real.

She kisses him back with reckless abandon, letting go of his hand so she can link her arms around his neck. Sam relishes in every moment, feeling her, loving her, because he never got to do it until it was too late.

“Rowena,” he mutters into the kiss. “I love you.”

“I know, Samuel,” she says.

She breaks the kiss, and Sam wonders why, until he sees that she’s fading. Her body is disappearing into oblivion, piece by piece, but that smile never leaves her face.

“I’ll come and get you,” Sam promises. “I will.”

The smile on Rowena’s face grows even wider, and there’s a knowing glint in her eye.

“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second.”

He blinks and she’s gone, but so is Sam’s fear. His shoulder hurts again, but he’s now completely aware of the magic coursing through his entire body. Rowena was right — it’s raw, untamed power, and he feels stronger now that he knows what the magic is trying to tell him.

“Thank you, Rowena,” he says to the empty room.

With a clear mind, Sam can start to formulate a plan. Rescue Rowena from Hell, somehow (it’s not impossible, he’s pulled off crazier feats before), and figure out what exactly this wound is trying to tell him. He should tell Dean. Now that he’s got it figured out, telling Dean doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

Before he stands up from the bed, Sam lifts a finger to his lips. He can still feel the aftermath of a very real kiss, and taste the lip gloss of a very real witch.

Despite all the words left unsaid, Sam is grateful he had a chance to see her again and tell her the only thing that matters—

—that he loves her, and he always will.

(And it won’t be the last time he says it, because he will see her again.)

#samwena #sam x rowena #sam winchester #rowena macleod #samwena fic #supernatural fic #spn fic #fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #otp: that's my boy #spn 15x03 #supernatural 15x03 #post 15x03 #angst

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shadowdianne · 5 years

Text

Candor

In another less dark news here I present a small ficlet I wrote for my roommate's (yes, the one and only) dnd character. We are playing in the Tal'Dorei setting and she created the most delightful background to work with.

Since I can't draw for my life but I adored the possibility of writing I asked to be left with my own devices and she, despite fearing I was going to write angst, let me do it. She also has given me the permission to repost this here.

M, just a clue, a small one, of which is your account, pretty please xD

Candor

The sound of the nearby chapel’s bells wasn’t strong enough to drown the noise of those chatting while walking between the haphazardly-looking stalls but Freya focused on it as she rolled her shoulders onto the cape she had been wearing non-stop ever since she had walked into Whitestone.

She missed the ability to wear her hair down, the lack of chaffing on her slightly pointed ears or the uneven feel of paint onto her cheeks, the symbols made out of carefully bought paint an important part of her morning routing she had needed to cut off in order to not stand out among the majorly human crowd of the town. Biting on her bottom lip, the half-elf stepped away from two women, their gaunt faces not dissimilar to the ones she had already gotten used to see among the cobble-covered streets of the northern place. Chill air gripping her throat, puffs of air floating through the air as the chatting won against the dying toll of the bells, she hummed as she kept on walking, throwing glances to the product present in some of the stalls.

The effects the battle against the Chroma Conclave were still visible in many parts of Tal’Dorei; the lack of what had been common commodities once upon a time the most jarring difference as well as the slowly rebuilding cities but the lack of light on the ones around her, the way children played close to their parents, not really willing to move too far from them, made her feel the same weariness that had called upon her the first time she had heard the news about how the former Lord of Whitestone had, apparently, returned to his rightful place.

De Rolo. The title and surname had meant something for her once upon a time and as she rolled the name once more against her tongue, feeling the soft tap of its tip against her velum, she glanced beyond the stalls that circled Pelor’s tree, the golden shimmer of its bark, its leaves, paling against the white beauty of the castle from which every part of the city -from its slums to its richest neighborhoods- could be seen.

She had arrived a few days ago, not entirely sure what was what she expected as her usual playful demeanor changed to one she had very rarely used ever since she had fled from the continent that waited beyond the Shearing Channel; the scent and taste of salt from the sea that awaited to those stupid enough to transverse it strong and powerful against her nose. She had thought she had forgotten it; the way her spine would protest as she hold herself to the top of her height, the way her mannerisms would transform from practical to elegant, the slowness of them ricocheting against her bones in the same way she had very quickly gotten bored on her lessons back when she had been younger. Sadly, however, it seemed like the ways of someone from the highest parts of society were never truly erased: no matter how much one tried to.

“Are you going to buy something or are you going to keep on staring?”

The question, made in a thick Tal’Dorei-an accent woke her up from her reverie, thoughts of long-forgotten mornings spent under the watchful eye of her tutors gone in a cloud of smoke as she blinked back to the present; to the forever warm roads that run through the city as blood and ichor alike. Tilting her head while grasping the ends of her cape so it didn’t flare up with her free hand, she grasped the middle of her staff with the other, the magic from the wind that played with the forever autumnal leaves of The Dawnfather’s tree swirling by and towards her, feeding her own power.

“I was just looking.” She smiled, knowing that her mouth and nose were clearly visible to those with human eyesight and regaling herself with the vision of the slightly elderly woman who puffed for a moment towards her before she returned back to the meagre metallic plates she offered -ideal for those who couldn’t afford a full set of armor! -. Staring as the pale complexion of the woman turned red from the exhaustion one must always took whenever they dealt with difficult customers, Freya walked past the kiosk before stopping by in a smaller one, bags of grain and spice laying around and against the cracking wooden planks that seemed almost strange within a city that prided itself from the rock and mountains that named it.

The merchant there was definitely more affable, younger and must had some genasi ancestry on his blood; the runes and symbols on his arms and the slightly strange shade on his skin not enough to suggest Tiefling or Drow. Feeling less exposed, Freya watched as the man smiled to a couple of young human girls that, blushing, paid for what must had been something under their mother’s request before it was her turn. The scent of slightly musky grain felt stronger as soon as her booted feet moved forward, the rustle of her cape making the man look up from the coins deposited on his hand. Nodding towards her, eyes going to the hood that protected her skin and eyes from being watched, the man pointed at what he sold.

“Everything is from the farmlands attached to the city, I wouldn’t suggest the wheat though; little bit too weak this time of the year.” His accent wasn’t as thick and it suggested some time spent learning the basics back at Emon or any other bigger city and Freya, almost out of habit, glanced down towards his hands, calloused but nimble. Smiling herself, she let her mind wander back momentarily to when she had been young enough to not be subjected to her tutors, to when she had had the ability to escape those and run to the marketplace that spread itself as much as possible with the shoreside as its frame back into her homeland. There, close to a much warmer sea, she would put her hand against the sack of grain only to simply push her fingers onto the packed bags, the feeling strange and ticklish as she dug deep into them. She found herself stopping the old and mechanical movement, the need for it obvious on her posture if the quiet chuckle from the man was anything to go by.

She was saved from some further inquiry as she felt two hands pushing against her upper thigs, the size of them human and tiny enough to suggest a kid, one that moved away with much more light on his eyes than what she had been able to spy on many of those who walked alongside her for as many days. Checking her pouch and finding it still attached to her hip, Freya stared as the kid stuck out his tongue, his blonde hair and clear green eyes a soft and sweet relief to her own sore stare. It felt almost painful, in a way she wasn’t ready to dwell on, the way the child’s bubble-like laugh reached for her before he was pulled away from his mother, curiosity obvious as his angle from beneath let her see not only her half-elven traits but the way she kept on nervously glancing every part of her magic hidden and tucked away.

Not out of fear, she would say, not out of terror or worry about the magic on itself as divinity, nature, pacts, were the usual on every other part of Tal’Dorei but she felt uneasy as she tried her hardest not to think on who the boy made her think of, on who the boy -out of sweetness- resembled another one, several others, who she had seen grown up until she had returned to Father’s summer house one year only to find the one next to it empty and cold and lacking.

Feeling magic crackling against her skin, the easy spell made out of two symbols with the aid of her thumb and forefinger almost escaped her as she considered fire, water and air as possibilities the small human child could enjoy. She halted herself on the very last second though, the wood of her focus warmer to the touch by the moment she glanced away, a small smile on her lips despite the weight of her memory as she was transported back to long afternoons and even longer evenings in where she would been spoken excitedly about objects and ideas that were still just a boy’s dream, a shadow of the reality that peppered now through Tal’Dorei: light and firepower and warmth echoing the name of an inventor, a fighter, whose title had been as evoking as the possibility of not one but two re-appearing back in the place from where they had been eradicated; their demises ones that had felt rough and sand-paper-like against Freya’s still too raw skin.

But they were alive, she said to herself as she muttered a soft apology to the man, his boyish smile as if he truly didn’t mind the lack of any sale easing up her steps while she walked further down the line of stalls, the cry of an eagle breaking through the morning air. At least two of them if the news were true and a part of her hold onto the possibility of it.

Because, she thought; at the end everything finished down the same shoreline, being it steep and cold or easy and warm: she needed them to be alive and she longed for them to be well. Even if her decision of leaving behind her own self-inflicted loss put her in a vague kind of danger she still didn’t know how to name. She had forged her own death after all; no one had told her that she would need to not pursue the lives of those who she had cared about. And she longed for that care and warmth and those stories whispered atop the tallest turret of a castle she had known like the palm of her hand back when titles and possibilities had been squandered into the wind. Shaking her head but heart beating lighter, she quickened her steps as she walked past the boy and his mother, mind made up by the time she brushed past them. She moved her fingers, magic minute but powerful a tiny flame danced between her fingers momentarily before it jumped right in front of the kid; his cheers of surprise making her burrow herself further into her hood as she suppressed a smile.

She looked back for one last time, the spell disappearing as soon as her concentration dropped; starry eyes following her, following her staff and clothes in a way that didn’t make her feel naked or raw but seen.

It was about candor, she thought as she left the castle and the marketplace behind, letting herself wander back to the Scarlet Pimpernel, the promise of some food and Valanthe’s easy small talk one she couldn’t truly deny. It was about the warmth that hid behind decisions and journeys.

The eagle screeched again, its call echoing at her back weak enough for her to not think about it twice.

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minescript · 4 years

Text

Candor

“Are you going to buy something or are you going to keep on staring?”

The eagle screeched again, its call echoing at her back weak enough for her to not think about it twice.

#Freya

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billygetup · 5 years

Text

the shore

Requested: no

Pairings: Jon Snow x oc

Summary: Amarya arrives at Dragonstone alongside Daenerys and her followers. She is an advisor to her grace and also are the ruler of a few islands off the coast of Essos. She is sent to greet Jon and the northmen with Tyrion and Missandei.

Part 1/?

Warnings: absolutely none!

Word count: 2165

Pronouns etc are female for this one, I can either do ocs or x readers (male and female)

Please don't plagiarise my work!

Amarya always knew that she would stand beside Daenerys Targaryen. The Silver Queen with the fiery temperament. She never expected it to lead her to where she stood now.

Ever since she was eight years old, power had been thrust upon her shoulders, like a heavy cloak weighing her down. Still, Amarya had always loved her people. Would die for them. It was that sense of liability and loyalty that the people of the Perzys Isles always loved in the girl.

Stood on the shore of Dragonstone, there was a queen. Her light, low cut dress brushed against her thighs as her cerulean eyes locked onto the boat coming closer. Amarya could see men squirming on the boat like ants. It wasn't apparent which one was the King in the North.

The invasion was not foreseen. No one knew that they were coming. But when they did, the heavens cried. Countless men, women and children were lost to the storm of chaos the pirates wielded. A young princess was torn that night. But, a queen was born.

When the boat was finally pulled from the frothing sea, it was clear who was king. Jon Snow had rather dark features, and yet he still reminded Amarya of warmth. While the summer queen loitered in the back, Lord Tyrion went to greet the new visitor.

As a small girl cowered in the corner of a dimly lit room, beaten and bruised, chained and defiled, a shadow turned the corner. Flinching, the girl curled in on herself, waiting for another hit.

"The bastard of Winterfell."

"Hey, hey, hey. It's okay, little princess. I'll protect you. They can't hurt you anymore."

"The dwarf of Casterly Rock."

"Where's my daddy?"

There was a small silence between the two parties, which wasn't awkward, but brimmed with humour. After a moment, the two men stepped forward and shook hands like old friends.

"I'm so sorry, little princess, but he's gone for a bit now. Don't cry, I'll help you."

"I believe we last saw each other on top of the Wall." Tyrion remarked.

"Are you a pirate?"

"You were pissing off the edge if I remember right," the man joked, "You picked up some scars along the road."

"I am, sweetheart, but don't worry. I'm not like them. I won't hurt you."

Amarya thought that the first sentence sounded just like something her friend would do.

The man slowly reached a hand toward the little body in the corner of the room. She looked weary, but was so hopeless that she had nothing to lose.

Tyrion nodded. "It's been a long road. We're both still here." The two seemed spooked for a moment, before the smaller of them turned to the man beside Jon Snow. He was relatively grey, and his persona reeked of familiarity.

Keeping her eyes locked on his outstretched palm, she slowly reached forward and accepted his help. He was able to see her bruises, purple shapes on her tanned skin. The man felt a tear leave his eye.

"I'm Tyrion Lannister."

"My name's Amarya of the Perzys Isles, what's yours?"

"Davos Seaworth."

"My name is Davos, little one."

Amarya's eyes widened, and a shaky breath escaped her throat.

"Davos? That's a funny name."

"Davos? That's a funny name." Amarya managed to let the words leave her mouth quickly. The man looked over to her. Realisation dawned on him.

The man chuckled lightly. "I know it is, little Amarya. Believe me."

"I know it is, little Amarya. Believe me." His voice was broken, and emerged in little cracks.

The two met in the middle for a bone crushing hug. Davos lifted her off of her feet slightly, and cried for the girl he knew. "I thought you were dead, little queen."

"You can't get rid of me that easily. I took back my family's throne." When they separated, Amarya held her head high. They smiled each other, forgetting everyone who watched in the background.

"I still see you as the daughter I never got to have."

"Well, I've got you. You'll always be a father to me."

A throat was cleared. The two slowly returned to their parties. Davos looked at the young girl. "This is far from over."

Amarya giggled at his remark.

Tyrion decided to speak to the man. "Ah, the Onion Knight. We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater Bay."

"Unluckily for me."

But Amarya just couldn't pay attention. Not while those dark eyes rested on her. She tried her hardest not to look to Jon Snow, despite his gaze. When she eventually gave in, he looked as though he was trying to understand one of the world's greatest mysteries. As though he was trying to reach her soul.

Tyrion noticed his look. "This is her grace, Queen Amarya of the Perzys Isles, Protector of the Narrow Sea, Defender of the Innocent, the Phoenix. She is here on behalf of the people who go unrecognised. Those who lay between the two great continents of Westeros and Essos."

Jon gave her a small, fleeting smile. "Pleasure."

She nodded her head in respect. "Missandei is Queen Daenerys' most trusted advisor." She gestured to her left.

Missandei sent her a beautifully kind smile, and stepped forward. "Welcome to Dragonstone. Our queen knows this is a long journey. She appreciates the effort you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons."

The Northern King was hesitant. He turned to Davos, and then his men. "Of course."

The Dothraki that accompanied the few took heavy strides toward the visitors. Amarya watched as Jon untied his sword and reluctantly gave us to one of the men. The Dothraki also picked up their boat, and began to carry it away.

"Please, this way."

Davos walked over to Amarya, and checked her over. "You've grown. You're not little anymore. I don't like it."

Amarya smirked. "You're grey. You're not young anymore. Come to think of it, you weren't then."

"Oi, less of the snark from you, little queen. Remember who raised you."

"Oh, of course, my lord."

He gave her a kiss on the side of her temple, and went to speak with Missandei. Amarya smiled at the memories she shared with Davos, tucking a piece of golden hair behind her ear.

"You're her, then?"

She looked up to be met with the eyes of Jon Snow. "I'm who, exactly?"

"The one he never shuts up about." He nodded at Davos, who was having a lively discussion about butterflies with Missandei. Amarya watched the two happily.

"I suppose I am."

"You know, you're not what I expected you to be."

Amarya looked at the man, eyes narrowed. "How so?"

"Well, when I heard about another queen, I thought you'd be as stuck up as the rest of them."

"Well, how do you know I'm not?"

"Simple. You have kind eyes."

The group were still scaling the steps toward the castle. Not long since, the dragons had terrified the northmen, which Amarya thought was highly amusing.

The rest of the group were engaging in some conversation, while Amarya walked alone in the back, relishing in the sea spray. Suddenly, the jagged clouds parted, and a flurry of amber and crimson dove from the skies, and toward the front of the company.

The solitary shape darted between the rays of sunlight with a graceful ease, and twists so quick that you'd thought it had two heads.

Amarya gasped lightly. "Milaros!" She pushed to the front. "What are you doing?" She lightly grazed her fingers over his amber feathers, and he purred in delight. The, seemingly, bird was covered in a thick plumage of iridescent feathers, and, from what he could see, eyes a lustrous shade of halcyon.

Davos stepped forward. "Ah, so he grew then."

Amarya turned around to be met by many blank faces, as they were unaware of what creature Milaros was. "Oh, this is Milaros, my phoenix."

Someone in the back shouted to the queen. "What's a phoenix?"

The blonde smiled a little, turning back to Milaros. "A phoenix is an immortal bird which is immune to death. His tears are able to bring a person back from the brink of death. He can disappear and reappear in a burst of flames, and is able to carry the weight of seven men."

"How'd you get him?"

"He was gifted to me as an egg, by Davos." She smiled at the man. "I must go, I have urgent business to attend to." With that, she quickly strode off to feed her phoenix.

As a queen, it was clear where her loyalties lie. The people were everything to her. So it was only natural that she would be watching them on the cliffside in her spare time. Amarya could feel the wind whipping at her gold dress, the loose fabric shifting slightly.

She was used to the sea air, and being on Dragonstone was not that much different from winter in the Perzys Isles. Come to think of it, Amarya missed home.

She missed riding on her black palfrey, Summer, across the greenery of her castle grounds, and she missed her friends. Yes, a queen can have friends. It might have been difficult to spend as much time as she'd be willing to with them, but she loved them all the same.

Then, a voice pulled her out of her thoughts. "I didn't even know they existed."

Amarya turned to look at Jon Snow approaching the edge of the cliff. "What, people?"

The man smiled, but it could've been missed if you didn't pay attention. "No, a phoenix. Only ever heard of them from stories."

"Well, where I come from, Westerosi stories are our reality." She looked back at the sea of families below.

Jon Snow could see how much this woman cared for those who had no say, which was different to some power-hungry monarchs. It wasn't very common to find someone who put the people above every single thing in their life. He admired it. He admired a great deal about her, actually. "Have you spoken with Davos?"

"Not yet, actually, but I plan to. I've missed him."

"How did you two meet?"

Amarya's brow furrowed slightly, trying not to relive the horrible memories from her days as a young child. But then, she smiled a little. "He saved me from monsters."

"What monsters?"

The queen looked at him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, no, it's quite alright. They were pirates who tried to take over the Isles. They killed my father, many of my people, and committed monstrosities against me." She didn't want to go into the gory details.

He got the message, though. "How old were you?"

"I was a girl of eight when they came."

He looked up to the sky quickly, and then back to the woman who stood before him. "I'm sorry to hear that. Must've been hard."

"It's okay, I've grown since then. Besides, I'd go through it all again if it meant the safety that my peopoe have now."

Jon thought that her sense of duty was admirable. "That's good of you."

"Yes, I suppose it is. And it was good of you to come here for the safety of your people."

"It needed to be done." Amarya could tell that a lot of the King's time was consumed by brooding. She felt curiosity overwhelm her.

"What are they like?"

Jon looked at her, confused.

"The Army of the Dead, what are they like?"

His eyes widened. "You believe me?"

"Please, you're talking to a girl who has a phoenix as a pet." Amarya rolled her eyes.

Jon chuckled slightly in disbelief. "Well, they're cold, and they're like death."

"Like death? Cold? There's plenty of things that are like that. What I mean is, how do they fight? How do they move? What do they want?"

Jon was surprised at how much she wanted to know about the White Walkers. "You can't possibly mean to fight them."

Amarya looked him in the eyes. "No, of course not. That's insane. I can't fight them," She looked away, and mumbled under her breath, "yet."

"I'd advise against it, they're quite strong."

Her head whipped around. "What, and I'm not? I pride myself on my strength. I've been in five battles already. And they weren't small, either. I didn't get names the Defender of the Innocent just for courtesy. I got it because I earned it. And I don't give up. I intend to die for those who would die today, or tomorrow, or any day. Those who need protecting are the ones who protect us the most. Now, I must speak with her grace."

Amarya walked away from Jon Snow, maintaining her calm nature. He went to say something, but the words would not form. He was intoxicated by her. She was new, colourful, and bold. How she stood up for herself showed her determination, which he looked for the most in anyone he met. Sadly, everyone was lacking. Apart from her. Perhaps being stuck on Dragonstone wouldn't be so bad, after all.

--------

Hey! So this is my first ever post, and I wanted to say that I will take requests for any fics you would like me to write regarding Game of Thrones, Stranger Things, Once Upon a Time, Friends and etc. I will publish a full list at some point, though! Also, I am willing to write smut ;)

#game of thrones #fanfic #jon snow #x reader #asoiaf #davos seaworth #tyrion lannister #platonic #daenerys targaryen #Missandei

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moonlit-sea · 5 years

Text

Beneath the Brine (pt. 1)

The most frightening part of the sea was the great nothingness in it. Above great forests of seaweed, reefs in rainbow hues of red, and the endless schools of fish there was an emptiness that yawned like death. Abyssal, it barely promised hope of an end. This was where the weight of an endlessness seemed to crush in hardest, pushing down to keep any of its citizens from rising any further. It was a fear that the Raen had confronted once before, and found the second time no easier. Swimming in a headlong rush through its void was foolhardy, for the water swallowed endurance as easily as everything else.

In this realm, the only thing existing was their own self. Their heartbeat, their breathing, their own labored movements far too small to introduce a shred of comfort in such a remote hell. Seeing only indigo became a curse, its depth and darkness playing tricks upon the edges of their vision. The cold was oppressive, eating at their limbs unlike any other part of the sea. Each malm gained for the surface was another bite of ice, with lungfuls of water washing down in a cruel, bitter way.

Rising for the surface was a trial of meditation. Empty was the sea, so empty became their mind. Izayoi let go of fear, embracing the sea’s encroaching vacancy. This was the best way to rise through nothing, and break up from it with the moon just setting. It was their namesake, for the strongest light just now waned, and so they took this as a blessing in their endeavor. Exhausted from the void, they let the current wash them along. To favor the sky with attention was refreshing, as the celestial maidens fell back into their beds and the sun loosened her gown to wash the world in white and blue. It was a thing that they liked, strange as the sunrise was to see in a world away from home.

So near to shore had they surfaced that the towing of the waves brought them only closer, a high tide that was as kind as the sky’s blessing. The Kami, they thought, were surely upon their side. Encouraged by the plentiful gods and their own Princess, the fear of a stretching nothingness was left behind. Such aching hollowness was now in the water, as they put their foot upon stable ground. Following exhaustion, confidence was the first emotion inspired in the priest. Surely, their venture forward would only go well. They had followed the signs of great evil, after all, to come where any below were forbidden. Was that not the act of a hero, a champion, who followed their duty far and beyond any others would? This was a bolstering idea, comforting in the same way the dawn had been.

Izayoi walked for a nearby stone outcrop, legs unsure of such a strange thing that dry ground was. Much akin to sailors coming to dock after long months on deck, they had yet to adjust to balance without softly rolling waves. By aid of a staff used like a cane, the priest made their way. The light of sunrise cast odd-looking shadows, pale and stretched, that seemed to taper into points like fingers or arrows. It was an omen that they took readily, following both stones and shadows.

Before memory, a princess had once killed herself upon such rocks, and turned into a red serpent. In such hideous transformation, she grew quite a hunger for the souls of men. However, it was not this ancient princess who had been causing unrest, but one of her daughters. A shapeshifting yokai that had been seen coiling over Shisui, fleeing as soon as being was noticed. That was what had given such unusual sanction as to permit one of the hidden city’s own priests to leave, and come ashore, hunting for her blood colored scales. Izayoi did not quite enjoy such pursuits, but it was important, and they were who could most strongly feel a demon’s presence.

It did not much matter how far ahead her lead was, for Izayoi knew the habits of Kiyohime and her daughters. They were forever drawn to the water, but loathed to linger in it, and loitered around rocks to sate both needs at once. Such terrain gave a guise of being more mortal than they were, as well, for they could drape their tails over the precipice and lure men by pretending to be mortal women. This was the terrain the priest sought, following divine guidance and the wisdom of legends, thinking that there must only be a finite number of stony shore to search. Under such leisure, they walked for only a short distance, feeling no earnest rush under such a blessed destiny as theirs. The dry earth was uneasy to tread upon, and it took whole bells for them to go just beyond a malm. There was a kindly smooth stone to sit upon, and rest feet that disliked this terrain more than any other. As the sun heightened, a heat began they were likewise unaccustomed to, burning remnants of water from their pale skin and causing their scales to itch. Though Izayoi did not understand sunburns, they knew already that the open light was an unkind thing from the tales of the Kojin.

While they rested beneath the boulders, in the morning shade, the world continued to move. Clouds blew in from the distance, and birds wheeled in the sky, and Izayoi did not know the words to describe either. It was an interesting phenomenon to face. There were plenty of words that they knew, educated and versed as they were, but ‘horizon’ and ‘flight’ were not ones they possessed. Contemplating this epiphany kept the priest dreaming, relaxed as they were beside their temporary shelter. Yet, like the birds, time did not wait for them to continue. It progressed in its earthly march, and so the Raen rose to further their own pursuit.

This became a pattern that fell into place rather naturally. Izayoi would drag their feet until they were tired, rest in ever shortening shadows, and then rise on. Though it was very unlike the trial of the nothingness, it mirrored the same fear. The strangeness of being on land had not at first been overwhelming, but now its epiphany of discomfort grew delicately alarming. Air had an oddness to being breathed, insubstantial and unfilling. To breathe through water felt of something, feeling it move through their self had long ago become a regular comfort. In disquieting contrast to this was just how burdensome their body became. Limbs that were dextrous and quick in the sea were now unnatural attachments. Dense, unmoving things that needed to be dragged and moved with tiresome amounts of effort. Very quickly, Izayoi was not becoming a fan of this exercise upon the land. To wind around stony outcroppings and seek shade was necessary, but added so much effort that it felt more than it was worth. As the sun rose to begin the afternoon, their skin was tinted pink like a shell’s inside. There, they lamented the heaviness of a body in the lightness of air.

It was as the priest yielded to another spike of fatigue that they had to climb to escape the sun. As the sun rose, the shadows became denser but closer, and shelter took more effort to find. The signs of the Kami had not visited them since leaving the Ruby Sea, and they now feared that the gods could not follow them. That they were somehow bound to the beauty of the waves and tides, and thus could not come so far ashore where the stones rose and strange things lurked upon the horizon. The land was hostile, turning against an innocent wanderer, its nameless vegetation and creatures no longer wondrous. It was all just strange, and a resentment grew in Izayoi at that. This odd mixture of disillusionment and weariness had their heart feeling muddied. They did not like what they were doing, nor what it was doing to them. The very realm that was the surface was an unkind jester playing countless pranks.

Dark became their heart, borne of the harsh experiences, but also from the presence of a serpent. Her malice was a venom that pulled at any buried emotions and clouded judgement. From above uncoiled this predator, with her long hair trailing and longer tail winding from a bank of stones. Though her scales were beautiful in their sheen of light and dark, their unnaturally red pigment marked her as a descendant of the immortal and fierce yokai princess. Even her face and arms were so coated, leaving her black hair and sharp, white teeth in stark contrast to her personage. All this Izayoi knew. They had seen drawings of her with great detail, and even the masks their warriors wore were crafted like Kiyohime. Each cruel detail had been taught to the underwater priest, and yet as they turned to behold the source of their uncharacteristic discontent, it was still striking.

How could evil be both fearsome and beautiful? The shadows sank like water into her eyes, and yet the light danced off her face in a playful contrast. The yokai’s lips were full but her teeth were longer, protruding from under them. Strong, muscled arms kept her held up from the surface of coarse rocks, but her long tail was arched elegant and slim from under her yukata. The spider flower print upon the fine cloth was a cute touch, Izayoi mused, taken very off-guard by the appeal of such a deadly spirit. Her power was of allure, but it had never been spoken of being under a physical attribute. Always, texts described her unnatural skills to sway men. And yet, though her aura was ill and dark-humored, she had not even attacked while the priest sat there staring.

“You, I presume, are the priest who has been following me.” Her words were soft, a rolling lisp curling around both narrow tongue and large teeth. Izayoi, standing, spoke nothing. They had been trained, and used their lessons like a shield against any uncertainty. “I am very surprised by your persistence. Your poor skin is all burnt up!” She was very sweet, sounding earnest in her care, and came even lower down the rock’s heights.

Very deliberately, Izayoi took a step away from her. As appealing as her face was, they knew better than to be taken in by it. Unfortunately, they had climbed into this position, and could not step far. The beach wasn’t a terrible distance, but it was still unwise to fall. The yokai frowned, and crept even further down, until they were upon nearly level surfaces. There was an awkward pause, as the princess’ daughter and the Raen did not act or speak. For their part, Izayoi was cataloguing what to do. They had imagined an epic battle, some sort of contest between fire and water. A peaceful chat was not how the stories went.

“Usually priests follow my sisters to slay them, or attempt to. Are you very different, then? An onmyoji, perhaps, or some other sort of witch?” She spoke with her hands, which were more like the talons of a beast than a person. Like a dragon’s, with large knuckles and claws as long as a joint. They were terrifying, but wreathed in delicate rings of gold and copper that matched her scales well. When Izayoi continued their silence, the yokai continued as well, “I will make a deal with you, then, strange little witch.”

“I will not be seduced by your magicks,” they interrupted, finally. Their voice was hoarse, cracking with unnatural dryness. If Izayoi had cared more for appearances with this creature, they would have explained how they had been out in the sun too long. But her smile spoke of knowing, and any explanation or thought of it was banished by that kind expression.

“I do not use magick to seduce. Yes, I am sure your teachers say so, but what song could call a man to his death? He would fight it, as is man’s nature. They survive, and persist against all odds. No enchantment could undo that.”

That was frustratingly reasonable. While they wished to argue with every word from the black-haired beauty, they stood there and instead watched as her tail coiled up lazily around herself. Silence did not seem to perturbe the yokai regardless, who was all too happy to speak rather than fight. It was a sentiment that Izayoi noticed, begrudgingly, that the two of them shared. Who wished to kill another upon reputations alone? Perhaps, just perhaps, they could learn something before they return with a duty fulfilled.

“Knowledge is what all men seek,” rasped that gentle voiced spirit. “Ah, I see you about to protest, but do not. There are mysteries that remain forever covered by fate. To throw off its veil is the greatest power of all. Most men wish to know their death, but I see you are different. You do not wish to see yourself - that is something you know as intimately as the sea. But there are two who are lost.”

Izayoi’s heart stopped long enough that it ached. Even breathing in such a thin material as the air became too much. No, they wanted to say, don’t you dare. But their mouth dried itself shut, unable to open.

“For Hinata, I can offer you nothing.” Don’t. They would beg. “Ryuusei is someone I can promise much more for.” Though their mouth was closed, too arid to even attempt speech, tears burned and threatened to fall. The contrast of temptation and iniquity was finally overwhelming. It was an inhuman emotion to inspire such want and such hurt in a singular frame. This was the honest power of a yokai, the Raen realized with pangs of dulled fear. Their emotions were at war too much to feel anything else strongly.

With faltering capacity, they finally answered the waiting serpent. “I would... would assume he’s dead.”

“Promise I shall go unharmed, and I will tell you just where the Garleans keep him.” That voice that Izayoi had imagined was sweet was instead like the rasping of scales upon stone. It grew grating the closer it came. And her smile, so cute and quirky, held in it an eagerness that was not appropriate for this moment. But was their duty not to their family, and the honor of their mother and father? Was Ryuusei not worth saving more than some prideful chase? This yokai, who had hurt no one they had seen, offered both for such a simple desire. She wished to live, and was that not the most mortal sentiment?

“I will hear of my brother, and then will strike our deal,” came the whisper of a priest.

#Izayoi Shicho #mateus rp #background story #title from a song by the Family Crest #I'm unoriginal

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quickeningheart · 5 years

Text

Ten

“Hey, you hungry?” Chris asked as he and Chex followed Alley out of the office. “There’s a great bar and grill right on the school grounds. They’ve got the best seafood chowder this side of the country.”

Alley hesitated. She really should get back to the garage and let Charley know what she’d seen, but she was a bit famished. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and it was already past six o’clock. Her stomach gave a long, low gurgle at the reminder, and she grinned as Chris laughed. “I could use a bite to eat,” she agreed.

“Then right this way, if you please.” He steered her away from the parking lot and toward another smallish building that was only two stories tall. “This is the Atrium,” he explained. “Well, the first floor of it is the actual atrium; the upper level is offices for the teachers and staff. It’s pretty much the hangout for students. The bar is inside, a few small gift shops, the school bookstore, and lots of seating for just hanging out and relaxing.”

“Best part of the whole school,” Chex put in. “Although if you plan on drinking, you’ll have to show ID.”

“I’m only twenty,” Alley admitted.

“Really? I kind of thought you were older than that,” Chris said, looking surprised.

“He’s into the older chics,” Chex teased, poking her brother in the ribs.

“Why? How old are you?”

Chris looked embarrassed, scratching his head. “Actually, we’re only eighteen. Just graduated high school.”

Alley’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? I thought you were like my age or something!”

“You’re only a college freshman, too, right?” Chex wanted to know. “Shouldn’t you be in a higher grade?”

“I took a year off after graduating to work full-time and save up extra money. And to figure out what school I wanted to attend. I did take a couple of weekend courses at the community college to get in some of my credits and stuff, but nothing full-term.”

“Hey, that’s fine. In college, age doesn’t really matter. We’re all still consenting adults,” Chris said.

Chex smirked at him and waggled her eyebrows. “Consenting for what, I wonder.”

“Aw, shut up, Red. Nobody asked you.” Face flushed, Chris stomped into a dimly-lit restaurant and made his way to the bar.

Chex laughed. “He’s such a weenie around girls.”

Alley grinned. “He’s kinda cute, though. For a kid,” she teased, earning a dry look in response.

~*~*~*~*~

The food really was good at the Atrium Grill. Not only the chowder, but the thickest, gooiest grilled cheese sandwich that Alley had ever had the pleasure of biting into. “I’ve died and gone to nirvana,” she sighed, wrapping the cheese that had oozed out of the bread onto her plate around her fork. “What was in that sandwich?”

“Cheese.” Chex took a bite of her fried chicken.

Alley snorted a laugh. “Well, duh. I meant what kind?”

“Not sure. Trade secret, but I’m pretty sure they use a blend,” Chris replied. “And they grill it using mayonnaise instead of butter. Supposed to be healthier or something.”

“Right. Because six different blends of cheese in a single sandwich is the absolute epitome of health food,” Chex said blandly.

“How do you know that?” Chris eyed her suspiciously, and she smirked.

“I have my ways.”

“You boinked the head cook, didn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Actually, I really, really wouldn’t.” He shuddered as Alley sought to hide her grin behind her soda glass.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching for her bag, but Chris waved her off.

“Don’t worry about it. My treat,” he replied.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! What kind of gentleman makes a woman pay for her own meal?” He ignored Chex’s derisive snort and flashed a smile at Alley. “I invited you, so I’ll pay this one, okay?”

She consented with a nod and a smile. “Well, if we do this again, let me pay for you as thanks. Both of you,” she added, not wanting Chex to be left out.

“Oooo. Friend-zoned!” Chex sang under her breath, earning a kick under the table. She just smirked at her glowering twin.

Alley bit her lip, hoping she hadn’t offended him, but he gave her another charming smile and pulled some bills out of his wallet. “School year is just beginning,” he said casually. “I’ll definitely take you up on the offer for another meal."

“Yeah. Me, too,” Chex added, grinning. “You seem like fun. Even if you do look like a Barbie doll.”

~*~*~*~*~

It had grown dark by the time they left the Atrium. Alley had stopped by the bookstore to pick up the last two textbooks she needed for her classes. Chex said her goodbyes before heading toward the dorms, where she was staying. “More privileges of being the dean’s kid. Really cheap boarding, and I don’t have to live at home with the wicked step-mom,” she explained with a smirk.

“She’s not that bad,” Chris said with a frown.

“Not to Mr. Perfect Son. But she doesn’t like me very much. I refuse to bend over and kiss her ass.”

“Well, maybe if you wouldn’t dress like—”

“Like what? Like someone with her own brain and a willingness to use it?” Chex stopped walking and faced him with a fist planted on her hips. “I’m my own person. I have my own way of living, and there’s nothing wrong with how I dress. You might be willing to let her groom you like a little lapdog, but I refuse. She’s not even our real mom, and she hasn’t done anything to earn the title.” She flipped her cherry hair. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You’re living in the dorms, too!”

“Because there’s no point in driving to school when we can live right on the grounds,” Chris sighed, clearly used to this conversation.

“Right, whatever. I’m heading back. See you around, Alley. We should hang out sometime.” She stomped off, skirt swishing.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Alley called after her.

Chris flashed her a sheepish grin, shrugging. “Typical sibling spat. They never last long,” he apologized. “She’ll be over it by morning.”

“You said you had a step-mom?”

“Yeah. Our real mom took off when we were just little.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Dad was always busy in the school, so we were mostly raised by nannies. Then he came home one day a few years back and said he was getting remarried. Her name is Victoria. She’s a real classy lady. She comes from money, you know? I guess Dad had met her at some associates’ function raising money for the college. Anyway, I was okay with him getting married, but Chex took it hard. I guess … she was always holding out hope that Mom might come back someday. Or something.” He shrugged again. “We were seven when she left. Chex took it the hardest. Mom hardly ever contacts us. Maybe a birthday or Christmas card here and there. But she made it clear she just wasn’t willing to be a mother. She’s living it up on some tropical island somewhere.” His smile was brittle.

“I’m sorry,” Alley said softly. “I didn’t mean to pry or bring up bad memories.”

“Nah. Not your fault. Anyway, guess you should be getting back, huh?”

“Yeah, Charley’s probably getting a little worried by now.” Alley juggled the books as she fumbled for her keys in the bottom of her bag. Chris pulled his phone out of his pocket, fiddled with the touch screen for a few seconds, and then the camera flash flicked on, effectively giving her light to see by. “They need to install more lights along the walks. Dad’s been after the board to get on that for years,” he complained.

“The parking lot is lit well enough.”

“Yeah, but getting to it can be dangerous after sundown. Not everyone around here is as nice as I am, and you’re a really pretty girl.”

Alley blushed a little, charmed by his fumbling attempts to flirt. “That’s sweet of you, but I can take care of myself. I’ve got pepper spray with me. And I also know self-defense. Dad made me take some classes when I started growing boobs.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “The truck is right … over…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes fell on the pickup. Or, more precisely, on the three very large men who were standing around the pickup, talking amongst themselves. “Aren’t those…?“

“Limburger's thugs,” Chris huffed. “What’re they doing? Where’s the boss?”

Alley slowed and ducked behind a large SUV parked in the nearly empty lot, trying to see what they were up to. “Are they trying to break into the truck?” she whispered.

“No, looks more like they’re keeping watch. Or waiting for someone.”

“For me to come back?” Alley shifted nervously. “Why would they be waiting for me? They don’t even know who I am.” Unless somehow they’d figured it out … but how would they? She hadn’t given Limburger her name, and there was no reason for him to ask for it. She doubted she even registered on his radar enough for him to get curious. There was absolutely no way he could have figured out who she was in those few brief moments of passing.

Unless…

“The truck,” she breathed, smacking her forehead. “It’s got the garage’s name on the doors. He must’ve seen it and recognized the name, and thinks Charley is here. And he’s sent his thugs to wait for her to come back.”

“Planning on jumping her?” Chris whispered.

“I dunno. Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a nasty piece of work, from what I heard. And he really doesn’t like her friends.”

“We should call the police. They won’t touch Limburger but his thugs aren’t off-limits.” Chris pulled his phone out again, but was stopped by Alley’s hand on his.

“Wait. I think … they’re leaving,” she said, slowly standing up. Indeed, the men had backed away from the truck and were currently sauntering across the lot to a pair of what looked like dune buggies parked in the shadows.

“Hey, weren’t there three of them?” Chris asked. “Where’d that fourth guy come from?”

“Who cares? I’m just glad they’re gone.” Alley made a beeline for the truck, only to be brought up short by Chris’s hands on her shoulders, bringing her to a staggering halt. Just as a large, gleaming, vintage 1930s Rolls Royce cruised slowly past them. Alley’s jaw dropped. It would have been a beautiful car … had it not been painted an eye-gouging shade of purple. She knew instantly who it belonged to. To prove it, the car came to a gliding halt and the window rolled down. Alley instinctively held her breath as Limburger’s cold, gleaming eyes met hers.

“So, young lady. We meet again.” His voice was cultured, refined, smooth as an oil slick. His eyes left hers, darted to the truck she stood only two feet away from, slid back with a raised eyebrow. He said nothing, but his gaze was suspicious. She bit her lip, feeling light-headed from lack of breath, and prayed he’d just leave before she passed out. “Be careful out there,” he warned, a humorless smile tugging at his thick lips. “There may be … unsavory people lurking about.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she choked out, and let loose the breath she’d been holding when the window rolled up and the car moved on. “Okay, I’m totally freaked out. Are you totally freaked out? ‘Cause I’m totally freaked out,” she babbled.

“Hey, hey, relax,” Chris soothed, putting an arm around her shoulders and rubbing her arm vigorously. “The creep is gone, we’re fine. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she groaned, staggering to the truck to lean heavily against the door. She looked it over, checking the locks, but nothing seemed out of place. Then she frowned as she recalled the fourth thug who’d popped up from nowhere, a niggling suspicion forming. “Lemme see that light again,” she grunted, kneeling on the ground beside the truck. “Shine it under here.”

He complied, and her worst fear was confirmed: Something dark and liquid was leaking in a steady drip under the cab, steadily forming a large puddle. “Holy shit,” Chris breathed. “What’d they do?”

She sighed. “I’m pretty sure they cut the brake line. They were aiming to murder me. Well, my cousin, anyway.” She flashed him a weak smile. “Still think he isn’t a threat?”

“I’m calling the cops.” His voice left no room for argument.

“And tell them what? Limburger has it in for my cousin so he got his goons to sabotage her truck in order to kill her? There’s no proof he had anything to do with it. We didn’t get a good look at those guys, either, so we have no descriptions.”

“Well, what else can we do?” he huffed, frustrated.

“Can I borrow your phone? I have to call Charley. She’ll have to come tow the truck back. And she’ll want to know I’m okay.” Alley sighed. “Maybe you should take off. If Limburger figured out I’m related in any way to Charley or the mi--her friends, he’ll be back. And you’ll be targeted, too. Just by association.”

“If it comes to that, I’m a target, anyway. He’s after this place, too, and I am the dean’s son, after all.” Chris handed her his phone and crossed his arms. “I’m not about to take off on you now. So don’t even bother trying.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at him gratefully and dialed Charley’s number. “Come on, pick up. Pick up!”

The line clicked. “Last Chance Garage, this is Charley speaking.”

“Charley? It’s me.” Alley held the phone away from her ear as Charley immediately started in on her.

“Where the hell have you been? Do you know what time it is? I mean, I know you’re a grown-ass woman and all but for cripe’s sake couldn’t you at least call and let me know you’re not gonna be home for supper or something?” Charley bellowed.

“Ma? Is that you?” Alley deadpanned, earning an indignant huff on the other end.

“I can see now why your mom worries to death over you,” Charley grunted. “You don’t even have a phone! Where are you calling from? And what’s the matter?”

Alley sighed and rubbed her temple. “It’s a long story. To make it short…” She took a deep breath. “I’m still at the college and Limburger showed up ‘cause he’s after the land and he saw your truck and I’m pretty sure he cut the brake line and I’m calling you from my friend’s phone to ask if you can please come pick me up ‘cause I’m really kinda freaking out right now,” she said in a rush.

There was a moment of silence. Then, “What?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said. Are you okay? Is he still there?” Charley’s voice radiated genuine concern.

To her horror, Alley felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes, her emotions dangerously unstable. “No, he’s gone,” she replied, voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it. “He drove off in that hideous car. His thugs are gone, too.”

“You said you’re with someone?”

“Yeah. His name is Christopher Archer.” Alley sniffed and swiped impatiently at her tearing eyes. “He and his sister were hanging out with me today and showing me around. They’re really nice.” She flashed a watery smile at a concerned Chris.

“Listen, go back inside the school and wait, okay? I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“I think…” Alley bit her lip. “He saw me at the truck. I think he’s suspicious about who I am. I’m pretty sure it was you he was aiming to murder.”

Charley muttered a curse under her breath. “Well, he’d figure it out one of these days anyhow. Just … go inside, and if he shows up again, hide until we get there.”

“We?”

Charley chuckled. “The guys overheard. Big ears and all. You won’t keep them away even if you tried. So maybe lose your friends before we show up, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be in the Atrium. It’s the small two-story near the back of the property.” Alley ended the call and handed the phone back to Chris. “Look, thanks for all your help. You’ve been so great. My cousin is on her way, so if you want to take off now, I promise I won’t be offended or anything.”

“Pfft. Right. I’m just gonna leave you by yourself after all that?” He shook his head. “Not happening. Come on, we’ll go to the Atrium like you said. I don’t know about you, but I could use something to drink!”

“Hey now, Mr. Dean’s Son. Aren’t you a little young to be imbibing in alcohol?” She gave him a teasing poke in the side.

“Who said anything about alcohol, old lady,” he teased back. “There’s a vending machine that sells fantastic hot chocolate. I could really go for a cup. How about you?”

“In the middle of an August heat wave? On top of all that hot food we just ate?” Alley shrugged. “Sounds like a plan.”

~*~*~*~*~

The chocolate was good, and Alley savored every sip of it as her jangled nerves slowly calmed, but no matter what she said, she couldn’t talk Chris into leaving her alone. Part of her was annoyed (she wasn’t a little girl, for cripe’s sake), but a larger part was relieved by his persistence. She doubted the Purple People Eater would be back, but she felt safer having someone by her side. Even if that someone was essentially a perfect stranger.

Half an hour passed, and Alley spent the time curled up on a cushy sofa, paging through her textbooks as Chris delved back into his novel. It was quiet, with only a few students hanging around the Atrium. That’s why, when the front doors suddenly burst open with an ear-jarring clatter, Alley just about jumped out of her skin, nearly falling off the couch and dropping her book in the process.

She looked up, wide-eyed, as a tall, slender man dressed in head-to-toe black strode through the doors, paused to look around, and then honed in on her. He headed right for her, head encased in an oddly-shaped biker helmet. She started to panic, wondering if Limburger had sent someone back for her after all, before she caught a gleam of reflected light, saw the long, metal tail lashing behind him. She relaxed, recognizing him. Stoker.

She didn’t know where he’d dug up the leather biker clothes, but it was astonishing how different he looked in them. Without the fur and mousy features to distract her, she could appreciate for the first time how built he was, the dark material hugging his lean, muscled body. He moved with purpose, strides smooth and graceful, like a dancer. A traitorous thought worked its way into her mind that, under all the fur, he was really kind of beautiful. And she wondered if all of the mice had such beautiful forms. She hastily banished the thoughts from her mind.

Chris had put himself between her and the agitated mouse, nearly a head shorter, but still determined to protect her as he faced down the intimidating figure. “Who’re you?” he growled, voice cracking just a bit.

Stoker just chuckled.

Alley’s eyes widened when she saw Chris’s hand clench, quickly scrambling up from her seat to grip his arm. She didn’t even want to think of what might happen if he took a swing at the war veteran. She didn’t think Stoker would hurt him, but then again, he was a trained soldier. He might not take kindly to physical violence. “It’s okay,” she said. “He’s a friend … of my cousin.”

Chris relaxed by degrees, his fist unclenching.

“Where’s Charley?” Alley asked the mouse, who hadn’t bothered to take off his helmet. All the same, she could feel his gaze on her, assessing.

“She’s looking over the truck with the others,” he finally replied, voice muffled behind his helmet. “I came to find you. You okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m fine.” She flashed a bright smile, and turned to Chris. “Look, thanks for everything today. I mean it. It was so nice meeting you and Chex. I hope I’ll see you around, once classes start."

Chris’s gaze slid away from Stoker and he offered a weak grin. “Yeah, same here,” he replied. “We’ll do this again. You know, when things get a little less crazy around here.”

“Definitely.” Alley squeezed his hand. “Tell Chex I’ll call her sometime. When I get a phone, that is. Maybe you can both come with, help me pick one out? You can show me around Chicago or something, too. And I can buy you lunch like I promised.”

Chris chuckled, sounding nervous as Stoker cleared his throat and crossed his arms, impatient. “Sounds good. Well…” He shifted, casting an uncomfortable glance at the tense, black-clad man. “Your family’s here, so guess you don’t need me around anymore. Take care, yeah? Hope I’ll hear from you soon. I’m gonna grab another cup of chocolate and head back to the dorm.” He gave an awkward grin, a polite nod to Stoker, and then he turned and walked off.

Alley released a breath and picked up her bag, cradling her books to her chest. She turned to leave, and jumped when a heavy arm abruptly settled around her shoulders, as Stoker led her gently but assertively out of the building. “Hey, do you mind?” she hissed, red-faced, as she caught the stares of the few remaining students in the building. She tried to balk, but Stoker was stronger than he looked. “I know where the parking lot is.”

He didn’t answer. His hand merely tightened on her arm, leading her away from the Atrium, and then off the walk and into the darker shadows cast by a towering oak. Only then did he remove his helmet, and she was taken aback by the genuine worry etched across his features. “Are you okay?” he repeated, his voice soft. “Did he lay hands on you in any way?” Under the concern, she heard simmering anger, and she shifted uncomfortably.

“He didn’t even get out of the car,” she mumbled, looking away from his intense gaze. “It was his thugs that killed the truck.”

“But he saw you at the truck? You sure he knows you’re associated with us?”

“I was headed right for it. The lot’s pretty much empty.” Alley shrugged. “I doubt he could mistake which car I was aiming for.”

He sighed, running his hand over her hair in a soft caress. “Sorry, honey. Looks like you might be involved in this war now, like it or not.” He quirked a grin. “Don’t suppose I could talk you into runnin’ back to Florida now, can I?” He chuckled at the look she gave him. “Didn’t think so.”

Alley, uncomfortable with his proximity, not to mention the way he kept looking at her, stepped out from under his hand and continued to the parking lot, where she found Charley and the three other mice hooking the pickup onto the back of her tow truck.

“Alley Cat!” Charley handed the winch to Vinnie and threw her arms around her cousin. “You okay, kid?” she asked. “You sounded really upset on the phone.”

“Yeah, a little shaken up, I guess.” Alley offered a small smile. “I’m okay now. Chris stayed with me until you came. He’s a really nice guy.”

“Do tell.” Charley raised an eyebrow with a catty smirk. “Not even started classes yet and already have the boys wrapped around your finger.”

“Well, that’s nothing new,” Alley replied, earning a laugh from her cousin as she clambered into the passenger seat of the tow truck and leaned out the window. “Was there really any need to bring the entire army?” She gestured to the mice.

“They were worried. And who knows if Limburger would come back and wait for me to show up, if I really was the target. No sense taking chances.” Pickup secured, Charley climbed into the driver’s seat. “Okay, guys. Let’s head back now. Thanks for coming out with me.”

“Not a problem, Charley-girl,” Throttle replied. “Glad you’re not hurt, Alley.” He smiled up at her, gave a signal, and the four bikes took off down the road with the tow truck following close behind.

#Biker Mice from Mars #bmfm fanfiction #OCs #Stoker

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shalink95 · 7 years

Text

There once was a dream

Now, im sure some of you have herd the song in ripping the title off of, but for the sake of the story I will use it anyway. You see, this dream was a very important dream, for it was what set everything in motion for the island known as YOUNG TOWN. Before I start this story, let me give you a little background information on the town. Young town is a place for children who have been discarded by the world, ether tossed out or forgotten by the cruelties of humanity, but this story takes place before the island was even known as Young town in a time when it was known as the peaceful island, a place full of artists and bards and merchants from all over the world, where writers and singers and actors could all have a place to live out their dreams of a happy…peaceful life.

The dream came to a very small child known as Carrot, Carrot was an odd over eccentric happy child who had lived her entire life on an island with only a single friend. She was happy there though, she had everything she needed and was never spoiled with what she wanted. Her father was a wrighter and her mother was beautiful. She dressed in a plain blue shirt, had a hood around her neck wore plain old blue jeans and a tutu over that, she had mismatching socks and no matter how many pairs of shoes her parents got for her, she would only ever were sandals. She had short brown hair and Carrot orange eyes but the strangest thing about her was that she had a pair of black cat ears and a long black cat tail. You see, she took after her mother in that way, for her mother was a charrictor pulled straight out of a book, one that her father had written with such passion and such strong emotion that she had simply come to life! Her mother was originally just a simple cat who had been blessed by a goddess to become half human so that she could fight agenst an evil demon king. She lived a happy life now, she had a daughter that she loved very much and a kind and thoughtful husband, but this story is not about her…this story is about little carrot and her dream.

The dream was a very strange dream, she was surrounded by people..but..these people were a greenish blue color, their skin was neon and she could see enteni and beetle like wings on their backs, though the wings seemed to vary from person to person. They were all standing there, staring, they had wide eyes and huge grins…this made Carrot slightly scared. Carrot tried to open her mouth to speak, to ask what was going on, but nothing came out. It was as if her voice had been stolen from her and she started to panic, she backed away from those beings who became enraged that she seemed able to move at all. She struggled fiercely agenst those that tried to restrain her…and then she bolted upright, sitting in her bed, shaking at the memory of the quickly fading dream.

Normally, she wouldhave crawled out of bed and padded down the hall to her parents room to curl up with them before they could notice…but she was alone in her house that night, her parents had gone to the mainland to try and sell some of her fathers books, so she simply reached over to her night stand and grabbed the rectangle form of her walkie talkie. She clicked the button once and it made a beeping sound on her end, letting her know that it had beeped on the other end as well. After a moment and a couple more clicks of the button, a tired voice awnsered from the other end. It was a small, gentle voice that belonged to yet another child on the island. Her name was Iku, she was a little girl who was the same age as Carrot though I little shorter than the part cat child, she had wispy curly hair that was the shade of a light sea green color and her face was dotted all over her face. She normally wore a green and purple striped shirt with overalls and boots, sturdy cloths for rough playing that Carrot alwase seemed to provide.

“Carrot, do you even know what time it is?”

Iku asked in a slightly annoyed tone, to which Carrot awnsered quickly.

“I know, I know! But listen to me real quick! I saw aliens! They were green with enteni and big bug wings, and they had me in some strange place and I was really scared!”

The voice on the other side let out a grone of dispare as she reolized her sleep had been interrupted by a nightmare.

“Carrot, you’ve been watching way too many si-fi movies….it was just a nightmare, go back to bed…zzzzzz”

For such a quiet child, Iku snored rather loudly, though she still seemed to have her finger on the button so Carrot couldn’t wake her, Carrot’s ears drooped as she let out a sigh and turned the device off, setting it back on the night stand before wrapping herself in her blanket entirely and trying her hardest to get back to sleep…..

When Carrot work up the next day, she could only bairly remember the details of her dream, but she brushed it off to jump up and go to her window. Carrot flung open her curtains and blinked in the warm feeling of the sun rays on her face. She quickly got dressed and hurried downstairs, she had been hoping that her parents might be there to greet her when she woke up…but she had no such luck. The liveingroom, the kitchen, their bedroom, both bathrooms and even the spooky basement that Carrot refused to enter…were all empty. Carrot would sigh, tail and ears drooping with disappointment as she slunk to the kitchen to have yet another bowl of cereal for the third day in a row…Carrot was getting a little worried because she was running out of food and soon enough, she would need to go over to her friends house to eat all her meals until her parents returned and gave whatever excuse it was this time for why they had been gone for so long. Carrot was an understanding child, she knew that it was hard to sell a book, and she didn’t blame them at all.

Carrot had finished her breakfast and hurried off to the town at the edge of the island, under the shadow of a long dormant volcano. Carrot and Iku alwase had a fun game, they would pretend that the volcano was going off and then they would climb the tallest building they could find, which usually got them into plenty of trouble with the adults. Carrot hurried best the big marble covered building that had served as the town hall since before anyone could remember and she ran straight to the house of her friend, the tip of her tail flicking back and forth in excitement as she knocked rapidly on the front door. A woman with waves of long blond curly hair awnsered the door as she knew exactly what to expect.

“Hello Carrot”

The woman spoke with a smile.

“Hello! Can Iku play?!”

Carrot was practically bouncing up and down at this point, the grinning orange eyed child looked so young and so full of hope, how could the woman say no to that?

“Yes of course Carrot, she’s just finishing up her breakfast so why don’t you wait outside and she will be out.”

The blond woman said with a smile, Carrot grinned and saluted the woman as she sat down on the front steps of her best friends house. Carrot and Iku had been friends since they were babies, they were practically sisters and Carrot would do just about anything for Iku, even travel down into the dark and spooky basement that Carrot absolutely refused to enter, and if that wasn’t sisterly love, than I don’t know what is. Carrot waited somewhat impatiently on that porch for her friend to come out and when Iku finally stepped out of that door, Carrot hugged her rather tightly. You see, Carrot had this rather huge anxiety that everything would be taken away from her…everything…and everyone…and for such a small child that Carrot was, she needed some reassurance every once in a while, and a tight hug from Iku alwase seemed to do the trick.

“Im so so so so so sorry for waking you up last night! I just got really scared because the dream felt so real and I didn’t want it to be! They told me things that I didn’t want to do a..and im sorry!”

Carrot hugged the green haired girl a little tighter…and Iku didn’t mind one bit, she simply smiled and gently pat Carrot on the back.

“Carrot, im not mad, I was just a little annoyed but that’s long gone now, so don’t you worry, ok?”

Iku gently pried Carrot’s iron grip, off of her as she pet carrots ears and giggled at the purr that rumbled out of Carrots chest. When the petting stopped, Carrot remembered something important, and she grinned in a mischivious way.

“I have a super fun way to spend today!~”

Iku, who looked so innocent that most people couldn’t bring themself to blame her for most anything, grinned in a mischivious way as well.

“Well common! Out with it!”

Carrot chuckled and told her best friend in a whisper what the plan was, both of the mischivious, naughty little children, giggled and ran to Iku’s garden shed.

The two children had really done it this time, they looked at their masterpiece painted on the side of the town hall that was almost compmeetly obscured by bushes and trees. On the side, in as many colors that they could get their hands on, was a huge banner that said ‘Freedom to be yourself’. It had taken them a bit of time to come up with this banner and by the time they were finished and watching the paint dry, the sun was already high in the sky and they stomachs of the two children were rumbling loudly.

“Hey Iku?”

Carrot asked, being quiet all of the sudden, which made Iku look at her in confusion.

“Yea Carrot?”

Iku replied, wondering what her friend had to say.

“Will you alwase remember me? And how much fun we had together here? Even when were old and wrinkly?”

Iku grinned widely, for she knew the answer to this already.

“Of course I will, because you’ll be right there beside me to remind me, every step of the way, right?”

It was Carrots turn to grin widely, orange eyes sparking in excitement.

“Right!”

After that, the two headed to Carrot’s house to wash up so that they weren’t caught with paint on their…well..everything, Carrot alwase seemed to find strange ways to clean herself, just by putting any kind of liquid over the paint, she was able to take out the stains in bother her and her friends, cloths. You see, Carrot had a knack for making absurd, odd, things happen, for she had a great and terrible ability to bend reality its self. Of course, her mother and father had told her that using this power too much was dangerous and if she only used it for very small things…well then that should be fine. Once the two were cleaned up, they were about to head out to get some food when Carrots home phone rang loudly through the house. Carrot never liked the one phone but put her hands over her ears and went to retrieve it of only to make that infernal tingling sound, stop.

“Hello?”

She awnsered, her ears still ringing with the noise of the phone.

“Carrot sweety, its your mother.”

Carrot immedeatly perked up, her ears standing at attention and the tip of her tail flicking back and forth in an excited manor.

“Oh hi mama! Shows your trip? Did you sell any books? Oh I bet papa sold tons of books because his an amazing wrighter!”

There was a happy chuckle from the other side of the phone.

“Yes dear, we sold quite a few books this time around, we will be back later tonight but I have some exciting news for you! Were moveing to the mainland! Isint that wonderful?”

It took Carrot a moment…and a few blinks, but ever so slowly, her tail drooped, her ears folded back, her eyes grew wide, her hand started trembling slightly in the shock. In this moment Iku had decided to walk in, to check if everything was alright, Carrot looked over at Iku, it was as if the ringing in her ears was getting louder, and soon, her shock turned into white hot rage as she gritted her teeth and looked at the phone in anger.

“DID YOU EVER ASK ME IF I WANTED TO MOVE MOM!?”

Carrot was speaking at a higher volume than Iku had ever herd before, the pore curly haired girl was rather shocked as she stumbled backwards.

“Young lady, don’t you dare raise your voice at me. We have thought long and hard about this and both your father and I have the opertunity to get a job on the mainland.”

There was a heavy sigh from the other side of the phone.

“We will discuss this when we get home, but tomorrow we will be moveing to our new home…I promise sweety…you’ll love this place, its big with lots off places to explore…”

Carrot was no longer listening though, she slammed the phone down onto the receiver and huffed and puffed and pulled at her hair, her ears, her tail. Carrot want one to throw a temper tantrum very often, she had done so on one other occasion when her parents had told her that they would not be able to make it back to the island for her birthday….but this…she was furious…she didn’t even have much time to spend with Iku and…oh…oh no…Carrot looked over at Iku who was curled up into a ball, she covered her ears and rocked back and forth. Carrot had yelled…and yelling was one thing Iku couldn’t handle…slowly, gently, Carrot hugged her friend and they sat there until Carrot had finally gotten Iku to calm down.

“Im sorry for yelling….”

Carrot whispered softly.

“Its ok….I forgive you…”

Iku would whisper softly back, the two would sit like this until Carrots parents got home, while Carrots father took Iku home, Carrot had an argument like you wouldn’t bealive. Both sides had good reason for what they were saying but nether side wavered until finally….

“Your going to be that way hu!? You are grounded! Go to your room and if you do not have a bag packed by tomorrow, I will have the movers throw out anything that Isint nessisary from your room!”

Carrot was shocked, why was her mother suddenly acting so cruelly to Carrot? The small orange eyed child, hednt the slightest clue….so in defeat, she spun around, running up the stairs to her room. She reluctantly packed be bag and held on tightly to her walkie talkie as she ended up crying herself to sleep…..

That night…she opened her eyes into the dream again, the alien-like people standing around her, but before she could start to panic, one seemed to come forward.

“No no, sweetheart, don’t be frightened, we wont hurt you darling.”

The alien said, she had a strange high pitched voice that sounded like a mix between a buzzing bee and someone trying to talk with their nose held. Carrot tried to speak but nothing seemed to come out.

“We just want to help you little one…you see…we know your struggles and your anger…your parents are being so unfair arnt they? Well…we can help you…if you let us~”

Well…now Carrot was interested…she leaned forded as if to tell the alien figure to continue and they smiled a thin mischivious smile.

“You see…we have a way of whipping peoples memories of specific events…we could…make your parents forget that they ever got a job offer in the first place~…..but”

Yes…there was that dreaded catch that Carrot was afraid of….

“You must do something for us~ tomorrow night, exactly when the sun sets…you must go to the top of your volcaino, and you must create a portal, not a small one ether, something almost as big as the island itself….if you do this….you can live out the rest of your life on the island…your parents will never have gotten that job offer..you and your friend can keep your promise to eacother and all will be well.”

These words dripped like honey out of the alien’s mouth, the young child looked up at them..full of hope…for she did not know deceit yet…and she did not know what a terrible mistake she was making….by saying…

“Yes”

When carrot woke up that morning, she hatched a plan, Carrot snuck to the kitchen and grabbed all the snacks she could carry before making a hasty exit, there was a spot on the island where only the kids could go, it was a tunnel into the mountain with a very old staircase that lead straight to the top, but the entrance and exit were both so small, that only small children could fit into it and get out of it safely….and that’s where Carrot hid…

As the day went on, surch parties were sent all over the island to find the small child, every once in a while, Carrot would stick their head out to check the position of the sun. Back at Iku’s home, the adults were drilling the pore girl with question after question, trying to see if she knew where Carrot was, they had to stop when Iku broke out into tears and ran to hide in her room. The sun was finally about to set…and Carrot made her way up the stairs…Carrot had never dome anything so big before so she had been mentally preparing herself for this…remembering fond times with her dear friend…and even with her parents…she looked at the sky above the volcaino and held up her arms, the sky instantly turned gray, snuffing out whatever was left of the setting sun, electricity crackled in these clouds, as they pulled energy from the young Carrot. Slowly, ominously, the clouds started to split and rip as the sky opened up for all to see…Carrot had done it… She had opened a rift across the entirety of space to some unknown distant place where these aliens were. Carrot looked up in hope as the alien who had convinced her to open up the portal, stepped out, Carrot felt so week at the moment, she could bairly stand, the alien grinned.

“Pore pathetic child….you have just doomed your entire race….for your service…ill let you live to see the end of your pathetic planet…”

And just like that, swarms of aliens with their beetle like wings and their terquise skin and their enteni, holding guns and bladed wepions and even some air ships, came out of the portal and ran for the town. Carrot was in shock once more, she tried to turn and reach out, but when she turned to face the town at the bottom of the village, she simply fell over. Her voice would not come to her and simply came out as a soft squeak of defiance. After a moment or so, she managed to stumble into the secrete entrance that even the aliens couldn’t get into, she clumsily tripped and wobbled and sometimes even tumbled, down the mighty staircase as she made it to the town below. Everything was in chaos, there were people running to put out fires while others tried and failed to fight the aliens, only to get cut down. Carrot looked through the panicked crowd, her mother was fighting like the force warrior she was, her father was trying to organize those who were putting out the fires…but it was not enough…the boat man was a distance away and heading towards the island as fast as he could but even on that small little boat, only a handful of people would be able to make it to safety…of the aliens didn’t kill the old boat driver as well. Once more Carrot looked out over the crowd…she spotted the sea green hair of her friend Iku and when Carrot was about to rush to the others side…she saw her friend cut down before her…there was a dull throb in Carrots heart…as is she too had just been cut away from her short life. Through all the fighting and commotion that was still going on around Carrot…the orange eyed little girl walked over to her friend….that friend who had been hugging her just the day before, that friend who she spent all her time with and grew up with, who she told her deepest, darkest secretes to, that friend who would cause mischif with her and even take the blame with her…that friend…was now dead. Something broke inside of Carrot that night…something that she would not be able to mend for a long…long time….

In one last act of defiance, Carrot watched as some of the people were already rushing to the faerie….and walked towards the mountain…it was almost as if Carrots eyes had become as red as flames instead of that tame orange color. She lifted her arms to the mountain and screamed at the top of her lungs.

“IF WE HAVE TO DIE, I AM TAKING YOU WITH ME!!!”

The earth began to shake, first slowly, but then violently, people started to trip over themselves as they attempted to get to the faerie first, there was an enormous CRACK as the mountain split at the top and immedeatly started to spew lava, it pored over the alien soldures and into the portal where the aliens came from, burning them into an instant red hot death, Carrot urged the volcaino to explode higher and at an even more ferocious rate…until she fell over next to the body of her dead friend….she looked over at Iku with a soft smile, finally allowing the tears to pore down her face in streaks.

“Im sorry….I couldn’t keep my promise…but at least I didn’t let them hurt anyone else…”

She blacked out….that was the last time she saw the island…she had, of course, woken up briefly to find that she was on the boat with a crowd of people…the only survivors…her parents were among them…but why was she there? How was she not dead? She didn’t have much time to think about it before she blacked out again…

Carrots tragic past didn’t end there…over the course of three years…Carrot found that everyone who escaped that island, had forgotten it completely. In those same three years…Carrots mother died…and her father spiraled into despair…in those three years, Carrots father had started to forget that she even existed. But two years after all that…Carrot finally found hope…for there was a rumor floating around…that if you asked the very old sailor known as the ooooold man, to take you to the island…that you would find a ghost there…the ghost was of a teenager girl, she had flowing, curly hair, the color of sea green, she would walk longingly on the beaches as if to call out to someone. Carrot thought….with maybe a small light of hope…maybe it was her…

Carrot asked the old sailor that she had known for a very long time, to take her to the island after 6 long years of being away from it. And at last…as she stepped off the boat, she looked across the tattered and roughly repaired dock, and she saw what she could only assume to be.

“Iku”

Carrot said breathlessly. The girl tilted her head with a slight confused look on her face but smiled anyway, she cleared her throat and began to speak.

“My name is Spirit, I am the protector of this island.”

She smiled brightly and held open her arms.

“Welcome to Young Town”

And just like that…everything was ok again…all the pain had fallen away and Carrot was a young…nieave child again…it would take time…but that was ok…because Carrot had everything she needed now…and she would do everything within her power to make sure that she would never loose it to anyone ever again.

#drabble #this took me 4 houres straight #youd better read it damn it #please?

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