#so i may or may not have finished this ficlet out of spite
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(For Ficlet Frenzy)
Lilia had to go on yet another long mission but not without entrusting his infant son’s safety to Malleus and his fairy godmother Queen Maleficia. Malleus has to tend to his lessons for the afternoon so the queen watches over the baby.
By the time Malleus finishes his lessons and Lilia returns she does not want to part from the baby she grew so fond of- so much so that she has gone full grandmother mode and tries to keep Silver with her.
(Please make this super fluffy and cute!! I need to be nuked with cuteness)
[✐] ficlet frenzy
note: this was written before chapter 7 part 6!
“Malleus. Where is Silver?”
Footsteps echo in the empty hall as Lilia strides down it, heart thumping against his chest as though rattling against jail bars. Even now, so many years later, he cannot help the pinpricks of anxiety that spike his blood at the thought of approaching her Majesty for anything; even if the queen places a great deal of trust in Lilia, continuing to call upon his assistance in spite of his retirement, it is still daunting to stand under her sharp gaze, emerald-green eyes that seem to pierce his very soul.
He’d left Silver in Malleus’ care when leaving for this trip — and to a greater extent, the queen’s as well, for this was her castle, after all.
So how had things escalated to the extent where Malleus was no longer Silver’s primary caretaker?
Before he realises it, he’s reached the end of the hallway. Lilia stares up at the tall oak doors looming over him. For the first time in quite a while, he feels small again, as though he has shrunken to insignificance, his power diluted and severed.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Lilia raises a fist, and knocks three times.
And after a while, he hears it: “You may enter.”
“Your Majesty,” Lilia greets as he pushes open the doors to the old nursery. Once, it had been a space for Malleus, the young prince living in it for many decades until he outgrew his nest and moved into sprawling chambers of his own. But now, a new life has been breathed into it: a cradle takes up the centrepiece of the room, a hand-crafted mobile spinning lazily above it, with dangling charms of dragons circling round and round. The rest of the room is taken up by deceptively simple wooden furniture, minimalistic in their appearance, yet sporting elegant carvings — such as the open toy box Lilia’s eyes flick to, numerous toys spread out across the carpeted-covered floor.
And what a sight it is, to bear witness to the Queen Maleficia, great ruler of Briar Valley, sitting on the floor and cooing at a human infant stacking wooden blocks! She scarcely pays Lilia any mind as he lingers awkwardly in the doorway, instead clapping her hands together as Silver finishes stacking a block. “Oh, how smart you are, my little sunshine!” she praises, reaching to wrap her clawed hands under Silver’s arms — a sight that makes Lilia wince, mind flashing through worst-case scenarios of claws slicing flesh — before lifting him up in the air. “You learn so quickly for a human,” she coos as Silver babbles excitedly, chubby fingers reaching for her horns.
“Ah-ah-ah!” Queen Maleficia raises Silver a little away from her, clicking her tongue. “Naughty, naughty! What have I said about touching my horns, hm, my sweet potato?” It is nigh miraculous that her voice lacks any semblance of anger or irritation, instead flooded with a sickening fondness; to touch the horns of royalty is a blatant breach of boundaries at best, and a crime punishable by death at worst. “I understand that they are quite beautiful,” Maleficia says, voice slicked with pride, “but they are truly sensitive, dear Silver; why not play with this instead?”
He watches as she places Silver down onto the mat before pressing another toy — a wooden dragon littered with scorch marks, making it clear who it used to belong to — into his hands. It is only when Silver is giggling and moving the wooden beast back and forth in the air that Lilia clears his throat, making his presence clear.
The change is instantaneous. As soon as Maleficia lays her eyes on him, her face twists into cool, impassive neutrality, the regal expression of an experienced queen. “Vanrouge,” she greets, her reserved voice a stark contrast to the babbling baby beside her, and her earlier display of sickening sweetness. “So you’ve returned.”
“Your Majesty,” Lilia repeats again. Sweat beads along the back of his neck, but he will not back down; he has to bring his child home, after all. “I thank you and Prince Malleus for taking such good care of Silver in my absence. However, I best be bringing him home now—”
“No.”
He blinks. “I— pardon?”
“Why not stay a while longer, Vanrouge?” Maleficia asks, turning away from him, her face breaking into yet another smitten smile as she reaches for Silver, ruffling his hair as he babbles excitedly at her. Lilia squints; did Silver just call her Malfi?! “There is no rush for you both to return home, is there? Besides, a growing boy like you, my tiny snowball—” She reaches to tickle him, causing Silver to erupt into a giggling fit, tumbling back onto the floor as he squeals excitedly, “—needs excellent food to grow strong and healthy.” Her eyes flick back to Lilia, and he feels pinned to the spot. “Is that not right, Vanrouge?”
“...I could not possibly deny such a generous request, my queen,” Lilia eventually forces out, eyes flicking between Silver and Maleficia.
“Good, good.” With two claps of her hand, Maleficia smiles at him. “I shall see you at dinner then, hm? Do not be late, Vanrouge.”
“I shall not. But… Queen Maleficia—”
“Yes?”
“I would quite like to… spend some time with my child.”
Lilia stares at Silver, silently pleading with him to glance over at Lilia and call out for him, only to be silently betrayed when the infant calls again for “Malfi!” Curses, he thinks, as Maleficia answers the call with a joyful vigour. Silver, how could you…!
“We shall see you at dinner, Vanrouge,” Maleficia answers smoothly, not even looking at him anymore. “Do pardon me for wishing to spend some time with my godson before he leaves, would you?”
And Lilia has no room to reply.
#my writing tag#ficlet frenzy#surprisingly i don't think there's any ch7 spoilers for this#twst#twisted wonderland#twst fanfiction#twst writing#lilia vanrouge#queen maleficia#twst silver#malleus mention but he doesn't show up rip#THIS WAS WRITTEN BEFORE PART 6 DROPPED AUGHGHHGHTHTGHGHFHG#queued posts
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Fanfic writer emoji ask: 🤡 🍦🎯🤗 👀
What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?
You know what, I don't actually remember a specific line. I've laughed a lot with my own crack recaps, if that counts XD but I do have an entire short fic I wrote that I was cackling all through writing it, and it's the one about Hope from OUAT growing into a teenager who likes whump. It was written in a bit of spite but I actually poured my own experience into it and I found it so funny! Considering that angst is my main inspiration, I don't get a lot of chances to laugh while writing my things XD
What's the sweetest fic you've created so far?
I think the one that has the least amount of angst is that ficlet about Rogers and Tilly (while still cursed) "accidentally" spending Christmas together. I really enjoyed writing that one and getting into the feeling of it :)
Have any of your readers accurately guessed major plot points? Care to share which?
I only have two multi-chapters where that would be possible, and though it wasn't something too unexpected, (SPOILERS for Macabre Theme and Variations), I was so excited when I saw people comment they wanted to see Twilight and Yor team up at the end to get the guy!! I was so close to commenting back with a "YES! Read on and you'll see!" but I had to hold back to not spoil it for them, lol.
What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?
For starters, write. Just write your heart out. It may be cringe, it may look silly, it may be out of character. Write it. It's your only way to get better. Experience is the first thing that makes a writer grow and become better, so write your shit. You'll be better before you know it.
Something that isn't discussed much but helped me actually finish the aforementioned multi-chapter: write as the flow goes, and if you can't remember a word or aren't sure about a fact and can't find it within a few seconds, write a bunch of question marks (or whatever kind of symbol will help you find it later with control + F) and keep writing. You might end up spending too much time googling what you wanted and you'll lose track and flow otherwise.
Take an estimate of how much time you need to find the information you're seeking. For example, it takes a couple seconds to find how much an African elephant weighs in average. But if you want to find out how to properly take care of an elephant, you might need some long minutes of research. Find the weight, then add your symbols for the second information.
For me, that was a saviour for writing MTaV. I don't think I would have finished it if I hadn't implemented it. Treat the first draft as it is; a first draft, that you will edit later, so let it have holes and questions (to a certain degree, of course). When the long process of editing starts, you can take your time spending long hours researching because the scenes and dialogues are already written with the flow.
Tell me about an up and coming wip please!
Hm I actually have one for SxF that I should be finishing up. It's short, sad but with a bit of a feelings ending. One hint I can give is that it has a lot to do with Bond :D
Send me an emoji!
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so there's this post @draculcid made a lil while ago that i thought was fuckin ADORABLE, and i wrote a thing. that sat in my drafts for a while lol, but here is the finished product, pls enjoy
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if asked, he honestly couldn't say how he ended up being holly wheeler's babysitter. something to do with steve mentioning to claudia, who mentioned to karen, that billy has a lot of free time lately, and the next thing he knows he's being cornered at melvald's and strong-armed into spending afternoons with the least bratty wheeler child.
ever since she got her new job and apartment and shit, she's needed someone to pick holly up from school, and apparently billy counts as a qualified adult.
the couple hours he has to spend watching the kid aren't awful, holly's alright, but the five minutes of small talk when mrs.wheeler gets back is always awkward as hell. she tries painfully hard to be polite and he hates it.
but he needs the money. it was either this or waiting tables at the 24hr diner, and, shockingly, he's actually more qualified for the babysitting gig.
maybe he's not dad material or anything, but he manages. he had fun bossing the aqua tots around last summer, while it lasted. the young ones are easier to deal with.
though it's truly exhausting sometimes. on the days when his scars ache and it's more noticeable than ever that he isn't as strong as he used to be because he has to keep putting holly down even though he promised her a piggy-back ride.
but on those days he calls steve, because steve is a goddamn blessing.
steve always has pizza money and he lets holly put glittery clips in his hair—something billy doesn't do anymore, not after she got one tangled so deep in his curls he had to go home with it still in there—and he's a good sport when she wants to play pretend.
today she wanted to play house. billy's not entirely sure what that means but it's keeping the kid happy and steve looks ridiculously adorable in the stupid apron she made him wear, so.
billy though, billy likes to think he still has some dignity left, so he's busying himself cleaning up the mess of lego on the living room floor while steve makes an invisible sandwich for holly.
but then holly says, in her quiet little voice, "is daddy coming home now?" and billy pauses, stops with his hand hovering awkwardly in midair and his heart hammering.
he glances at her out of the corner of his eye. awkward conversations about the fact that her mom and dad are divorced now, and what that all means, are definitely not supposed to be part of his babysitting duties.
how would that conversation even go? he's pretty sure she knows about the separation, she has to, she moved away without her dad, they had to have told her something, but—
"i think she means you, big guy," steve supplies, with barely contained amusement.
ah. right. playing house.
he mentally shakes himself, and drops the lego bin on the coffee table before shuffling over to join steve and holly by the little plastic kitchen set. steve is smirking at him, way to smug for the guy who's wearing a frilly apron.
billy plops on the carpet next to steve. "honey, i'm home," he says dryly.
it takes about fifteen minutes for him to completely forget about feeling weird about it all.
in fact, it's disturbingly easy to slip into his role, making moon-eyes at steve and pretending it's because he's acting. he's been careless lately. letting his feelings get all over the place. he never was that subtle around steve, but the weird domesticity of babysitting a kid together gets in his head.
like when steve pokes fun at his make-belief dish washing skills and it's somehow not embarrassing. and it just does things to billy's stupid heart because it doesn't realize they aren't actually married.
"shut up," billy mutters, softly, too soft, warm and not at all threatening. he should feel off-balance but he doesn't.
"is that any way to talk to your wife?" steve can barely say it without grinning.
his big dumb sunshine-y grin is probably what fried billy's brain enough for him to respond with, "aw, sorry, baby," a little too sweetly to be serious, and then—
it's over before he even realizes what he's doing. and he's left sitting there, leaning into steve's space, looking into steve's eyes, wide with shock, searching billy's face, still inches away because steve hasn't moved or reacted or...
"claire from art class says boys aren't supposed to kiss each other," holly whispers.
billy jerks backward, ending up a foot further from steve than he was before, trying to pretend his heart isn't racing and he isn't struggling to breathe, and his goddamn lips aren't tingling with the phantom sensation of steve's mouth pressed to his, breath mingling, a soft sound just...
he curls his fingers into the carpet at his sides and stares, unseeing, at a stain on the knee of his jeans.
before he can even fathom saying a damn word, steve cuts in with a vehement, "claire from art class is full of shit," and billy startles, turning to look at him. there's a set to his jaw and a spark of something in his eye, determined and steady despite the flush on his cheeks.
it's a really inconvenient moment for billy to get distracted by how fucking gorgeous steve is.
holly lets out a nervous giggle. "steeve...that's a swear."
"ah, fu—uhh...um. right." steve pushes his bangs away from his face and sighs. a couple locks stick out awkwardly when his hand falls away, and it makes billy's fingers itch. "listen, holly. it's not nice to tell people they aren't allowed to love someone—"
"you and billy are in love?" she gasps, her eyes huge and round, flicking between the two of them.
steve turns impossibly pinker, mouth opening and closing silently. billy's heart leaps.
he bites his lip, holding back a smile and trying to stamp down on the bubbling, hopeful warmth in his chest. he needs to do something. right now. something other than stare at steve. he runs a hand down his face, blows out a breath, and tries to get his shit together.
"alright, holly, steve here is gonna make us some hot chocolate, with extra marshmallows, and you are gonna forget this ever happened, deal?"
she glances between billy and steve with a furrowed brow. "and a piggyback ride?"
billy snorts. "sure, kid, whatever you want."
she grins, suddenly, and nods. "okay."
"billy, you sure you're feeling up to that?" steve murmurs. when billy turns to look at him he's a lot closer than expected. his breath catches, the irritated retort on the tip of his tongue evaporates.
"yeah, i..." his gaze wanders down a little, touching, briefly, on steve's mouth before he snaps his eyes back upward. "i'm fine."
steve's hand inches towards his on the carpet between them, fingertips brushing billy's knuckles. holly's staring at them, billy can see her out of the corner of his eye. the scrutiny is setting his teeth on edge but he doesn't pull away. "just. don't push yourself, okay?"
billy scoffs. "yeah, yeah."
and then steve kisses his cheek.
fucking. kisses his cheek.
he doesn't linger, he's sauntering off to the kitchen before billy can even fucking blink. it's brief enough that billy wonders if he imagined the sudden warm pressure of steve's lips against his skin, the way steve's eyes were all lit up and fond and just that little bit defiant, like he was daring billy to say something about it.
they'll talk about it, he's sure. later. billy's a horrifying mix of ecstatic and absolutely terrified. he's shit at talking about his feelings, and so is steve. it's going to be a goddamn shitshow, but...
but still. he has a good feeling about it.
holly's even quieter than usual when she scoots over to sit next to billy, "you love steve?"
"thought we were gonna forget about that, wheeler." he glances down at her. there's nothing but innocent curiosity on her face. he sighs. bites his lip. "...yeah. yeah i do."
#harringrove#steve harrington#billy hargrove#holly wheeler#stranger things#a raven's writing desk#saw someone's anon trash talking the idea of billy and steve babysitting holly#on my dash today#so i may or may not have finished this ficlet out of spite
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Not sure if you know him!! But Alpha-17?? Full of possible inspo?? He's an Alpha ARC so would probs be Broad As Hell and just... All muscle? (I usually think power-lifter/strongman?)
So handing you the idea of him just sitting there with all that BDE, working on reports or something, while you try and entice him back to your shared quarters? Maybe some uh... Cockwarming and teasing ensues??
ALPHA-17 MY BELOVED i know i've never written for him but the concept of him is just so fucking delicious. also he has BDE - big dick energy AND big daddy energy. so we're running with that i have decided.
Y'all this is filthiest fucking filth [affectionate] but I thought to myself... if you're not using sundays to write shit that would make you burst into flame if ever you stepped foot inside a church, what are you even doing.
This was ✨conceived✨ to 'Big Poppa' by The Notorious B.I.G. and that really tells you everything you need to know.
Send me spicy asks, I'm writing 5(ish) sentence ficlets!
Warnings:
daddy kink, cockwarming, hella praise, dirty talk, plugged pussy, cumplay of sorts, fullness kink more than a size kink, somno mention
!!! NSFW/18+/Minors DNI !!!
"Please?" you plead, your fingers dancing along Alpha's broad shoulders. "Come on, I'm tired, and I don't want to go to bed alone."
"You'll have to. I need to finish up these reports." He doesn't even look up, squinting his eyes and lightly tapping the bridge of his nose, as he always does when he is tired. Fine. Heavier weaponry seems to be needed to convince him. Surreptitiously, you tug your top down until your tits spill over just ever so slightly - enough that it could be accidental. Your words, though, can not be mistaken for an accident.
"Please, daddy."
Alpha's hand freezes, hovering above the holopad.
"What did you just say, ad'ika?"
You know he heard you perfectly well. Ad'ika is reserved for playtime only - it's his unobtrusive way to consent, to let you know that in spite of whatever he may say, he is down to play if you want.
"I said I want you to take me to bed, daddy."
Alpha looks at you, eyes burning, before looking back at his holopad. His fingers twitch in his lap.
"You know I can't do that. You know I have reports left, I told you it'd be a long night. You insisted on staying." He raises his head, and once again you are struck by just how broad he is. He fills out the entire chair he sits in - broad shoulders, a chest so muscular it seems to nearly blow the seams of his undershirt, thick legs that can barely be contained by the width of the standard issue chair.
You slide onto his lap, facing him, your legs spread wide by his sizable thighs as you run your fingers through his salt and pepper beard.
"I wanted to stay with you. I just- I thought you'd be done by now."
"I nearly am," he sighs and rubs his face. "I'm tired too, baby girl. Can't wait to take you to bed, to relax and just fucking... bury my cock inside you. Fall asleep like that if you want to."
Your mouth falls open at Alpha's words - he knows exactly how much you love that.
"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, I want that, please, daddy."
"Mhm, just a little while longer," he hums. You can feel his cock pressing against you though, and without a second thought, you grind against him. Faster than you can think, his hands are on your hips, digging into your flesh to keep you still. "That's cheating, ad'ika."
"'s not cheating," you whine. "I want you- fucking need you. Please. Right now."
There is a pause. Alpha's hands slide down to your ass to knead the soft flesh while he assesses the situation.
"I suppose," he says slowly. "I suppose I could let you sit on my cock while I finish this last report. If you promise to be good for me."
"Yes." Your answer comes so quick that you nearly choke on it. "Yes, gods, I'll be good for you, daddy, I promise."
"I know you will. Daddy's good little girl, aren't you?" Alpha chuckles lowly when you whimper at his words. He lifts you off his lap effortlessly to tug down his trousers, then waves at you to straddle him again. You hastily discard all your garments, thanking every god in the galaxy that you are wearing loosely fitted clothig tonight so it is a quick process. But as your panties slide down your legs, you remember something. Something you had banished to the backwaters of your mind so you could function, but that is important to your current situation.
"You know you can't take me without some prep, hmm, ad'ika?" Alpha seems to have read your mind. His voice is a bit strained, and you can hear his breath hitch when you press your soaking core against his hard cock. Your cheeks heat up under his intense gaze.
"I'm- I'm still wearing the plug," you admit quietly. You swear his eyes go darker when you say the words, and you think back to this morning - you face down, ass up on the bed while he pushed the plug inside your fluttering pussy right after he'd fucked you. To keep all my cum right where it belongs, ad'ika, he had said. That alone had nearly made you come again. Throughout the day, you have gotten used to the feeling, and tried to forget about it because you could not focus on anything else while you were thinking about his cum still filling your belly.
"Fuck," Alpha groans. His fingers dance across your bare stomach, pressing down gently before they glide through your pussy and tap the plug currently nestled inside you. "Fuck... you are, ad'ika. Why haven't you-"
"You didn't say I could take it out," you defend yourself. Alpha chuckles at your tone and soothes you with his hand on your back.
"I know, baby girl. I know. I should have remembered. You're such a good girl for me, so fucking perfect just for me. You could have asked, though, you know that, right?"
"Mhm," you mumble. "But.. I liked it. Liked feeling you inside me."
Alpha's fingers press harder against the plug and you feel his cock twitch beneath you.
"You're gonna kill me, little love."
The nickname makes you shiver. Alpha's chest shakes against yours as he laughs.
"Oh, you liked that, didn't you? My sweet little love. My perfect girl, I'm gonna take proper care of you later, but for now... you wanna take out that plug for me so I can watch you take my fat cock? Mhm, there we go, good girl... Look at you, leaking all over me. You're gonna make a fucking mess of me, who's gonna clean that up?"
"Sorry, daddy." You smile. You know he's not really mad, you can tell by his tone and the twinkle in his eye.
"That's alright, ad'ika. I like it when you're messy for me, especially when it's my cum spilling out of you." He gently pushes at you until you lean back, granting him a perfect view of where his pearly white cum drips out of your gaping cunt. "Kept daddy's cum inside you all day for me... such a good girl, fuck. But now I think it's about time I fill you up again."
#ficlet collection#spice smuggling#alpha-17#alpha 17#alpha 17 x reader#alpha 17 x you#alpha-17 legends#galas drabbles#nsft
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Into the Light ficlet: Candles; M Will-o’-the-Wisp x F Human
For @thelampades. Just ‘cause. No reason. None at all. 😙🎶🥳🧁💖💖💖
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The rain blew down in sheets, rattling the windows in their casements hard enough to send the cat scurrying to hide in the workshop. Outside the cottage door, the wind howled.
You’d not be faring out of doors today.
The sky had been sheeting for days and the road was like to be a muddy quagmire, and besides, there wasn’t much you needed in town. The only place you had a mind to visit was mum’s house, but you weren’t willing to traverse the storm all the way around town—knee-deep in mud, you’d be soaked to the skin, and you’d have to endure the foul conditions again on the return trip. The only other way, of course, was the forest path, but the forest was out of the question.
You missed the shelter of the pines and the path you knew so well, full of familiar landmarks where you'd spent so many hours playing as a child...but the Autumn Queen still sat her throne, and would do so for several weeks more.
Far better to stay indoors, where it was bright and warm; where you could bundle in your favorite quilt and sip your favorite tea, sweetened with your favorite honey, and wait for nightfall to carry away this day. The thought of this particular day ending was cheering, and you turned from the wash basin, setting the kettle on the stovetop. You quilt was upstairs, and you marched off to fetch it determindley. No one would pull you from your determined mope, and chores could wait.
From the upstairs window you watched a lamp in the distance gutter in the wind before extinguishing fully. The buildings in town you were able to glimpse from behind the protective circle of hawthorne were dark, although puffs of smoke came from the chimneys. Hearthfires but no lamps; wisely conserving their oil for the coming winter. You turned the lamps up once you returned to the ground floor, heedless of the concern.
Your home was never without light, after all.
You couldn’t technically remember if it rained every year on your birthday, as you couldn’t remember most things, but each wet lash against the cottage stones seemed to echo in your bones, and you were certain that it had. A non-stop deluge, steel grey skies, and the rumble of thunder in the cauldron of the hills, matching your melancholy—it felt comfortingly familiar, and if you closed your eyes you could almost smell the warmth of something baking, a bright flash of ozone, the chill of a chain slipped ‘round your neck—memories of birthdays past, all buffeted by the same storm.
You didn’t like the day, regardless of the weather. Birthdays were nothing but a reminder after all, of promises made to yourself and not kept, of plans made and not followed through on, of all the things you wanted to do and hadn’t. Now it was a reminder that you continued to age, while your handsome husband would not.
Although, you were forced to admit, staring broodingly into the storm, he did an admirable job disappearing into the background of the town. Your own mother had squinted in thought, laughing as she admitted she couldn’t actually remember when the lamplighter had been hired by the village, just that he’d somehow always been there.
“But that’s silly! Of course he hasn’t, it must only have been a few years. Perhaps he resembles the fellow before...oh, but not nearly as handsome as your Jack.”
Yes, he wore his skin well, but no amount of russet scruff on his jaw could hide the mischievous sparkle of his eyes, while yours would dull as the years trudged on. The tea kettle whistled, and you gave it a sour look for interrupting your mental grousing.
There had been a night, some weeks back, when you’d been unable to sleep. The wind was still and moonlight illuminated the bedclothes, and the angular planes of his face—high cheekbones and sharp jaw and long, tapering ears—were far more interesting than sleep. A crusted weal sliced around his ear, the latest gift from your least favorite member of the high court, one of many he’d received, and you’d diligently dabbed it with a homemade salve until the bright red wound had scabbed. Long lashes fanned across his white skin, fluttering as if he could feel the weight of your gaze, opening slowly. His smile was languid, revealing glinting fangs, and his stormy eyes crinkled, pinning you to the spot.
“Fancy meeting you here, missy.”
You’d grinned in spite of yourself, running a fingertip over the nearly-healed lash. You hadn’t heard him come returning that night and hadn’t felt him slip into the bed beside you, but you’d been glad all the same. “This mended up well,” you murmured, tapping the scab.
“I have an excellent in-house nursemaid.”
You’d scowled at his nonchalance. His face was beginning to resemble a patchwork quilt of silvery scars, the physical evidence of his inability to control his cheek. “Well, she would very much appreciate it if she could be given a holiday. All you need to do is control that mouth of yours.”
You’d witnessed it the very first time he’d brought you to the court, to present you to the queen and announce your recent nuptials.
Memory was strange and foreign and unfamiliar, but since the day you’d wedded the lamplighter, two years prior, you remembered every moment of every day. Your mind was uncomfortably full, crowded with the minutiae of idle gossip shared with Enid and the butcher’s row with Mrs. Leamhnach last Wednesday. You remembered the heat of your husband’s mouth and the press of his body against yours, the relentless hammer of his hips as he held your leg hitched over his hip in his work room, the way the ladder on the wall had thumped and rattled in a dangerous syncopation as you were fucked against the wall...you remembered the warm huff of his breath against your neck in the bed you shared and the cloudy storm of his tempest eyes as he propped his head with a long-fingered hand, leaning on his elbow and smirking down on you as you gazed up from the pillow.
You remembered that night perfectly: the press of willowy bodies and the hum of pixies darting through the air. You’d been afraid of the night gaunts who had loomed on the outskirts of the gathering, heard the rustle of wings and the whisper of musical voices as you passed, clinging to Jack’s arm.
You remembered the black scales and long, fair hair of the knight at the queen’s side, his mocking chuckle as Glánthan was called forth, pulling you with him for the first time.
Her crown was a twisting mass of antlers and leaves, the hollowed out shell of an abandoned bird’s nest and branches set in shining gold, gleaming against her fiery red hair. Skin like alabaster with lips like fat, ripe cherries; you were certain would never forget the way her head cocked curiously, examining you as if you were a strange insect brought before her by her constituent as you fell into a clumsy curtsy...just as you would never forget the way her beauty fell away as the moon shifted, her perfect, white complexion replaced with a death’s head, still shimmering golden.
“These vows were exchanged after the turn?” she questioned, her delicate brows furrowed in consternation. “In the aestival time?”
“That is against our laws, lampman,” the doll-faced knight sneered, loosening the gem-encrusted blade at his hip. “Which you well know.”
“A crime for which you’ve been punished before.” The Queen’s forehead still scrunched, her face a moue of displeasure.
Glánthan spread his hands in an expansive gesture, fixing the queen with a winsome smile. “Then it would do no good to dole out the same sentence, your grace.”
The blade was drawn. Long, dagger-like teeth winked in the moonlight as the knight advanced down the steps, his smile a terrifying, gruesome thing. “I’m going to cut out your tongue for that,” he’d chuckled, “and perhaps that might curb your disrespect.”
The queen’s laughter had been a delighted tinkle, a crystal bell carrying on the still air, the sound mirrored in shrill tones by the harpy above. “Darling one, you are terribly dramatic. Come, sit with me and leave the night wisp alone. Lampbearer, present to me your new bride.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed,��� you’d grumbled, tracing another one of the silvery scars as he shifted against the pillow.
“I’m not. I fill a role, an invaluable one, and if that prancing twat wants to open my throat, the Queen will have to replace me, which I assure you, she does not want to do. A herald would have to be sent out to all the realm seeking a replacement, they would need to be vetted and trained...have you ever met one of the Queen’s heralds? The only part of their jobs those satyrs are committed to is fucking every lass and lad from the Giant’s Pass to the bells of Mag Mell, and her royalship knows it. You don’t need to worry about me, wife. I’m irreplaceable.”
Your shoulders had been shaking beneath the covers by the time he’d finished his ridiculous monologue, your laughter wheezing against his neck. “Do you mean to tell I owe my gratitude to a pack of libidinous satyrs for being the only thing keeping your giant mouth from getting you killed?”
“May their cocks stand tall through every moon,” he sighed, reaching over you to lift the glass of water you had on the bedside table in a toast, and you shook in laughter again.
It was several moments before silence more claimed the moonlit room, and you’d pressed your fingers into his unruly hair. “Is it always this easy?”
You hadn’t been certain where the question had come from, nor why you’d given it voice, but it was too late to take it back and you did want to know. Despite their small size, the weight of that vial of seeds pressed heavily upon your mind. Jack said nothing for a long while, one of his cool fingertips ghosting over your skin.
“No.”
There was no time to feel the weight crush you, for his lips had pressed yours then, familiar and sweet, cinnamon and honey and mead, kerosene and the damp air of the bog. Your life had gone on as it always had—the same village, the same friends and market and baker and laundress—your mum was close and you still sold your herbs...and Jack had fit into the landscape of your life seamlessly; the thought of it not being this way twisted your heart.
“But that doesn’t matter, sweet. It doesn’t matter who you are...I’ll always find you.”
His lips had found yours, shifting you above him until you were splayed over his hips, and each rise and fall of your body sent a bolt of lightning down your spine; each roll of your hips increasing the thunder of your heart, and you’d wondered, as you tightened around his cock, a shudder moving through you, if the lightning tree was thudding with the same euphoria.
Sipping your tea now, you turned away from the gusting rain at the window. This day did nothing but harken the end of another year of this easy life, and it was nothing to celebrate. Settling in your chair by the fire, you wondered, not for the first time, what you would look like in your next life, if he had preferred the buxom scullery maid to your present form, if he had a favorite you.
He had missed your birthday the first autumn after you’d wed him, disappearing into the woods for several days after mumbling about quotas and a poxy troll book keeper, kissing you on the forehead and whistling his familiar tune as the door swung shut behind him. You’d made no mention of the significance of the date, and wished that you could make yourself forget it as cleanly as you forgot other things. Perhaps he won’t come home today either, and you can forget about the whole miserable mess.
You’d never been especially lucky, and evidently being another year older wasn’t going to change things.
The workshop at the back of the cottage was full of the tools of his trade. Ladders of varying heights hung from the walls, drums of kerosene, hooks and poles, glass globes and brass fixtures. When the plank door opened, the wind would rattle through the entire space, shaking the ladders and whistling through the loft. You heard the familiar series of thumps on the wall, followed by a familiar whistle, despite the dreadful weather.
“It’s raining sideways,” he announced cheerfully, heedless of the rivulets of water that tracked down his face, disappearing into the soaked collar of his roughspun, “and cold as the Brumal Queen’s teats on Saturnalia. That brownie had best have a hot bath ready, if he wants to skip a beating.”
As ever, you couldn’t help but laugh. Your life would never be your own, but it wasn’t as if you had been doing anything particularly grand with it in the first place.
“I seem to remember the brownie evicting itself when you tried to make it dance for you.”
You’d never tire of his smile, the mischievous glint in his eye or his wide hands encircling your waist, but you didn't expect it in that moment, squeaking when he hauled you up and over his shoulder. Up the short staircase, dropping you with a bounce to the bed, you laughed as he shucked his wet clothes in a heap on the floor. You had no complaints when he pulled you beneath the covers, despite the icy coldness of his skin. Pressing your face to his broad chest, you inhaled the familiar, damp scent of his skin, willing yourself to shake off the gloom that had enveloped you all week as this day approached. It’s almost over and you didn’t even need to acknowledge it.
“Who has offended my wife, and how severely do I need to kill them?”
Your eyes flew open, only to find the tip of his nose practically touching your own. It was odd sometimes, the way his rough day-to-day voice—Jack of the lanterns, known to all in the village—slid into the smooth spill white satin, a fae ring in every syllable, in the space of a few words. At that moment, he was poised on the knife-tip between the two and you shivered.
“If you think I haven’t noticed, you do me a serious disservice, sweet. Name the miscreant, and they’ll never draw another breath.”
“There’s no one—”
“Wife.” His eyes had narrowed into an equally familiar scowl, and you pushed down your laughter, knowing his ego would not abide it. “Do not keep secrets from me.” He threw the covers back dramatically, ignoring your protests. “A dishonor on you is a dishonor on me, and no one shall cross me and live to see the next—”
“It’s my birthday!”
His bluster went silent, eyes narrowing to stormy slits.
“My-my birthday, that means it’s the anniversary of—”
“I know what it means, sweet. I’m only trying to understand why I’m only learning of it now.”
“Because I don’t like celebrating it,” you grumbled, struggling to pull the heavy bedcover over you once more.
“This is a day of celebration! A revel! We should be feasting and drinking, games and dancing and…”
Jack’s eyes narrowed again, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, the calculation of days, the time of year he’d stood with you beneath the lightning tree. You sighed. Memory truly was a burden. “You were away last year,” you supplied, squeaking when he pinned you.
His eyes were a swirling storm: grey and blue, shot through with a flare of light, and his fangs glinted as he glared down. “This is my favorite day, sweet.”
It was strange, you reflected...you’d always loved the vernal season with its snowdrops and fresh shoots of green, soft spring rain and fair afternoons, fledgling birds and lambs at every farmstead, a promise that the earth was returning to life after her cold winter slumber; and the autumnal months as well—spiced cider and neeps swimming in butter, bonfires and wood smoke and the crunch of leaves, crisp air that held just a whisper of the cold to come. You’d disliked the seasonal extremes, dreaded the icy stasis of the brumal months and the increased workload of summer’s markets, preferring the rosy in-betweens.
Now you knew better.
You longed for the dead of winter, drifts of snow and ice and gloom; for the high sun of the summer months, despite your fair skin; for mornings spent in the garden, your cuticles permanently crusted with black earth as you harvested your herbs, and long afternoons at the market table.
It was a time when the Unseelie Court held no sway over the world—your mischievous husband would lose a bit of his sparkle, but also a touch of his venom, and most importantly: the childlike queen with the crystal laughter and her most beloved consort were absent, and the forest path was clear. You could return to the tree-shaded paths together and watch the holly nymphs dance in the moonlight; you would feel sharp claws at your waist and the flick of a whip-thin tail against your back, and you couldn't wait to walk hand-in-hand through the wood…
But you would miss this Jack as well. Easily excitable, full of pique and hubris and amusement, always unpredictable. You didn’t have a favorite Jack, you considered.
“What happens when I grow older?” you blurted as he gripped your wrists, high forehead creasing. “Will you remember this version of me when I’m gone? Does it even matter who I am?”
You hadn’t planned on tears, but they made an appearance despite your wishes as you were rolled, pressed to his chest once more.
“This day is a celebration of you,” he murmured into your hair. “I remember each and every one of you, sweet, and I love each of you. Haven’t I always taken excellent care of you?”
“But-”
“It doesn’t matter who you are because you’re always you, pet. You always have the same fire, the same spark...you never change. You always follow the light into the wood. Now...how are we celebrating such an important day?”
“We’re doing it,” you mumbled stubbornly, ignoring his chuckle. “I don't want to dance or feast, and I’ve seen what happens at your revels.”
He hummed, tapping your nose and tugging your curls. “Fine then. But the post revel celebration belongs to me, and we do what I want.” You smiled, knowing by hook or by crook, he would get his way, and if you didn't want to be tricked, it was easier to agree.
You were left alone when he vaulted form the bed, moving with unnatural fae speed, returning a moment later with a small spice cake bearing a single candle. “You can’t go to bed without making a wish,” he announced, “and on the morrow, I’m in charge.”
You would find out tomorrow, you supposed, what the post-revel celebration would be.
#this is not a birthday fic#it's just a random one shot#honest#exophilia#fae boyfriend#fae#fae folk#into the light#will-o'-the wisp#jack of the lanterns#bright and shining
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Tag- you’re it!
Fic Writer Review
Repost, don’t reblog!
Thank you for tagging me, @enigma-the-mysterious, @silvermillenniumqueenneptune, @bbcfandomsuniverse, @procrastinatorproject
How many works do you have on AO3?
20
(I have no idea why this keeps showing up so big, it's normal font jfc)
What’s your total AO3 word count?
(Why are you making me do math? I suck at math! I could totally make something up and no one would notice.)
Ahem. 154,812. Honestly.
How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?
4 fandoms:
24 (those aren’t on AO3, so no need to go looking)
The Musketeers
Cormoran Strike
Star Trek Picard
What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
In Blood and Silence you Speak the Truth
Whumptober 2020
Trial by Fire
Leap
Busted
Do you respond to comments, why or why not?
Unless RL forcefully intervenes, I always respond. I love it when a whole discussion ensues. And I squeak embarrassingly when readers quote their favorite lines back at me! 😊
What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?
I think it's my very first Strike fic, Happy New Year or The Truth Hiding at the Bottom of a Bottle. Still glad I was welcomed so warmly by the Strike community on AO3 in spite of introducing myself with drunken sadness and angst.
Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you've written?
Crossovers aren't my cup of tea. I rarely read them and I've never thought about writing one.
Have you ever received hate on a fic?
Not hate, but, weirdly, I seem to attract stans who will vehemently correct me on a character's/actor's height and why their fave is definitely the tallest of them all.
Do you write smut? If so what kind?
I'm not a big fan of graphic smut. But I do like erotic writing that's sensual and poetic and elegant. Use the words "cock" or "clit", and I'm out of there. But if you tell me about someone's breath ghosting over naked skin or lips igniting a fire, I'm in.
Since that's the kind of "smut" I like to read, I've tried to write it, twice, and the outcomes were Leap for the Strike fandom and Sacrilege for The Musketeers. Oh, and I keep forgetting Surrender, which was my very first Musketeers ficlet and is actually a bit kinky, even if that's not the point of the story.
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not as far as I know.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
Again, not as far as I know. In pre-AO3 days, I translated a handful of my own 24 fics from English into German for a German fansite, but it was hard and felt clumsy. Which means translators have my highest respect!
Have you ever co-written a fic before?
No, I haven't.
What's your all time favorite ship?
I don't have an all time favorite ship. Right now, it's Strike and Robin in the Cormoran Strike fandom and Aramis and Queen Anne in The Musketeers, but there have been others (Tony and Michelle from 24, ah, I'm looking at you!) and there will be others in the future.
What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?
Echo, most likely. I still want to get back to it, but a) there's not much interest in this particular story and b) it triggers my The Man in the Iron Mask PTSD every time I try to continue writing it. It'd be a shame, tough, since it's a story dear to my heart. We'll see.
What are your writing strengths?
I've been told I'm particularly good at writing whump and h/c, and I think my action writing is better than I think. And I believe I'm good at catching someone's characteristics and putting them into words.
What are your writing weaknesses?
Too much detail and wordiness (see this post, lol). And I'm just not good at coming up with a plot, mapping it out and planning ahead where I want to go with a story. My fics happen as I write, my characters have a mind of their own, my plots are prone to taking U-turns, and it often makes my stories feel like patchwork.
What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?
Short phrases or single words are fine, imho, but unless you're really familiar with the language, you should keep your fingers off it. Also, scrolling all the way to the bottom for a translation pulls me out of a fic as a reader. My take is using only words or phrases the reader will catch the gist of, even if they don't actually know the language.
What was the first fandom you wrote for?
24, back in the Stone Age when AO3 didn't exist yet. And, if I'm entirely honest, I may have written Riptide fanfic into my school books back in the 80's when the internet wasn't invented yet, but nobody except myself ever read those stories, so I don't think that counts. (And yes, I am that old; get over it.)
What's your favorite fic you've written?
I don't really have a favorite fic, but In Blood and Silence you Speak the Truth will always hold a special place in my heart. It was my first really long fanfic, I made new friends over it and it really was the story that established me as a writer on AO3.
Whoa, that got out of hand pretty quickly. Like I said: My weakness is wordiness...
Tagging @lulacat3, @hobbeshalftail3469, @vgriffindor, @bluerobinwrites @cavanaughpark09 and whoever wants to play!
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More Untamed ficlets when I should be sleeping, yay!
Madame Yu hated the boy.
But if she were inclined to be fair, which she usually isn't, she would have to admit that it wasn't because of anything the boy himself did. No, she hated the rumors that his presence sparked, that her husband would disrespect her enough to have an affair with a woman who had rejected him. She hated the way that despite her best efforts, her children regarded him as a sibling. But most of all, she hated the way her husband looked upon the boy with more tenderness than he did upon his own children. Her own children.
It was far too late to get rid of him. Now that he had developed a golden core, to toss him out without teaching him how to properly develop it would be worse than negligence. An improperly developed core could lead to overloaded meridians, causing weakness in the body later in life. So no, she couldn't just kick him out.
But perhaps she could make use of him in another way.
Her maids packed efficiently, as they always have. The boy was training, and as such it was nothing for Yinzhu to sneak in and put a change of clothes in a bag for him. He would not need much. As Madame Yu wrote a note to her daughter, to avoid straining her constitution with worry, Jinzhu got the boat ready. Jiang Fengmian received no such note. He could pace a hole in the floor for all she cared.
By the time Madame Yu walked onto the dock, the boat was prepared and her maids were seated primly, a confused, sulking and soaking wet Wei Ying between them. She raised her eyebrow. Yinzhu said, "He was struggling, so I put him in the lake until he cooled off."
"I told you I could walk by myself," Wei Ying groused. "You didn't need to carry me."
Madame Yu's exact order had been for Yinzhu to pick up Wei Ying from training when they were ready to go. If she decided to interpret her orders entirely literally, Madame Yu was not going to take that from her. Especially since she had also ordered her maids to mind Wei Ying and keep him from annoying her as much as possible. They should get to have some fun.
The journey was peaceful. The river was slow this time of year, so the trip upriver was quick and not turbulent. Wei Ying ran to and fro on the boat but, largely due to Jinzhu and Yinzhu's efforts, stayed away from the shaded pavilion Madame Yu sat under. He fell into the water twice. Gradually, the river narrowed as tributaries branched off, and the water became the swift, clear white waters Madame Yu knew best, and the disciples driving the boat were forced to put down their bamboo poles and use talismans to propel the boat instead.
Finally, they stopped. Meishan Yu had one dock for trading, situated on a slow moving canal dug for that exact purpose. The rest of the river was too fast for any boat to stay docked for long and ran as wild and free as the people who lived along it. The disciples were given their orders, to wait for Madame Yu's return, and then Madame Yu and her maids took their charge into the mountains.
The hall of her grandmother was grand and old, although not as old as the woman herself. It was not a sect headquarters, not technically, but it was where most of the juniors were trained before they were sent into the wilds to complete their lessons.
Her grandmother sat in the central chair on the dais, with Madame Yu's twin elder sisters on either side. Madame Yu stopped a respectful distance away. Jinzhu and Yinzhu retreated to the sides of the hall. They would not be needed here. At her side, Wei Ying fell to his knees and pressed his forehead against the floor, as she had instructed him. Madame Yu bowed. "Popo. Da-jie. Er-jie."
"Ziyuan." Da-jie stood at her grandmother's nod, and took three steps forward, so Madame Yu was addressing her directly. She was the head of Meishan Yu. It was only right. "Why have you come here?"
She knew already. Madame Yu had sent a letter ahead. But now it was time for Madame Yu to make her case. "I have come to have this child trained as a Pearl." Beside her, Wei Ying gasped. She had not told him of the reason she was bringing him here. It was not his business. Wisely, he said nothing.
Da-jie sniffed. "You have two Pearls, Ziyuan. To have more is greedy."
"Not for myself. For my son."
Er-jie laughed. She had not approved of Ziyuan's marriage, but she had not had a voice at the time. "Your son is Jiang. Only Yu may have Pearls."
"My son is half Yu. The blood of the steppe runs through his veins as it does mine." He was not much of a Yu, to be fair. His anger was as quick as the river that rushed through the wilds, but he was timid in his decisions, too soft and slow to deviate from the path carved before him. He was like the slow rivers of Yunmeng.
Perhaps he should come here for training as well.
Da-jie considered. Madame Yu knew it would not be a hardship for her to train Wei Ying. The training for a Pearl was far more intensive than for a disciple, but Wei Ying had already shown a knack for learning and adapting quickly. And it would be a change of pace for Da-jie, who changed the training schedule weekly to keep from getting bored. Training a Pearl would keep her entertained for a while.
Slow as the sun setting behind the mountain, a smile crept over Da-jie's face. "One Pearl for half a Yu. Very well, Ziyuan. Shanzhu. Fengzhu." At her call, Da-jie's Pearls came forward. "Take this out into the field and test him."
Shanzhu grabbed Wei Ying by the back of his robes and hauled him to his feet. He looked upon her with eyes wide. "Madame Yu?"
She did not owe him an explanation. He owed her sect his life and she was going to ensure that life would be a useful one. But something in his gaze made her soften. She did not owe him an explanation. But for most of his life, he had not had a home. And now she was taking from him what her husband had promised would always be his. So Madame Yu said, "you may return to Lotus Pier once you have finished your training."
Wei Ying did not get a chance to respond, as Shanzhu pulled on his arm and dragged him away. But he looked determined rather than frightened.
Er-jie watched as they left. Then she slung an arm around her younger sister's shoulders. "Well. While you're here, why don't we renegotiate our trade contracts? I would love to take even more chilis and lotus silk from you."
"Xiao-Yan." Popo stood and took Ziyuan's hands in her own. "Welcome back, Xiao-Yuan. Come. You shall have lunch and tell me of my grandchildren, and then you will explain why they haven't visited me in four years."
"Yes Popo." Lunch was delicious, and almost as hot as she preferred it to be.
The trip home was quick and quiet, especially with Wei Ying no longer on the boat. When she got home, she was pleased to see that a-Li had not told her father where Wei Ying was, as she had requested. A-Cheng was grumpy but not worried, so she had told him, but Fengmian was in a state of panic. He clearly hadn't played enough attention to his children to see that they were calm.
He was not pleased when she told him where Wei Ying was. But in the end, he did not have a leg to stand on. As the Lady of Yunmeng Jiang, she had final say on which disciples she trained personally and which she did not. If she decided to outsource the training of a disciple to another sect, that was her business. Additionally, she could guarantee that Wei Ying would be fed, clothed, and housed while he was gone, which is what he had been promised when Fengmian had acquired him.
A-Cheng and a-Li both spent the fall and spring in Meishan for the two years after that. The year after, Wei Ying returned as Tiezhu and received Wuxian as a courtesy name, the same day a-Cheng received Wanyin.
Wei Wuxian had used his time in Meishan well, and it did not take him long to catch up with the other juniors. Fengmian named him head disciple, probably to spite Madame Yu, but even she had to admit that he had the skills for it. Wei Wuxian was better even than some of his seniors.
Fengmian stopped praising Wei Wuxian for his skills when the boy stopped reacting well to them. In Meishan, pretty words were meaningless, as ephemeral as the clouds in the sky. Fengmian had never understood that in all the years they'd been married.
Wei Wuxian was stronger than her son. He always had been, and he always would be. Madame Yu had always known this. But now, he was a weapon for her son to wield, a sword to pierce his enemies or a shield to take the blows meant for him. Now, Wei Wuxian's strength was Jiang Wanyin's strength.
Madame Yu watched her son grumble at his laughing Pearl, as a-Li fed them baozi. Her own Jinzhu brought her some more tea while Yinzhu stood at her shoulder.
Her son would always be protected. Her daughter too, if Madame Yu read Wei Wuxian correctly. And this, this was something she could be content with.
***
Madame Yu gets Jinzhu and Yinzhu (gold pearl and silver pearl), so why not Jiang Cheng, I ask myself at an hour past my bedtime? Tiezhu means iron pearl, but the (very brief, very sleep deprived) research I did said that 铁 tie also means weapon, unshakeable, determined, strong, and close, as in "always close to Jiang Cheng". I thought it fit but I might disagree with myself in the morning.
Oh, and Shanzhu means mountain pearl and Fengzhu means summit pearl. Probably. Feel free to correct me if those are wrong
#Untamed#mdzs#Wei Wuxian#Madame Yu#Yu Ziyuan#wwx#Don't get me wrong this still isn't a great relationship for yzy and wwx#and it's not great for wwx's self sacrificial tendencies#like at all#this isn't really a fixit in that canon events will be better#or maybe they will idk I just work here#but it's better for both yzy and wwx#and also! a better use of resources!#Come on yzy you have an entire person here ready to throw his life away for your children!#You gotta focus that energy#Anyways the kids go to Gusu in a few months and wwx is just as much of a disaster as he usually is#because if the Burial Mounds couldn't completely destroy his personality nothing can#especially not a fun (?) two and a half years running around Meishan and learning from Shan-jie and Feng-jie#he's just twice as deadly and three times as protective of his siblings#Thinking about it I don't think jzx is going to get away with just one punch to the face#rip to jzx's pretty face I guess#Loxie's fics
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Title: Passion Project (1/4)
Summary:
"Ignoring Hange Zoe had become a little passion project he allowed himself to indulge in, in between expeditions and quietly mourning unnecessary deaths in the battlefield."
Levi tries to ignore Hange but it never seems to last. A ficlet detailing the development of Levi and Hange's relationship before canon.
Link to cross-postings: AO3
Link to other chapters: 2 3 4
Notes:
Just a little character study and a cumulation of all my headcanons about their relationship all the way until Eren joins the survey corps.
I intended on just making a one shot of Levi being jealous or Hange and Levi having a silent treatment battle but this story ended up morphing into its own ficlet when I realized that it wouldn't be so easy to write either of them into canon without detailing the whole development of their relationship from my own headcanon.
I hope you enjoy!
Levi was trained to resolve conflict with his fists and occasionally, with his knives. Having lived as a criminal in the underground city, he did not encounter many problems that could not be resolved with a little intimidation or bloodshed. Among his gang, most people below him never really protested his decisions. Farlan was too level-headed to let anything reach a point where violence became a necessity, thus nipping most conflicts in the bud before Levi had to deal with them himself.
With his moving above ground, Levi had to adapt to a far more rigid system. Violence and intimidation among fellow soldiers was not as easily tolerated and Levi had lost his only two weapons against conflict. With Farlan dead soon after, Levi was left to navigate his own way through social situations and the problems that inevitably came with them.
The first conflict Levi was left to handle alone came in the form of one Hange Zoe.
"Hey Levi! Teach me that thing where you flip and speed up with your ODM gear." She was the first one to approach him about his skills.
By that point, he had still been reeling from Farlan and Isabel's death. He was in no mood for socialization and didn't think he would ever be. He just stared at her as he tried to make sense of the situation and the emotions that built up inside him.
The demand came out of nowhere. He was mourning and someone was outright asking him to take time out of his schedule and to dig for some patience within him to teach someone something he himself did not know the mechanisms of. She was neither a sleazy drunkard, a thief nor a murderer yet Levi for the first time since he joined the survey corps was terribly annoyed and disturbed at the audacity of the demand and the insensitivity of the timing.
The rigid structure of the survey corps and the somewhat innocent yet annoying request of the young girl in front of him left Levi utterly confused on how he was supposed to react.
He found himself scrambling for the simplest way to react to such a stimulus while keeping faithful to his personality and social preferences that had grown on him as a criminal in the underground. Having let his instincts take over, he froze up and walked away, ignoring the protests of that crazy brunette.
Passion Project
Levi found remaining silent and just walking away to be an effective way to handle her. She was insistent, tenacious and just way too loud. Levi ended up having to close his eyes when she whined, begging him to show her how his weird grip manages to slice harder than the average grip or how he manages to maintain enough balance to fall back in mid air without completely losing control.
As time went by, Hange's voice started to sound more like screeching to him. The high pitched whining morphed into the pain for the beginnings of a headache and Levi eventually had to learn to tune it out to save himself from that potential pain.
During those few moments where Levi allowed himself to think of Hange, he could not help but infer that that strong combination of tenacity and confidence may be that of someone who had grown up always getting what they want. Levi would have bet with all the money he had saved up since he had started to live above ground that Hange had never known hunger or deprivation. He decided for himself out of spite, that he would never give her the attention she craved so much from him.
A lesson on real life then. Levi thought in an attempt to make sense of his past actions and to placate the knot at the pit of his stomach. Someone has to teach her that she can't always get what she wants.
The brief thought morphed into a plan. Levi had somehow stumbled upon the conclusion that maybe he having had to struggle with depravity and poverty growing up, could teach her about the unfairness of life. In the end, ignoring Hange Zoe had become a little passion project he had allowed himself to indulge in, in between expeditions and quietly mourning unnecessary deaths in the battlefield.
A few months after Isabel's and Farlan's deaths, Levi encountered the first obstacle in his little passion project when he unwillingly gave Hange the attention she craved so much.
Technically, he did have a choice. The alternative was to watch her get eaten by a three meter class titan. Having lost as many people growing up, Levi was motivated to prevent as much unnecessary death as possible. Besides, being eaten by the smallest and weakest class of titan was just too pathetic of a way to die.
Slightly bitter about how he had broken his small promise to himself even if it was to save her life, Levi made it a point to ignore her incessant thank-yous, praises and overall enthusiasm at the whole ordeal.
"You fucking almost died. You're not supposed to be this fucking happy," Levi muttered to himself, only fueling the motivation inside him to continue his little challenge of never talking to Hange again.
That second challenge did not last long and Levi wanted to punch himself because of how easily he had let go of all the pride, spite and bitterness he had allowed himself to build up. All Hange needed to do was knock on the door to his now empty room in the barracks with a pack of what looked to be some high-end black tea with the familiar logo of the royal family.
Levi had seen that tea traded a few times around the underground city. Even with the work he had done as a criminal, that brand was just too expensive for him to procure without blowing the modest reputation he had kept for himself for more than a decade
"Just a little token for saving me." Hange grinned. The gratefulness looked too genuine.
Levi had to look away. For one, he did not want to feel anything but annoyance at the woman who had made his first month in the survey corps a living hell. Also, for the life of him, Levi could not tell what kind of face he made when he saw the pouch in Hange's hands.
"My parents brought some back when they came for a visit and I remember you mentioning that you liked tea…" The grateful smile of a moment ago morphed into a fox-like grin.
That was a lie. He never told anyone he liked tea let alone, had talked to anyone long enough to even disclose parts of his personality. That first part had sent some alarm bells ringing inside him but those were easily overpowered by the sheer wonder that overtook Levi as Hange held out the tea pouch in front of him. He was about to grab it for himself when Hange pulled it back towards her again.
"I actually haven't tried it in a while. We should try it together." With that, Hange forced her way into the small crack between Levi and his room and set up the kettle and tea cups as if they were not precious wares Levi had spent months saving up on.
Levi did not think he would have ever allowed his private space and belongings to be completely defiled, especially by the last person he had ever expected to have tea with. At that moment though, Levi felt no irritation. It was as if his whole being had decided before he even processed what Hange just did, that tasting that high end brand of black tea was most likely going to be worth it anyway.
Passion Project
That was the best black tea he had ever tasted in his life. It was good enough that Levi had started to think that maybe, getting to know her would not be such an excruciatingly painful process and that suspending his little passion project for a little while might be a good idea.
At least long enough to finish that bag of tea she left in my room. Levi thought to himself as he accompanied an excited Hange to the wooded area near the barracks for some ODM gear training. All he had to do was imagine the aroma of the tea as he steeped it and he usually gained a day’s worth of patience to deal with the brunette.
The first thing he ever made sure to drill her on was how to quickly take control of momentum so she could easily fall back in mid air to avoid being grabbed by the titans. With that he could at least make sure what happened in the last expedition wouldn’t happen again.
They had started their little training session at 5pm, right after their official survey corps training ended. Levi had expected that they would at least make it by sundown. Hange though ended up milking that one-on-one like a milkman to a fattened cow. She brought up questions about his movements that even Levi had to stop and reflect on.
How did you learn to use this underground?
Where did you get the gas?
How do you get the momentum to even spin your body?
How do you slice so deep while moving quickly?
Levi had started to answer all of those only to be interrupted every time with a different question. That day they had only scratched the surface of every question and Levi was sure Hange had only satisfied herself with her own theories for it. The questions though had left Levi enough to reflect on. He decided to use the remaining trainings he had promised her to at least explain them to Hange, after he figures it out for himself at least.
By the time they did get back, everyone else had already had dinner and Levi was forced to spend an extra one hour alone in the dining hall just to satisfy hunger pangs.
"You know, during the last expedition, I kicked a Titan's head so hard…"
"Hm?" Levi muttered as he looked for something else in the bare room to amuse himself with. He needed a break.
"And I didn't break my leg!"
Levi raised one eyebrow in reply, having given up on finding anything else to follow in the bare dining room. Most of the soldiers had probably retired to their room. It was past nine after all and they had to be awake by five.
"It was so light! To think that those giants have such light body parts! Where is the brain? Where is their olfactory system? Their auditory system? Their sensory pathways?"
The scientific blabber made it easier for Levi to tune out.
"Levi!"
It didn't seem like she had noticed that he had tuned her out for a few seconds. As Levi looked up at her, a natural reaction to having heard his name, he saw sparks in her eyes. She was in her own world already.
"If we study their anatomy, their movements maybe we could find more efficient ways to kill them, minimize casualties"
That would be nice. Levi thought to himself as he continued to look away, sneaking a side glance every few seconds. He had started to give her his full attention around the part where she had mentioned weaknesses and casualties. He was reminded there that they were both working towards fundamentally similar goals --- killing titans and avoiding unnecessary deaths.
The black tea that he had so carefully rationed saw its eventual end but surprisingly, Levi was not too devastated at the loss. As the days went by, he had stopped imagining the aroma of the tea anyway. The one who had given him the tea had offered experiences more lasting and more interesting than the quick release the bitter yet malty black tea had given him for many nights.
Hange offered novelty, amusement and company. In the midst of repetitive training and depressing expeditions, she offered experimental ideas and crackpot theories. She spoke with more than enough enthusiasm that when Levi was with her, sometimes he did forget that they were all one misstep away from a dismembered limb or death by titan with every expedition.
The breaks they had spent exchanging ODM gear techniques and strategies in fights against titans had become a constant in Levi's daily life. While he had helped build Hange's skill with the ODM gear, she had brought her own expertise and in-depth analyses to the table.
As time passed, he had completely forgotten as well, that she was the one who had asked him to teach her in the first place. Hange's words were the ones that echoed as he went through the same repetitive drills every day. Even as he practiced with his gear side by side with her, it was her theories that fueled the image training with the titan dummies.
His fighting style slowly started to change as it was peppered with the theories Hange had pointed out about titans. The mad scientist ended up teaching him.
Passion Project
They were on their way home from the 25th expedition outside the walls when the squad Levi was assigned to encountered three large titans.
The first plan was to just speed up since the wall was already visible from where they had encountered the titans. Usually two squads together were needed to even kill that many large titans. Smaller titans were also starting to notice them as well.
Their forces had already dissipated through other battles and to make it worse, two of the titans were abnormal and were much faster than the others. Given that he was the only one in his squad uninjured, Levi had resigned himself to the fact that he had to fight.
"I'll take it from here. You go on ahead." Levi shouted as he slowed his horse. Before even looking behind him, he started to consider the theoretical weaknesses of the titans and the strategy he and Hange had spent nights studying.
One misstep and you're dead. Levi readied his blades. It would be the first time he'd have to deal with three large titans at once and he had to ready himself for the fact that other titans could come sooner. If he could not kill them all, he could at least buy enough time for his squad to reach the walls.
What did Hange say about titans?
For three to six meter titans, I'm sure with your speed you could easily go for the neck. I'm much slower so I would have to incapacitate them first.
Levi was already exhausted from the expedition and he decided to err on the side of caution.
Hange's words echoed in his head. I was thinking if I encountered a titan alone, I'd try to go for maybe the eyes or the arms first so at least I wouldn't be scared of them grabbing on to the cords of my ODM.
Eyes or arms? Levi thought to himself as he allowed the ODM gear to propel him towards the nearest titan. He focused on what he did best, he dodged as soon as he saw the hands move to grab him and he let that movement and the force of the gas to launch him up and take him to whatever his next target might be.
The eyes of the titan came into clear view. He pushed himself forward and dug his blades into the titans eyes. He used that few seconds of respite to replace his blades midair. The titan continued to flail its arms towards Levi and the latter could not help but note that if it moved much faster than a lot of other titans. He had pulled back his grappling hooks, not wanting to risk it getting grabbed by the abnormal.
The titan couldn't see him. He had time.
You could probably immobilize a titan by cutting their Achilles. I don't know if I would be able to make that same cut though. It's a joint so it's gonna be harder than most areas.
As soon as Levi landed on the ground he dashed for the legs of the titan right behind the first one.
How do you slice so deep while moving so quickly?
Hange was right. The titan's muscle was notably harder at the back of the ankle. If he had sliced any lighter, he probably would not have been able to cut all the way.
The second titan fell forward on top of the blinded titan. He had bought himself some more time.
Levi ran forward towards the last large titan, cutting the Achilles tendons of smaller ones as he did. It was not an abnormal at least. Levi aimed his hooks towards the titans arm and launched himself towards the arm, using it as an axis to maneuver himself towards the back of the neck.
It was when Levi launched himself up did he notice that less gas than what he had expected was coming out.
You use too much gas. Erwin had said to him only a few expeditions ago.
Maneuvering came naturally for Levi but every now and then he did forget he was at the mercy of the amount of gas he had at each fight. In the underground, the gas lasted him weeks, his enemies were human after all and the gas was only used for escape.
Having to constantly propel himself into the air meant he had to resupply twice to thrice an expedition. Levi forced himself to ignore the lightened cannisters at his side and narrowed his eyes at the nape of the neck that was coming into view.
Kill the titan first. Gas later.
Levi pushed forward towards the neck, pierced his blades on the nape and heavily dragged it over the whole area. He might not have a second chance if the cut was too shallow.
Can I make it? Levi scrambled to look for his horse in the steam that surrounded him. He did not have enough gas to land safely and instead used the titan he just killed to cushion his landing.
A smaller hand appeared from the steam and grab him. Levi let out a gasp as he felt the full force of the squeeze on his ribs.
I'm not dying here! Levi sliced open the hand with a spinning motion. His body protested the sudden movement and Levi wondered for a second how many ribs the titan had cracked. He found his horse grazing west to the sea of steam as he landed. On his way down though, he had to dodge the hand of a smaller titan causing him to land awkwardly on his left foot.
Fucking hell. Levi ran towards his horse ignoring the stabbing pain on his left ankle. To hell with that ankle, I can't recover if I'm dead.
Levi only had to ride the horse and speed up before another hand grabbed him from behind. Once again, the titan had no regard of how hard it was holding its prey and Levi started to taste blood as his ribs protested the grip of the titan.
How long can I keep doing this? Levi spun himself again, slicing the hand open despite his body screaming at him to stop.
What happened after that was a blur. The exhaustion that built up over the expedition and his most recent injuries overpowered him. Levi could not even maneuver his body to a safer less fatal landing from a ten meter drop.
He closed his eyes, expecting to feel the impact of a headfirst fall only to instead feel the searing pain of a disturbed injury as someone looped their arms around him too roughly.
"There you are, Levi!"
The last thing he heard was the familiar overly excited scream he had grown accustomed to the past year.
"I knew slicing at their ankles would work!"
#levihan#fanfic#levi ackerman#hange zoe#levi x hange#levi x hanji#attack on titan#shingeki no kyojin
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WIP Folder
Rules: Post the name of the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues/interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or I will tell you something about it!
I was bored so I included the “what they are” after the titles anyways, but feel free to ask me more questions or request excerpts if you’d like regardless *shrugs*
tagged by @twistedsinews, no pressure tagging @evilsapphyre @echo-bleu @glorious-spoon @ohfreckle @junemermaid and/or anyone who would like, no one who wouldn’t 😉
There are some miscellaneous ficlet things that are saved in tumblr drafts or notebooks or whatever: prompt fills, Shadowhunters codafics for the @malecdiscordserver #5YearsOfShadowhunters, some @shadowhunterbingo notes, #clizzy ficlets, Malec Alicante epilogue ficlets, some #7kpp feels, some flailing about a sequel to known subjects (BAU, SH/CM crossover) etc. They don’t have titles or anything yet, they’re just a mish-mash of oh I should get to that eventually notes.
WNIP: (aka Works-Not-In-Progress, as in I’m not planning on ever finishing these, but they might have bits I can use for something else some day)
oosdt (this dream is climbing sky) [sequel to out of some dreaming tree]
kisses (firsts) [notes on more ficlets for kisses are a better fate than wisdom; I may move this back into the regular folder once I get to 2x10 in the rewatch, since that’s where I stopped, timeline-wise, with the last ficlet.]
Persuasion [Malec Persuasion AU; Regency & Magic & Case-fic? It’s a monster that I may some day manage to cannibalize for parts.]
TOG [a Nicky/Joe meeting each other fic for The Old Guard]
candles (Merribela) [Dragon Age 2 Isabela/Merril something]
CI sequel: 5 times fic? [Cruel Intentions]
Code Realize warm as silk sequel [warm as silk]
Ngaio & Tane [Mass Effect, Spacer!Shepard and her estranged father]
Shan Xia notes [fic for a selkie character for an RPG that never got off the ground]
JE Zu & Yaling [Jade Empire, Spirit!Monk/Sagacious Zu Tragedy Feels!]
post-Kruschev (this is sept’s fault) [Scarecrow & Mrs. King Epilogue/s5 fix-it fic]
evil!angels [angels as eldritch horrors, parabatai angst, somethingsomething]
pro bono [s1 Malec Porn, I did a twitter thread about it once, it’s here]
Shadowhunters
iafy [I am for you; I have separate docs for notes, ch18, & ch 19. There will probably be a ch 20 as well (at least?) but I don’t have anything beyond notes for it yet.]
ibhww [if broken hearts were whole; this one also as a few separate docs as I try and get it organized]
mer!alec [this is also broken into three parts, the sequels to and breathing is wishing.)
fake hating [a Malec secret!relationship but Extra About It fantasy AU]
priest!kink theology? [Priest!Alec/Demon!Magnus. I made an aesthetic post about it last year, but I would like to Actually Fic (eventually)]
procedural-ish? [It was originally supposed to be a crack!fic/sex farce, and then a cop/CI pining thing, and is now probably a Mafia!AU? IDEK anymore.]
wing!fic [s1 canon-divergence AND ALSO NEPHILIM HAVE WINGS]
I had rather a rose than live forever [reverse!verse, High Warlock of Manhattan Alec Lightwood/Shadowhunter Magnus Bane]
spite!fic [not really spiteful, that’s just shorter than ‘2x20 aftermath/date night/pandemonium porn’]
fall fright fest continuation? (practical magic au)
“I do” [Arranged Marriage AU]
rubbish heap [s3 rewrite/sequel to with an if in its soul; includes amnesia & parabatai angst & Owl!complications & weird magic lore & etc.]
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fic advice!
Good evening!!
So this may be a long, rambling post and I will tag accordingly. I still have some ficlets to answer, but! First I would like to answer a question a few people have asked me recently and that I generally end up answering privately.
Advice when it comes to fic writing?
Write for yourself. It’s repeated often, it sounds silly, but do this and you will be happier for it. When I write to please myself, it always feels like I am 10 times more likely to finish the fic, and I’m more likely to keep writing for the fandom. I love making everyone's day with fic, but if I wasn’t having a good time writing, I wouldn’t continue running the blog.
Don’t overstretch! Know your own limits. This doesn’t mean “Oh, I’ve only ever written this genre, this amount, stick with it” this means if it feels like you’re taking on too much? You are. Take a step back, and if you still want to tackle everything on your plate, break it down.
Think of fun ways to keep you going - I do wordsprints, because I run on self spite. I thought I couldn’t finish 1k at one point, I wanted to prove myself wrong. I time myself for anywhere from 2 to 10 minutes and I totally word vomit in a doc and- at least one of those sentences is worth keeping. That’s more than I had before.
Post and tag. Tag it accordingly for the audience you want to gain. I write smut and fluff fics and they’re all x reader based. I stay away from main character tags (just their name, for example, or the series name) because not everyone looking for Shinsou art wants to see my 2k fic about reader owning a cat with him.
If you’re looking to gain a following? Be patient! It’s disheartening seeing your 6k fic get 5 likes, but people engaging with your work will come in time. You know what that means? 5 people liked your work. Can you fit 5 friends on your bed to play Mario Kart??? I can’t. I mean. Maybe? But we’d be squished. Back to the point!!! Slow and steady will be better for you and your blog in the long run.
Need ideas? Open up requests! Have ideas? Chip away at them. 5 words a day is 5 words closer to finishing! Stuck? Write something else, or think over the issue while you do a mindless task. Wash dishes and try and play the scene in your head. Go for a walk and listen to a song that inspires you, change up music genres, change up character viewpoint, change up universe!!
Go back to your favorite authors. Fic writers too, but books that have stuck with you, re-read, plan- or do you usually plan?? Through it out the window, write aiming to convey a feeling.
When it comes to writing fic though, look at what you’re writing and know that you wanted that fic in the world, and you’re the only one that can finish it your way.
The main thing is this: Keep going. A lot of what I initially write? I am =S over, but I’ve seen some of the comments and messages and tags from you all today. I was very nervous about some of what I shared today and in the past, and yet the support and encouragement I’ve received because I kept going, because I edited or pushed through or posted regardless of how I felt??? Those are the ones that have stuck with me.
So write it, finish it, post it. Scream as you hit that post button and just let it all go. You have my support, dangit.
#quirk has words#long post#and i totally do that just so you all know#some days when im feeling down about a bit of writing or art#i yell out loud as i hit post#i yell everytime i hit submit on a zine app#i am a nervous nelly ok its bad but like#if i dont do it no one else is going to do it for me#so here i am
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Sunday Snippet #2 - Good Omens Ficlet
Of Sentient Pants and Other Wonders
Too long? You can go read it on AO3 also!
Crowley went to his closet and pulled out his usual pair of black silk pyjamas – he was honestly just as likely to sleep in the nude, but sometimes in the winter he liked to be covered and silk was his favorite way of keeping warm. He hardly had to look to find them – he owned three identical pairs after all, neatly folded on the top shelf of his black lacquer armoire. He reached in in the darkened room, pulled out the top set off the pile, and … froze.
These were not his pyjamas, or at least not as he had last seen them.
“Aziraphale!” he shouted. “Angel! Get up here!”
The angel appeared a few minutes later, having finished up his tasks in the kitchen, with a wide, pleasant, perfectly innocent smile on his face.
“Yes, dear?”
Crowley held the pyjamas up to him. “Are you responsible for this?”
Aziraphale looked at him placidly. “I washed and folded them, yes.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. There was absolutely no reason for either of them to do laundry, but the angel insisted. That, however, was a matter for another time. He shook them again.
“No,” he said, “I mean this.” He stabbed a finger at the pocket on the front of the top.
The pocket which was now lined in tartan.
Aziraphale’s tartan.
Aziraphale made a show of leaning in and examining it. “Oh, would you look at that?” he said, pleasantly. “Your pyjamas have clearly made a dashing new choice to spiff themselves up a bit! I don’t know what you’re fussing about, I think it’s rather charming.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, flabbergasted at the angel’s capacity for being a little bastard, and found himself unable to make a rejoinder as the angel patted him consolingly on the shoulder and left the room.
He decided the pocket could stay.
--
His boxers, apparently, decided to follow suit a week later. All of them. They may have been that way for a while, to be honest – he rarely opened that particular drawer, preferring instead to just miracle a fresh pair on whenever he needed to. But this day, for some reason, he was looking through the wardrobe trying to find a scarf he hadn’t worn in a few years, and he pulled open his unmentionable drawer and stuttered to a stop.
He took a pile of them and sauntered out into the shop to find the angel, who was at the cash register processing a sale. Crowley smiled tightly at the customer and slammed the pile of pants down right on top of the man’s book.
“Tartan,” he said. “They’re tartan.”
Aziraphale looked askance at him, and then huffed as he lifted the pile of underwear off of the book.
“I’m so sorry,” he said to his customer. “He’s a little… dramatic.” He gave the demon a quelling look. Crowley watched in studied impatience as the angel slowly and deliberately completed the transaction. It was only after he carefully wrapped the book in brown paper and sent the man on his way that Aziraphale turned to him and made a ‘please go ahead’ gesture.
“My pants,” Crowley said, “have turned tartan.”
Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, all this fuss is about a few pairs of pants?” Crowley frowned ferociously at him, and in apology he leaned over to examine the garments. He thumbed through the pile, examining them closely.
“Well,” the angel said, straightening up and giving him a look, “I think they look quite fetching. Perhaps you could model a pair for me later?”
Crowley smiled in spite of himself, then shook his head and frowned. “Don’t change the subject. Why are you messing with my wardrobe?”
Aziraphale held out both hands in a gesture of absolute openness. “I’m not! I swear!”
“So you’re saying my clothing is just changing itself?”
Aziraphale shrugged helplessly. “I honestly have no idea, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps they’re becoming sentient from spending too much time around ethereal entities?”
Crowley eyed him suspiciously. “I highly doubt that.”
“You’re just concerned,” the angel said, loftily, “that your clothes are showing better fashion sense than you are, love.”
Crowley waved a hand over his boxers and changed them back to plain black, and stalked back to put them away. He didn’t notice that the bottom two pairs switched back to tartan before he even put them away.
--
Peace reigned for a few weeks without any further modifications to his wardrobe, and Crowley began to relax his vigilance. Perhaps the angel really had been telling the truth about not having a hand in it – or if he had, he had wisely decided to give it up.
“I’m going out to get wine, angel,” Crowley called as he came down the stairs and out of the back room. “Any requests?”
Aziraphale smiled and reached up to pull his head down for a kiss. “I know whatever you get will be lovely, dearest,” he said. “Hurry back to me!”
Crowley swung out of the shop and patted the Bentley’s hood affectionately as he let himself into the driver’s seat. Since there was no angel to urge him towards caution, he gave himself free reign over the gas pedal and indulged in speeds of upwards of 95 as he sped into northern London to his favorite wine purveyor. He grabbed an empty crate out of the boot for his eventual purchases and then patted the Bentley goodbye as he headed in.
As was his wont, Crowley had a long, leisurely conversation with the owner, tasted several of his recent acquisitions, and then purchased an assortment of six high quality bottles he thought the angel would enjoy. Then, bidding his friend goodbye, he went back outside to tuck his purchases away in the boot – and stopped.
“Oh Aziraphale,” he breathed. “You are a dead man.”
--
Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading as the shop bell tinkled loudly. The smile and greeting he’d been about to offer died on his lips as he took in the demon’s demeanor. His posture was stiff and forbidding, his eyes were snapping, and he looked like he’d just come from a fight.
“Are – are you all right, my dear?” he asked.
Crowley looked at him impassively. “Come with me,” he snapped, before turning and walking back out the door without looking to see if the angel was following him.
Aziraphale blinked after him for a moment, then scrambled to his feet and followed him out onto the pavement. Crowley was waiting impatiently next to the Bentley, which was parked in its usual haphazard fashion in the tow zone at the corner. Crowley snapped the trunk open and bid the angel to take a look.
Aziraphale gestured up the tiniest amount of heavenly glow – it was dark out, after all – and bent in to take a good look. He gasped.
The whole interior of the boot was lined with tartan. It was subtle, replacing what had previously been a tan fabric lining with a gorgeous version of his own heaven-inspired tartan in soft shades of tan, cream, and sky blue. Aziraphale took a moment to admire it, even wiggling a little in approval, before he remembered that an angry demon was watching him and that this was most decidedly Not A Good Thing.
He looked up and was met with just about as much of a death glare as he had expected.
“Now, Crowley,” he began, nervously. “You can’t seriously think that I’d be foolish enough to mess with your Bentley. You must know that I am fully aware that this would be a rather serious transgression!”
Crowley did not look impressed. “You want me to believe that someone else – some other person in the whole bloody universe – has a vested interest in taking little bits of my belongings and covering them with your official tartan?” He snorted. “I’m sorry but that’s just implausible.”
“Well, I have to agree with you that it looks bad,” Aziraphale said, trying to think of a possible explanation. “But I promise you, I’m not doing it.”
“Swear it, angel. Swear it on something important to you.”
Aziraphale screwed up his face in thought for a moment, then smiled. “I swear it on the Ritz,” he said. “May we never go there again if I’m lying.”
Crowley stared at him intently, looking for shiftiness or a glint of humor, looking for his usual tells when he was fibbing, which the demon had come to know intimately after the last six millennia – and found absolutely nothing.
“All right,” he said gruffly. “I believe you that you’re not doing it. Or at least I believe that you’re not doing it on purpose.”
“What does that mean? How could I possibly be doing it by accident?”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “This from the being that accidentally makes flowers grow and butterflies appear whenever he’s very happy.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh! You mean you think I’m doing this with my – with my emotions?”
“That,” the demon said, “is my only working theory in the moment.”
“Can we talk about this inside?” Aziraphale said miserably. “It’s chilly.”
Crowley softened and led them back inside, where he conjured up a cup of cocoa and a glass of wine and sat them both down on the couch.
“Ok, so what were you doing while I was out?” Crowley asked. “Specifically about an hour ago when I was in the shop? Because it changed from tan to tartan while I was buying the wine.”
Aziraphale thought. “I had just closed the shop, and I was having a little tea, and I was thinking back over the events of the day, and a bit about earlier in the week.”
“What specifically?”
Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, just, you know – I was thinking about you, and how much I like having you here, and about what kind of wine you were getting.”
“Were you feeling any particularly strong emotions?” Crowley asked.
“For a moment, perhaps,” the angel admitted. “I was thinking about the flea market last Sunday, and how that ridiculously cheeky young man was hanging all over you while I was bargaining for that second book I picked up, and how flustered you looked when I turned around and found him with his hands on your –"
“Angel,” Crowley cut in. “Look.”
He held up his wine glass. It now had a tartan rim.
Aziraphale gasped. “That happened just now?”
“Mmmmm hmmm.”
“So, you mean, every time I feel a little bit –”
“Possessive? Jealous?” Crowley smirked. “Looks like.”
Aziraphale moaned and picked up a throw pillow to bury his face in. “I’m such an idiot.”
“And a few weeks ago when you turned my boxers tartan? What was going on then?”
Crowley sounded, the angel thought, like he was enjoying having the moral high ground just a little.
“I haven’t the faintest idea!” he protested.
“Let’s see, that was right after we had the talk about my past temptations, wasn’t it, where I revealed that I had once tempted Queen Elizabeth the first to partake in a little debauchery behind the scenes?”
“Yes, yes, that sounds correct, there’s no need to –”
“And the week before that, with the pajamas? I can’t seem to recall anyone hitting on me around then,” Crowley said, puzzled. “What had you in a tizzy right then?”
Aziraphale sighed and surrendered utterly. “You talked in your sleep the night before.”
“I – I WHOT?” Crowley screeched. “What did I say?”
“Something about someone named Franklin,” Aziraphale sniffed, and patted down his clothing in an ostentatious manner. “Really, my dear. Franklin? Why not just go out and date someone named Melvin, or Roy?”
Crowley eyed him. “You were jealous because I said a random name in my dream? And by the way, I’ve never dated anyone by any of those names, and you know it. I’ve told you about everyone I was ever involved with, and you know they were a very small crew.”
Aziraphale looked utterly dejected. “I suppose that’s the truth. I’m sorry my dear.”
Crowley was silent for a moment, and the angel wondered what he was thinking but was too afraid to look up. The demon solved that problem for him by sliding over next to him a minute later and placing a hand on his knee.
“As far as crimes go, angel, this is a pretty minor one,” he said softly. “No need to look so downtrodden over the whole thing.”
Aziraphale sighed. “I’ve been getting jealous over ridiculous things and then MARKING you, my dear. It’s so… so unbecoming. I’m supposed to be an angel, not a territorial human!”
Crowley tipped the angel’s head to the side and leaned in for a kiss. “It’s kind of sweet when you put it that way. When you get worried about whether someone else is after me, you put your tartan on me so the whole world can see that I’m yours.”
Aziraphale fluttered his lashes.
The demon kissed him again. “Can’t say that I really mind that, honestly. It’s almost a little bit sexy.”
“Oh, come now, you,” the angel admonished, but the hint of a smile was playing around the sides of his lips. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Plus, now I’ll know if I’ve ever really done something wrong,” Crowley continued, peppering small kisses along the angel’s hairline. “Because I assume my entire outfit will suddenly turn plaid. That should scare any other potential suitor away.”
Aziraphale laughed unwillingly. “Stop!” he begged. “Please, I’m so embarrassed. Can we just get back to the kissing and less talking?”
Crowley leaned back and smiled. “Soon as you put my car back to rights, sure.”
The angel waved a hand in the air in a rapid fashion and Crowley felt a strong sense that all was once again back to normal with his car.
“Shall I do the boxers and the pyjamas too?” he asked.
“Nah,” the demon said. “I kind of like it. It will be our little secret.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He knew this conversation was going to come back to haunt him. He had unwilling provided the demon with the ammunition of a lifetime for endless rounds of teasing. He would consider how best to wriggle out of this later. But for now, he leaned forward and pulled the demon close, determined to bring this round of conversation to a firm and decided close.
No one could withstand the full power of a love-besotten angel, after all. Not even a demon.
#good omens#good omens fanfic#ineffable husbands#aziraphale x crowley#idiots in love#jealousy#possessive aziraphale#unintended tartan#general goofiness
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Prompt: Natasha is a very famous actor/singer/you pick. One day she gets a stalker (Rumlow). She gets in touch with a private security company to get their best bodyguard. That bodyguard is Maria. Bonus points if they don’t like each other at first, especially because Nat insists on teasing her in various ways, just to spite her.
I was so very tempted to just make this The Bodyguard but I resisted, barely. This ended up longer than I was expecting (it’s not bite sized) and I have a bunch of other prompts and ficlets I should have done first but I spent two hours last night just typing this because apparently this speaks to me. No idea if this is what you had in mind but here you go, squishy 💚 Thanks for the prompt, I really liked it.
Natasha is one of the most famous dancers in the country. She’s proud of the fact; after all, she’s been doing this for longer than she can even remember. She’s started dancing at four-years old and was later discovered at a local dance school performance. From there, her training intensified so she could keep up with the best of the best and she quickly became one of them. Her grace is almost unmatched and her performances are always flawless. She trains hard to keep it that way. There is never a single misstep or wasted movement. Everything is perfect, down to the expressions on her face and the smile after each performance, when she bows to the applauding audience. She’s small even for dancing standards and every single one of her fellow dancers is taller than her by at least a couple of inches. Natasha likes it that way. She doesn’t need to stand out by height, her red hair does it for her. If not that, her skills lift her above her no less talented peers.
Natasha is used to sold out shows and gifts and letters afterwards. It’s mostly superficial but she loves reading letters from little girls (and boys) who wish they could dance like her. She writes back sometimes, if she can spare enough time. She loves dancing and she loves that she can inspire kids to want to do it too. It makes her happy. Sadly not all gifts and letters are as innocent as that and she has to deal with equal amounts of inappropriate fan mail. She usually just throws those out without reading very much of it. She doesn’t stay to meet people after shows often because she’s usually too tired to want to but she tries to do it at least once a week. She knows there are young people in the masses waiting and she doesn’t want to be an asshole and never show her own appreciation for her fans.
Lately though, she’s noticed the same guy in the crowd every time she steps out to meet anyone and even when she just passes by to go home and get some sleep. He’s always there and sure, normally that would be flattering and sweet, but something about him feels off to Natasha. She starts getting letters by the same person after every show, sometimes even multiples per show and she’s starting to recognize the handwriting. They started nice enough but after weeks of no replies, they were starting to turn both aggressive and obsessive with the fantasies described within. After a month of this, she finally reads a letter that mentions him waiting after each show and she puts the pieces together to figure out it’s that same man who is always watching her. She’s uncomfortable every time she meets people after shows from then on but hides it to the best of her abilities.
Natasha isn’t stupid. This isn’t her first stalker over the years but he is definitely the worst one yet. She knows his name is Brock and she knows he’s ex-military. That alone is reason enough for her to be worried. She goes to the police with a bunch of the letters and tells them about him but they refuse to do anything to help unless he actually does anything. It’s frustrating and dangerous and she tells them that before leaving and finding an alternative solution. Said solution is found with the help of Google and she phones a private security company two hours later from her apartment. Natasha explains the situation to the head of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury, and he agrees to send his best bodyguard when she tells him that money isn’t an issue.
There’s a knock on the door to her changing room the next day while she’s getting ready for rehearsals and she calls the newcomer in without bothering to pause applying her make up. A woman steps in, dressed in a black suit, her hair fixed in a tight bun. Natasha does pause then and looks at her in the mirror before turning to actually face her. She doesn’t even need to get up to see how much taller this woman is and that makes her lips tick up in a small smile.
“I’m Maria Hill. Fury sent me to be your security detail until further notice.”
Hill is all business and Natasha makes a small noise before she stands up. She was right about the height at least. She nods at her and holds out her hand in greeting.
“I’m Natasha.”
Maria takes the offered hand and shakes it and then has a quick look around. Natasha can safely say that this wasn’t what she’s expected.
“Not who you thought he’d send?” Maria asks when Natasha keeps staring at her.
“No, but I don’t particularly care as long as you can do what he promised.”
Hill is very good at hiding the irritation she feels at those words but Natasha picks up on it anyway. Maria is proud and she’s good at her job and she won’t have anyone questioning that.
“I can. I’ll be with you at all times where he could get to you.”
“Am I going to need to house you? Because all I can offer you is the couch.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“Okay then.”
Natasha returns to her chair so she can finish getting ready for her rehearsal. Maria keeps watch by the door, her hands folded in front of her. She follows her when it’s time to go and Maria takes the time to check out the hall and the area surrounding the stage. She doesn’t disturb the rehearsal and waits for Natasha by the door once she’s done.
They don’t speak much after that. Maria is professional and Natasha quickly finds out that she has no interest in small talk so Natasha gives up on trying.
It’s after the show that night when Natasha goes out to meet people that Maria really steps up. She keeps close to Natasha and keeps everyone else a respectable distance away. Natasha subtly points out Brock in the back, who looks confused at the sight of the suit. He leaves earlier than usual and Maria urges Natasha along as well. She drives her home much to Natasha’s disbelief. She can drive herself. Maria argues that her bike isn’t safe enough.
“Can we at least make a pit stop by a bar?”
“Absolutely not.”
“If I had known Fury would send a party pooper, I’d have asked for his second best,” Natasha grumbles and she finds satisfaction in the way Maria’s jaw ticks.
Natasha thinks she’s safe to do as she pleases once home at least but Hill has other ideas. She’s dealt with types like Brock before and there’s every chance he knows where Natasha lives already. She sweeps the entire place twice to be sure and then lets Natasha know that it’s safe. Natasha rolls her eyes at the second time she checks every single room but she is still relieved to hear the all clear. She hasn’t considered that he might have followed her home and the thought sends a shiver down her spine. She grabs a drink for herself and doesn’t bother to offer Maria one too. She’s too professional to drink on the job.
“At least sit down somewhere. You’re making me antsy just looking at you standing there like he’ll break in any second.”
Maria hides her glare but sits down on the couch. She still keeps an eye on the windows and listens for any unusual sounds coming from outside.
“You’re taking this too lightly,” Maria tells her and there’s bite in her words that make Natasha want to growl at her.
“Excuse me? I hired you, didn’t I?”
“And yet you don’t seem to take this serious at all. You shouldn’t go out to meet people when you have a potentially violent stalker waiting for you in the midst of them. You’re giving him plenty of chances to get to you or follow you.”
“I can’t just not go. You scared him off tonight anyway,” Natasha argues.
She downs her vodka in one go and makes a face before putting the glass down. Maria is about to argue the point when Natasha speaks up again, grinning a little this time.
“I bet you could just glare everyone away and they’d never get close to me again.”
Maria huffs and gets up again to check the windows once more. She doesn’t like Natasha very much and the redhead is well aware of it. The feeling is rather mutual at the moment but she does find some entertainment in trying to get a rise out of her.
“I’m going to bed. Do you need to check that again too?”
“No,” Maria says, annoyed, “I’ll be in my car.”
She leaves again while Natasha heads to her bedroom to change to go to sleep. It’s going to be a long time with Hill around.
The next couple of weeks drag on for both of them. Maria is tired of Natasha’s teasing and Natasha hates that there’s no change whatsoever in her situation. Brock is still coming to every show and he’s still waiting with the rest of the crowd afterwards. She still gets letters from him but they get more and more possessive and obsessive and she’s starting to feel sick reading them. Maria eventually takes them away from her to read them herself and then refuses to tell Natasha what they said. She may not like the smaller woman all that much but she hates stalkers and she doesn’t like how it weighs the redhead down. She distracts by taunting and teasing Maria and it takes a while for Maria to catch up to the fact. She finds her crying in her changing room twice and she hears her sobbing in her bedroom once after a particularly detailed letter. It’s still not enough for the police to step in.
It’s another week later that something happens. They’re at Natasha’s place eating dinner when the window shatters loudly and a brick just barely misses Natasha. Maria is quick to rush over to her and cover her. She ushers her under the table while she goes to the window to check if whoever threw that is still around. It’s too dark to see but she hears movement and is able to make out a retreating shadow. She can’t follow but she’s satisfied enough that they’re running away so she comes to get Natasha. She checks that the woman is fine and then, very gently, tells her to go to her bedroom and stay there while she cleans up and sweeps the area. Natasha does as told. She’s trembling and shaky. She sits on her bed with the blinds closed and her door locked and waits until her heartbeat calms down again. This is the first time something like that happens to her. None of her previous stalkers got violent and even just threatening police involvment had them running away. This is very much different.
Maria knocks on the door when she’s back ten minutes later. Natasha feels like she’s waited for hours. She opens the door and doesn’t even think before throwing herself at Maria and hugging herself close to the taller woman. There’s one thing she can’t deny about Hill and it’s that she makes her feel safe. Maria is surprised but she wraps an arm around her shoulders and holds her close for a minute.
“You’re okay, Natasha. I called Fury, we’re bringing another person in to help keep an eye on things. If he tries anything again, we’ll get him.”
Natasha nods against her and her shock is finally wearing off, leaving only a feeling of dread in its place. Natasha is terrified. She grips Maria’s shirt tighter and pushes her face further against her to hide how close to tears she is. She doesn’t want to cry. Crying isn’t helping her. When Maria lifts her free hand to the back of her head though, it breaks what little resolve she has left and a sob leaves her body.
“I got you…” Maria says quietly.
Natasha cries against her for a few minutes, her body shaking, until she’s too exhausted to even keep her eyes open. She sags against Maria and loosens her grip on her again. Maria sighs and shifts to pick her up. Natasha is too tired to argue. She’s even too tired to blush. Maria carries her back to her bed and gently lets her down on it. Natasha immediately drops onto her side on the mattress and blinks the remainder of her tears away. She looks up when Maria crouches down next to the bed to look at her.
“I got you.”
Natasha nods. She believes that. She falls asleep like that and Maria goes to clean everything up.
By morning, there’s a second car parked in front of Natasha’s place and a young woman named Sharon introduces herself as Maria’s backup. Natasha nods, shakes her hand, and thanks her for coming. Neither her nor Hill mention Natasha’s breakdown the previous night or how Hill carried her to bed. They go on as usual with their daily routine while Sharon remains at Natasha’s place all day. If anyone suspicious approaches, she’ll stop them.
Nothing happens for another three days. It’s early evening, still just bright enough to really see, when Sharon notices a man walking towards Natasha’s place. He’s crossong the lawn and Sharon quickly radios Maria before she gets out of her car to intervene. Maria makes Natasha hide in her bathroom and then goes to follow Sharon’s example. Brock is halfway through breaking the lock on Natasha’s front door when Sharon gets to him. He doesn’t even try an excuse before lashing out and attacking the blonde. Sharon ducks his blows and she’s ready to taser him when he pulls out a gun and she freezes. He’s unstable enough to pull the trigger on her and she knows Maria will get there any second.
“Stop keeping her all to yourselves! I love her. Why can’t you let us be happy together?!”
The sound of the door opening distracts him and Sharon moves quickly. She takes a step aside and then hits his arm down to make him drop the gun. Maria catches on quickly and tasers him before he can do anything else. Sharon secures the gun while Maria cuffs him with some zipties and then they call the police.
Maria leaves Sharon to keep an eye on Brock while she checks up on Natasha. She’s locked away in her bathroom but opens the door for Maria.
“We got him. Police is on the way.”
Natasha lets out a breath of relief and instinctively hugs Maria, grateful.
“Sharon did most of the work.”
“I’ll hug her too.”
Maria laughs to that. She heads back down to wait with Sharon just in case Brock wakes up too early and tries anything else stupid.
It takes a while before the police finally arrive. Maria recognizes the officer in charge and they exchange greetings before she gets to the point and explains what’s happened.
“I’m sorry they didn’t want to do anything sooner,” Steve says, “I know this guy. It’s not the first time this happens with him. If I’d known, I’d have stepped in sooner.”
“Just get him outta here, Rogers.”
He nods and looks up when Natasha steps outside. He apologizes again to her and promises he’ll see to him personally. Natasha can’t do anything but nod and believe him. Steve hauls Brock inside the car with the help of his colleague and then they take their witness testimonies before driving off again.
Natasha does hug Sharon in thanks and then the blonde is also off to report back to Fury. Their job is done now that Brock is in police custody. Maria stays and Natasha looks up at her with a raised eyebrow.
“I’d like to stick around a little longer just in case he wasn’t alone, or the only one.”
Natasha smiles. Truth be told, she’d really like some company tonight. It’s been stressful and she’s pretty anxious now so Maria’s words make her feel a little better.
“I’d like that, honestly. I…”
She doesn’t want to be alone but she doesn’t say it. Maria nods anyway and guides her back inside. Her lock will need replacing and Maria makes a mental note to get that done before she officially finishes this job.
Natasha makes them both dinner later and they eat on the couch, far away from any and all windows.
“Thank you. I don’t think I’ve said it at all this whole time but thanks.”
“Just doing my job,” Maria says.
Natasha thinks back to when she’s carried her and doesn’t think that’s quite true. She’s grown to like Maria quite a bit and she’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Her teasing no longer gets a rise out of her but it makes Maria laugh now and she’s sad to have that gone after tonight. She doesn’t want it gone. She’s gotten used to having her around all the time.
“You should get some sleep.”
Natasha is quiet for a few moments. She’s sure she’ll sleep fine now that Brock has been dealt with but she’s considering anyway.
“Would you stay with me?”
Maria looks at her in mild surprise and says nothing. It’s terribly unprofessional to even take saying yes into consideration but she does it anyway because she hates seeing Natasha upset. She’s watched so many of her performances now and Natasha is always proud and strong. She likes seeing her like that. She wants to keep seeing her like that.
“Okay.”
Natasha smiles and mumbles a thanks, then goes to clean the dishes. She finds Maria an old sleeping shirt of hers that is several sizes too big anyway and then changes, giving Maria enough time to do the same. Natasha isn’t prepared for the sight that greets her when she comes back out of the bathroom. The shirt is still a little long on Maria but fits her quite well, her hair is down and a mess from being in a bun all day, and the yawn she catches is cuter than it has any right to be. She covers her own answering yawn and crawls under the blanket. She rolls on her side once Maria has settled, just barely not touching. Maria is on her back, her hands resting on her middle.
“Maria?”
“Hm?”
“This is maybe not the best time to ask this but… would you like to have dinner with me some time?”
Maria rolls onto her side with a grin that makes Natasha’s heart stop.
“Are you asking me out? ‘Cause we just had dinner together.”
“I am.”
Her grin turns into a soft smile and she reaches out hesitantly to push a stray strand of hair out of Natasha’s face.
“I’d like that, yes.”
Natasha blushes at the touch of her fingers against her cheek and curls up on herself a little more to hide it. Maria chuckles anyway.
“Okay.”
Maria drops her hand again and rests it in the space between them. She stays awake until Natasha’s breathing evens out in a sure sign that she’s fast asleep. She shuffles a little closer and wraps her arm around Natasha before she gets any sleep herself. This is a job well done indeed. At least something good comes out of this whole ordeal. Maria can live with that.
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Prompt: so I’ve mentioned before that you’re ficlet about Hux becoming Snoke’s apprentice after Kylo returns to the light is my all time favorite fic of any fandom. I also love your KOR characters, so what if while Hux was training Snoke made him a Knight? The Knights are all furious/hurt about Kylo abandoning them so they understand Hux’s pain and grief. After training him they make him the new master of the KOR, both bc they recognize his leadership abilities and to spite Kylo (1/2)
(2/2) it could be in the same verse you made with the fic I mentioned or an entirely different Force Sensitive!Hux scenario, bc you can never have too much angsty force sensitive Hux!
Thank you so much for your kind words!! I’ve kept it based on the last Force Sensitive Hux fic that you’re talking about but it doesn’t need to be read to read this one. Just know that Hux’s latent Force sensitivity has been awakened as a result of Kylo turning back to the light!
The Knights tell him over and over again that failure is important when trainingwith the Force, it’s vital in building integrity and essential in learning about one’s weaknesses and strengths to become as powerful as one can be. It’s testing one’s limits, going beyond what can be seen, knowing one’s shortcomings before an enemy does.
But with each failed attempt at lifting blocks or meditating or having control over his newfound powers, Hux wants to scream to the highheavens that this isn’t what he’s meant to be doing. Every day is a constant battle between his logic and his feelings, knowing that he can’t have these powers but feeling electricity at his fingertips. Even now, as he paces back and forth in thelarge empty room—save for the remaining six Knights of Ren, all helmeted, and a wooden table in the middle. Barren walls and a cold, vinyl floor mean every sound is echoed throughout, though Hux feels as though every noise is reverberating through his bones.
“Try again,” one of the Knights says, pushing the empty whiskey bottle back into the centre of the table. “Move the bottle.”
Hux laughs, continuing his pacing in front of the large viewport whilst the other six beings watch his nervousness.
“I can’t,” Hux says, shaking his head, refusing to look at any of them. “I can’t do it. I don’t have it.”
“You do,” a different Knight says—Eon, the Knight most attune to other’s emotions. She stands with her arms folded against the far wall; Hux can feel her gaze even from beneath her helmet, finding little comfort in that he knows that she’s a young human woman underneath it. “We can feel it inside of you. You can feel it, General. We know you can. You’re just not trying.”
“I am trying! I just don’t know how to make it move!”
“Just use your power,” Milah Ren says, Zygerrian, her soft voice amplified through the vocoder in her helmet.
“If one of you idiotic bucket-heads tells me to ‘just use it’ one more time, I’ll be shoving that bottle in places where you’d rather not have a bottle shoved,” Hux huffs, turning away from them all to face the starry blackness of space, closing his eyes to allow his mind to clear for just a moment.
From behind him, Hux hears the familiar and annoying scoff of Atlan Ren, the oldest and grumpiest of the group. The Zabrakian male is sat against the wall, he jeers, muttering something in his native language before standing up.
“This is a clear waste of our time,” Atlan says, adjusting his robes before heading towards the door. “The runt hasn’t the power or the intelligence to be one of us. He’s just another snivelling Imperial, spreading his legs for our former master, the traitor, to gain the upper hand—”
“How dare you!” Hux spits, turning around, seething with such pure rage that he feels as though his head may explode from the pressure. “Don’t you ever assume to know anything of my relationship with Kylo. He—”
“He was a brat, just like you are,” Atlan says, shrugging Eon’s hand from his shoulder when she tries to settle him. “Fools! Both of you! To think that a rat as cold as you, General, could ever love something as broken as pathetic, little Kylo Ren!”
Hux’s field of vision turns red, he feels his chest swell and swell until he feels it needing to burst with his anger, so raw and untamed that Eon sways on her feet, dizzy. Overcome, Hux lets out a yell, snarling likea starving and feral predator who’s staring down a rival for the last scrap of meat on the planet.
“I didlove him!” Hux yells, tears on his cheeks. He’s clenching his fists so hard that the leather of his gloves squeaks in his hold. “I loved him with everything I am. I gave him everything and he left me for them. I have to live every day without him and know that he’s with the enemy as though I was nothing to him when he was my galaxy. So don’t you even think that I don’t know what love is. I have been in its highest hold and now it’s smothering me with Kylo’s memory and I don’t want to love him anymore. I want to hate him.”
Hux is hyperventilating when he finishes speaking, panting like an exhausted animal in front of the silent Knights, feeling his rage simmer out into the familiar pain of his broken heart trying to beat on in his chest. His gaze clears of his tears and the scene before him brings shock to Hux’ss ystem. Atlan is no longer standing in front of him but is lying dazed across the room on the floor, rubbing the back of his head. Not only has the empty bottle moved but it’s been completely destroyed, shattered into hundreds of shards as it lies in a mess amongst the ruins of the wooden table, broken into pieces on the floor.
“Well done, General,” Atlan says as he stands from the floor, the remaining Knights all gathering round in a semi-circle as they approach Hux.
Despite their helmets still being on, Hux feels different now, as though able to see underneath their masks and to their faces, their thoughts and their feelings, attuned to each of them as though they’re an extension of his own consciousness.
“For what?” Hux says, looking down at his own trembling hands, finding that the electricity is no longer at his fingertips but everywhere, running and up and down his veins as though a live current encircles him, and one that threatens to electrocute anyone who comes too close to his raw power.
“For becoming what we knew you would become,” Eon says and, one by one, the Knights drop to their knees around him, bowing their heads before him. “Every Dark Side user draws on a different aspect for their power. Jealousy, greed, fear. But you, Armitage Hux, you are in pain. Your broken heart is what will give you strength to lead us into a glorious victory.”
In unison, Hux hears the Knights speak, both aloud and into their new bond with him, “We shall serve thee, guide us into the Dark, Master Ren. We shall serve thee.”
Hux has had officers salute to him and bow to him for years in both formal and informal situations but now, as he stands before the Knights of Ren as their new Master, he feels elated, not dissimilar to how he felt on stage in front of Starkiller; like a conqueror, only this time, he has more than the harnessed power of the sun at his disposal. He has the power of his shattered heart, of his broken soul, of his most treasured memories of Kylo, all of which he’s going to use to surpass the previous leader of the Knights in every manner possible and burn the Resistance down with nothing but his own rage as the fuel.
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I Still Love You (Jaskier x Reader)
Characters: Jaskier, Geralt
Fandom: The Witcher
Tags: Angst, songfic
Warnings: Mentions of blood and injury
Word Count: 3k words
Requested by @caritobbg: Hello! Could you write a ficlet with Jaskier and a Fem!Reader where they are with Geralt in a tavern and, as she saw Jaskier flirt with other women, she was encouraged to sing a song that she would have written (it occurred to me Love of My Life by Queen) and then she runs from there to the woods when she finishes singing it and is attacked by a werewolf. Jaskier goes off to look for her alongside Geralt who was also concerned and had given his friend reasons to realize how she felt about him?❤️
A/N: This is angsty and bittersweet but I quite like how it turned out, hope you like it!
Jaskier x Female Reader
_
Everything about him seemed absolutely flawless. You were so madly in love with Jaskier that you found even his flaws endearing. For this very reason, you couldn’t help staring at him and admiring his handsome face, and the way his soft brown hair fell over his piercing and beautiful ocean blue eyes, which fondly stared at you.
He seemed to have noticed you were quite absent, because he chuckled and tilted his head at you in an adorable way.
“What’s the matter, Y/N?” Jaskier asked you, gently nudging you and accompanying the gesture with a bright grin. “Are you tired, love?”
“A bit” You admitted, still lovingly staring at him. “Although it’s nothing that your company can’t fix”
“You’re such a flatterer” He fondly wrinkled his nose, leaning in to tap his finger against your nose. “As if your lovely company isn’t a blessing”
You stared at each other in silence for a moment. Seeing his bright grin stirred something within you, reminding you how beautiful it was and how smitten you were.
“If you don’t mind…” You started, trying to confess what had been eating you inside for such a long time. “I wanted to tell you something, Jaskier”
“I’m all ears, love” He absently leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms and intently listening to you. “What is it?”
“You may know already…” Although you nervously chuckled, you truly hoped he had noticed something. As perceptive as Jaskier could be, he seemed completely oblivious to the nature of your affections. “But the truth is I see you a certain way”
“Uh-huh… go on” He nodded his head, even if his eyes were now focused on something that seemed more interesting to him than you. “Sure, right…”
“I have stopped talking” You told him, even if you knew he wasn’t listening at all.
“You’re absolutely right, Y/N” Jaskier continued to nod his head as though he was catching every word you said, which he clearly wasn’t. “But if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to tend to”
Like moved by an invisible force, the bard quickly scurried off to the other end of the tavern. The murmur that surrounded you filled your quietness, though it was not enough to fill the true void of the silence.
Jaskier had found an attractive blond woman who he started enthusiastically talking to. The mere sight was too painful to stand and so you turned your head away.
He seemed to find her to be better company despite the fact that he had never seen her before. Somehow, she was more enticing than you even if you and Jaskier had known each other for so long now, even if you had traveled together and endured countless hardships with each other.
Your eyes suddenly stung with unshed tears. In an attempt to distract from that woe, you searched Geralt with your gaze. Soon you spotted him sitting at the table still, enjoying his solitude in peace as he calmly drank is ale. For the first time since you started traveling together, you understood why he isolated himself in such a way. It was the only way to avoid getting hurt.
With a will of their own, your eyes searched Jaskier once more. He was dedicating her that smile, the one he usually saved only for you. Or so you thought. You could have sworn you felt how your heart broke, as though it was made out of glass and it shattered into a million pieces, causing the shards to consume you from the inside. At the same time, however, a burning anger erupted inside you. Did he not see how much it hurt you? Did Jaskier not realize how deeply in love you were? Or did he just decide to ignore it and continue courting other women? Whatever the case, you were tired. Tired of waiting for him, of holding on to hope that he might reciprocate someday, that he could love you back.
Forgetting about the pain and trying to hold on to that anger, you walked directly towards him. Not paying mind to the woman he was so bluntly flirting with, you shoved him a little.
“Oi!” He complained, watching you up and down in a mixture between confusion and outrage. “What’s the matter with you, Y/N?”
“I’ll tell you in a way you can finally get it through your thick skull, bard” Even if you were still angry, your voice only held all that pain that you felt inside.
Jaskier frowned sadly, frozen in place even as you took the lute hanging from his back and claimed it as your own. You felt his eyes follow you as you adamantly stood on a table and began strumming the chords, gathering the attention from everyone at the tavern. Geralt’s golden eyes fell on you as well, and you paused as you exchanged a glance with him. Recognizing the resignation and empathy in his eyes, you continued on. Ready to finally pour your heart out to Jaskier, or at least what was left of it.
That song had been hidden for too long, locked in your heart and in your mind. You were never brave enough to bring it out into the world, especially not when the bearer of your affections was unbeknownst to it all. It had been a difficult decision, but you had chosen his definite friendship over a possible romance, but you couldn’t handle the consequences any longer. That romance would never exist. It was but a mirage, an impossible daydream.
Moved by the sorrow that made your chest hurt, you began singing the ballad you had composed, that one which so perfectly explained your feelings as he hadn’t been able to recognize them on his own.
Love of my life, you've hurt me
You've broken my heart, and now you leave me
When your eyes met with Jaskier’s, a lump formed in your throat. His saddened frown had only deepened as he intently listened to your every sung word. His face, however, blurred as the tears inevitably arrived to your eyes. In spite of it all, you pushed through and carried on.
Love of my life, can't you see?
Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me
Because you don't know what it means to me
Love of my life, don't leave me
You've taken my love, and now desert me
It all suddenly became too much. The song was interrupted by your strong sobs and you felt unable to continue. The world became a place too hard for such a hurt girl like you. Shaking your head, you jumped down the table and returned by his side. Your bottom lip trembled as you reached him, and yet you still tried to lift your chin up in pride.
For once, Jaskier was rendered speechless. He observed you in silence, and the distress in his beautiful lively blue eyes somehow was yet another blow to your bleeding heart.
“You’ve broken my heart” You repeated as though the song hadn’t ended, angrily pushing the lute against his chest and facing your back to him.
“Y/N… did you write that?” He finally asked once you did. When he realized you weren’t turning back to him, a sudden urgency arrived to his voice. “Wait, h-hang on!”
His heart wildly raced, bringing a dull ache to his chest with every beat. Jaskier felt guilty and stupid, having been too frivolous to truly understand. You had been trying to tell him something important, and he only got distracted by a pretty face. As if you weren’t beautiful and right in front of him all along.
He blindly followed after you, yet a strong had pushed against his chest to keep him in place. Jaskier tried to pass the witcher by, but Geralt was adamant on intercepting his friend.
“Leave her”
“N-No! She’s upset and-“
“She doesn’t want to talk to you right now, Jaskier”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you really that fucking stupid?”
“What?”
“You really didn’t realize her feelings?”
“Well, now I do… She was trying to tell me but-“
“She’s been trying to tell you ever since she joined us”
“Come now, Geralt… If I were to truly believe every woman I talk to is enamored with me…”
“Yes, but that one really loved you. And she just walked away”
Jaskier froze in place, quitting his attempts to go over the witcher’s block. He gulped, realizing the implications of what Geralt was saying. It made your behavior all the more understandable while at the same time all the more heartbreaking. And it was all his fault.
“Jask… you stupid, stupid man…” He chastised himself under his breath before looking back up to his friend. “We should go after her, should we not?”
Geralt’s expression suddenly shifted, from utterly annoyed to alert. The bard had seen that expression many times, and a nasty feeling arrived to the pit of his stomach.
“W-What?” He uttered in fright. “What is it?”
“The woods” Geralt clenched his jaw as he retrieved both his swords. “It’s filled with werewolves”
“Shit” Before the witcher could say anything else, Jaskier began running.
He ran outside of the tavern, leaving behind his long forgotten female companion. He ran like he had never run in his life, completely ignoring the way his heart hammered against his ribcage or the feeling of not having enough oxygen in his lungs to breathe. Jaskier run as though the most important person in his life was in danger, because she was.
Perhaps he had been too blind or too stupid to realize you were the person he cared for most, but you were. Perhaps he had been completely oblivious to the feelings you harbored for him, but you did nonetheless. And it was his reckless behavior that gave you such spite, caused by him, that threw you to venture into the lion’s den.
As he ran breathlessly, not caring to wait for Geralt, Jaskier realized… he would never forgive himself if something happened to his dear Y/N.
_
By the time they arrived into the woods, it was nighttime. The pair had looked for you in many other places, being sure to check quickly in case the worst case scenario was the reality: you had ventured into the dangerous woods on your own, feeling sad and miserable and being more vulnerable to an attack.
Jaskier couldn’t breathe, he could not focus as his mind could only return to you. He heard it just as he immersed further into the woods, with Geralt closely following behind. A woman was screaming, and he shivered at the thought that it was his beloved Y/N, who was in deathly peril.
“Y/N!” The bard yelled back, already moving to go to your rescue.
“Jaskier” Geralt stopped him, pulling back at his doublet. “Wait”
“What?” The aforesaid replied in outrage. “Y/N is out there, probably scared out of her mind right now, and it is all my fault, and you want me to w-“
Another sound interrupted him, one that took his breath away. It had sounded like a wolf howling, but the bard had enough experience thanks to the witcher to realize it was no ordinary wolf. No, that sounded far too strange to be a normal creature.
“A werewolf” Geralt muttered, pulling out his silver sword.
“How can you be so sure?” Jaskier stuttered, intently looking at his friend.
With no need for words, the witcher only pointed a gloved finger upwards. Following that direction, Jaskier realized what he was saying. There was a full moon looming over them, magical and mysterious as well as intimidating, if not for herself, for the creatures that lurked in her name.
“I’ll get the werewolf” Geralt whispered, finally letting go of him. “You circle around it and find Y/N”
Determined, Jaskier nodded his head and stepped away from the place the howling sound had originated from. He was adamant on his mission, as finding you seemed the most important thing he would have to do in his life. He only prayed that you weren’t injured.
Searching for any signs of your presence, he moved slowly, too afraid to miss any of the signs that you might be close by. The dry leaves crunched beneath his boots, yet no sound seemed loud enough to overpower that of his racing heart and his erratic breathing. His hands nervously closed and opened as his fingers nervously fidgeted.
“No…” Jaskier suddenly felt dizzy when he spotted something crimson staining the leaves. “Y/N?”
They were only a few droplets of blood, but it was more than enough to have Jaskier stop in his tracks and bend over weakly. His stomach churned, his mind was racing with terrible thoughts of what could have happened to you.
“Y/N? God, I hope you’re alright” He whispered. “Where are you, love?”
Just as he took another step, something caught his attention. A whimpering noise sounded to his right, and so he didn’t think twice to head in that direction. What he found was a figure, huddled behind a tree trunk, hiding her face on her knees and bawling her eyes out.
“Y/N!” Jaskier threw himself to his knees, gently laying a hand atop your shoulder.
“No!” You moved away from his touch, waving your hands in the air as though trying to swat him off you. “Don’t hurt me, please!”
“It’s me! It’s me, love, it’s Jaskier!”
When you dared look up, he paused. You were still breathing rapidly, tears rolling down your cheeks as your bawling started coming to a halt.
“T-The werewolf!”
“It’s alright, Geralt’s gone and get it”
The air turned cold as you grew silent. Jaskier watched you in anguish, wanting to ask if you were alright but nearly fearing he had lost the right to even ask that. It was his fault that you were there on the first place. Bearing heavy thoughts of your own, you remained quiet. You locked eyes with Jaskier as contradictory feelings overwhelmed you.
Love of my life, can't you see?
Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me
Because you don't know what it means to me
You will remember, when this is blown over
And everything's all by the way
When I grow older, I will be there at your side
To remind you how I still love you
Back, hurry back, please bring it back home to me
Because you don't know what it means to me
“I’m sorry…” He whispered, even though his voice came out strangled and it was barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I’m-“
Much to his astonishment, you threw yourself to him. Your arms urgently wrapped around his neck as you cowered into his shoulder. All possible unwell within you both seemed to vanish as you collided in an urgent embrace.
“Oh, thank the gods I found you…” Jaskier sighed in relief, cradling your head as he held you tightly against him. “Are you hurt? I saw…”
“It scratched me…” You pulled away, holding your arm up to show him the garments torn to shreds and the superficial wound still pouring blood. “But it didn’t bite me”
“Thank the heavens…” He embraced you again, being taken by such relief that he now experienced an entire different kind of dizziness as he gingerly pressed your frame against his chest. “I’m so sorry, love, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been so bloody stupid”
You were silent as you let him hold you. While your fresh wound was a duller ache, your head hurt as your love for Jaskier as well as your resentment for his demeanor fought for dominance within you.
“You’re mad, aren’t you?” He uttered, knowing how to interpret your silence. “I don’t blame you, honestly, I would-“
“Now you know” You interrupted him, realizing he was about to ramble as he usually did. “What do you have to say about it?”
“Yes, it is absolutely my bad” Jaskier vehemently nodded his head. “Had I realized what your true feelings were, I could have saved you so much pain and… I suppose I just didn’t see the signs that you-“
“Jaskier” You only called him, bearing unshed tears in your glassy eyes.
“I don’t know” He honestly replied, feeling more genuine and vulnerable than you had ever seen him. “I don’t know if I love you back, I just know that I care about you”
“I still love you…” You stuttered, letting out a nervous chuckle to hide the fact that your tears had overflown and were now rolling down your face once more.
“And I… I love you too, but… I don’t know in which way I love you, I just know I was terrified out of my mind when you ran away” He sighed, passing a nervous hand through his thick brown hair. “I might realize I hold romantic feelings for you soon or I might not, but… I want you to know that you hold a special place in my heart one way or the other”
Not knowing what to do or say, you only nodded your head. Feeling uncomfortable, you instead tried to stand up and Jaskier didn’t lose one second to help you to your feet.
“I promise you one thing, though” He tenderly held your hand. “I won’t ever allow myself to hurt you like this ever again”
“Okay…” You could only mutter, still recovering from the pain that day held for you.
“Come here, love” Jaskier wrapped his arms around you a third time, this time never wanting to let you go. He clung on to you, just like you were. Perhaps you loved each other in different ways, and whether that would change or not, you had each other at the moment.
The bard looked up when he thought he heard something. In the distance, he spotted Geralt standing there, carrying the blood stained sword. The two looked at each other as they were facing one another, and nodded their heads. They didn’t say anything, only resigning themselves to the way things ended. There was nothing to say anymore after all.
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#rfi writings#ficlet#jaskier x reader#the witcher#the witcher ficlet#witcher#witcher ficlet#jaskier#geralt#geralt ficlet#geralt of rivia#reader insert#requested
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Everybody’s Fool
Summary: We’ve seen Asher’s past come back to haunt him, now Rossie’s comes back to haunt her.
Notes: While this is a very Rossie-centric ficlet, Asher does belong to @moonlitalien
Just a fairly mild warning--this does deal with the discrimination between Arkanians and the offshoots. So if that’s uncomfortable...just scroll, it won’t hurt my feelings :)
Rossie had a very strict policy on not turning anyone away from Smell the Roses, unless they were causing trouble and being disruptive. So far in the few years she had been up and running the policy had held strong and unminded and it had kept her store blissfully peaceful.
One instance of violence in three years wasn’t exactly a bad record—and that had only been an old connection of Asher’s toeing the line. Prior to that and after things had always remained quiet in her little corner of the Coruscanti market district.
She wanted to change that policy on the spot when the door swung open and two tall, tanned women stepped in, chatting amicably in a language she didn’t know. Well, a language she didn’t fully know; she recognized the sounds, she recognized a few words from sentence to sentence as the true Arkanian dialect. The dialect she had never been allowed to learn.
Her suspicions were confirmed when they came over to her little counter, their pure white eyes wandering over her handwritten chalkboard signs of the daily arrangements. Their white hair was pulled back from their elegant faces, haughty in an arrogance Rossie knew well.
One of the women was staring at her, and Rossie ducked her head, brushing her hair over her ears in vain to hide their point, tugging her sweater sleeves down over her knuckles to hide the identification brand on her forearm.
“Can I help you?” she spoke around the awful, sickly sinking feeling in her stomach, the way her heart seemed to crawl up into her throat. Everything in her told her to avert her eyes, duck her head and leave. But Asher was in the back helping her sort pick-up orders and if she asked him to take them as customers, he would ask questions. She didn’t want him to think that she was too much of a coward to take any of her customers. She had dealt alone for long enough to manage this alone too.
“We’re on planet for a wedding and have been told to bring flowers,” one of the women offered, while the other stilled stared intently at Rossie like a scientist looking at her specimen. Rossie swallowed hard, nodding. “We did some research—we were thinking daffodils, hydrangeas, or tulips. They all seem quite lovely.”
Mouth going dry—all three were absolutely the worst kind of flowers anyone could arrange to a wedding, if they weren’t dying within the first hour then they would certainly create an unsavory irritation of the skin—at the suggestions she started to shake her head. Anyone else, literally any other individual and she wouldn’t have hesitated to advise them on better flowers to make a happier bride and make a brighter day.
Now it just felt like her mouth was filled with cotton and it was getting harder to breath. Even looking at them made her want to disappear into the back room and never come out again. It was like a landmine of disproportionate levels; twenty years’ worth of walking on thin ice among Arkanians had taught her that lesson well. She could see those lessons running like a holofilm before her eyes when the woman who had posed the suggestion’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“Oh? What would you suggest?”
Rossie wanted to cry at the offended accusation in the woman’s voice—she could feel the pressure starting to build behind her eyes, but she took a deep breath that might as well have come from beneath a cinder block on her chest and gestured to the board behind her. “Personally,” her voice sounded breathy in her own ears. “I would arrange something with sweet peas, orchids, baby’s breath, or gardenia’s depending on the bride’s preference. But I do have some suggested up there, or pre-made arrangements in the front aisle.”
“I think we’re going to go look around.” The woman who had been speaking the entire time said, nudging her friend. Her friend broke her stare that felt like it was picking Rossie apart like a dissection and skipped after the other as they made their way to the front aisle with its display in white cloth and ribbons.
She could hear them whispering to each other, though she couldn’t understand more than a few scattered words, she could feel their eyes boring into her like lasers from across her store. Rossie walked over to her table where she made all her arrangements, brushing flower petals into a wastebasket and beginning to wipe it down just to have something to do.
Her hands were beginning to tremble, and she shook her head, forcing herself to take in several deep breaths just to try and get herself to calm down. They couldn’t touch her here, they couldn’t demand anything of her, they had no hold over her here.
It was one thing to know it in her logical thoughts and quite another to know it in her heart and mind.
She made the mistake of glancing up at the rustling of displays, seeing one of the women brush up against the flowers as she shifted. She also saw her run her finger along the shell of her ear, dragging it out into a mimed point, saw the faint gesture back to where she had been, and the soft tinkling laughter that followed.
Stars above help her, she turned her back, leaning against her bench and pressed a hand against her mouth. She wanted to go get Asher, she knew that if she knocked on that back door, he would be out here in an instant willing to take them for her.
She could easily imagine the comments they would make on that, the satisfaction it would give them to see her turn tail and flee. Twenty years may have broken her in some of the worst ways she was still trying to fix, but it had also ingrained a terrible spite deep in her that reared its head now.
“I think we’ll take one of your arrangements.” Even still, she nearly jumped out of her skin when they appeared at her bench, whipping around to face them. “None of the ones at the front will do at all.”
The idle comment was barbed, and Rossie tried to suppress a flinch of hurt at the insult to her flowers. It always stung when a client dismissed the arrangements, she had poured precious time and care into, but this felt more like a dagger than a sting.
“Okay,” she hated the way her voice came out little more than meek whisper, the way her eyes dropped to her hands on the table. Her hands with five, delicate fingers and pale, pinky-white skin; another call to attention that she wasn’t like them. “were you thinking of a particular one?”
The woman’s fingernails clicked on the surface of her workbench as she tapped them. “The sweet breath…garden...whatever it was that you suggested.” It sounded like the woman was dragging the words that acknowledged her idea out. “As long as its pretty.”
“I’ll have that ready in a few minutes.” Rossie said on autopilot, disappearing into her storeroom to grab armfuls of the flowers, filling her senses with their soothing smell and she felt herself relax on instinct. She had expected them to wander off in the meanwhile, but instead they still milled around her work space and Rossie felt her heart rate spike again.
Laying the flowers across the work space and sliding to grab a sleeve to put the finished arrangement into and her tools, she rolled up her sleeves to avoid getting water on them. She was painfully aware of them sniffing around her desk. The woman who had been dissecting her with her eyes picked up one of her little cards advertising Simply Chic.
“Oh, you make jewelry?”
Rossie glanced up before looking back down at her flowers, giving the slightest of nods. “I do…”
“Do you buy any of your supplies from Arkania—we have many exports from there.”
It was baiting her, and it was test and Rossie very well knew it. She still rose to it, sticking her tongue into her cheek as she thought very carefully for one second before throwing care out the window. “I don’t, I source all my materials from other small, respectable locations.”
The silence that fell after felt like a noose going around her neck and Rossie nearly sliced her finger cutting a stray length of stem with the nerves that shot violently through her. It was as though a chill fell through her shop, she could practically feel the disapproval and accusation of her disrespect from the way goosebumps rose on her arms.
She was nearly done with the arrangement, all it needed was to be banded together and she would be finished with them.
As she finished up her work the scientist of the two leaned her forearms on Rossie’s work space, pointing to her hand. “Are you married?”
Looking down at the ring on her finger, then back at the woman, Rossie narrowed her eyes like it was a threat, voice cautious. “…yes.”
“How cute!”
Cute, like the way you referred to a hamster rolling around in its ball was cute, or cute in the way a kitten played with a string.
Then the woman smiled, a feral, dangerous smile and looked back at Rossie’s hand. “So…W-eighteen-nighty nine-seven, huh? That’s a very pretty way of hiding what you are.”
Rossie’s heart dropped through the floor and she hurriedly yanked down the sleeve she had carelessly rolled up while working. Feeling the flush creeping up her neck and across her face, she snapped the rubber band across the remainder of the flowers, holding them out. “Here—” her voice was strangled, her eyes burning as they were batted from her hand, flopping down onto the table’s surface.
“Actually, I think we’re done.” The woman with her feral smile said sweetly. “We don’t really need flowers. Especially not from here.”
They were gone before she could even protest, leaving her with flowers strewn across the counter and a sick feeling to her stomach. She seized the flowers, turning around to throw them as hard as she could against the wall.
When that didn’t help, she braced one arm against the back of her worktable, the other clapping over her mouth when she couldn’t suppress a shaken sob from bubbling out of her. She’d never wanted to see any remnant of Arkania again, she thought she’d escaped it by coming to Coruscant.
She had escaped it by coming here; no one gave her a second look—a second look of disdain, that is—as they walked by, no one threw her work back into her face or wrestled out of her that she wasn’t like them.
It was like with only a short interaction they had torn down every single bit of progress she had made and rocketed her back to being twenty and stifled in the back-storage closet of a smuggler’s transport shuttle, or even back in the dusty, lightless gem mines.
She didn’t hear the door to the back-storage room open at first, only Asher’s voice cutting through the haze surrounding her. “Rossie do you need a hand, I thought I heard voices—Ross?”
“I’m fine.” She sounded about as convincing out loud as she did in her own mind—and that was none. Her attempts to wave Asher away and swipe away the tears and push the petals under the bench with her toe were didn’t help her case in the slightest.
Damn it all, she didn’t want Asher to see this, see how easily she had been dismantled just by a few whispers and sideways looks.
“Ross, what happened?” Asher was by her side in an instant, a hand slipping under hers and she realized that she had been viciously rubbing at the brand on her forearm that she had tried to take power away from by stenciling pretty tattoos around it—as if it wasn’t anything more than an artistic expression. She looked down, finding her pale skin marred red and splotchy.
“It’s nothing,” she tried again, voice sounding just as stuffed and pathetic to her own ears as before. Stars damn it. “A customer just walked out. I wasn’t expecting it.”
It wasn’t the first time a customer had walked out, abandoning their flowers. It had never reduced her to a sobbing mess except for the first time it had happened. Asher had seen her deal with that very situation, and she had always brushed it off, put the flowers in vases to keep for later or bring up to their apartment, and moved on.
Asher wasn’t exactly easy to lie around. “Rossie,” there was a concerned imploring in his voice, his hand covering hers when it tried to drift back to the identification brand—damn it and all it stood for, she just wanted it gone—and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “Please, don’t.”
Her lower lip quivered, and she surged forward, crushing herself against Asher’s chest and hiding her face against his shoulder. She hated that instead of helping like she thought it would, hiding from the world in Asher’s embrace, it only made the stubbornly held back tears come out in full force.
“It’s so…stupid.” She tried to brush off tears, vehemently furious at how deeply she was shaken while still feeling like she had been shaken to her core. “These two Arkanians came in and…” she broke off and she felt Asher tense, already starting to connect the dots.
He had seen the scars on her body—the needle fine scars from their test tube injections and thin slices--from their experiments, he knew her story. He had traced the brand on her arm in idle contemplation, pressed soft kisses to it when she would have rather had it gone before anything else.
He knew. And she didn’t need to explain, but she did.
“They just…their arrogance. They looked at me like I was dirt on the counter.” Rossie muffled her voice to near inaudible levels against Asher’s shoulder, bunching his shirt between her fingers where her hands knotted behind his shoulders. “And then…it’s like without needing to do anything I was back there again. It’s ridiculous.”
Asher rubbed a hand between Rossie’s shoulder blades soothingly, his other hand cupping the back of her head. “You aren’t there anymore.” An edge came into his voice. “You never should have been there.”
“I know,” she couldn’t keep the frustrated, miserable growl out of her voice. Then it softened and she deflated, shoulders drooping. “I know.”
Did she though? Wasn’t it a constant battle of realizing that she had been solely created to be deferential, that her entire purpose had been doctored to one thing for years? Wasn’t it a constant question on if she had ever been her own person?
“You could have asked me to help.” Asher reminded her—softly, without accusing.
Rossie sniffled. “I wanted to face it alone, I thought I could. But I can’t…not yet.”
And all it took was two people walking through those store doors to rock her entirely from her self-assurance in the answers to those questions.
#my writing#swtor#swtor fanfic#twi'lek#arkanian offshoot#oc: Rosalynd#other people's ocs: Asher#otp: Ashrossie#kind of even though this is a very Rossie centric piece#the way Arkanians are kill me#and I needed to explore what happens if Rossie meets one who just sees her as an escaped tool
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I had a thought about James braiding Eleanor’s hair, so I turned it into a ficlet. Enjoy!
She was still barely more than a child when he met her, and half wild, bird’s nest hair and boy’s breeches.
Eleanor Guthrie had insisted on meeting him, as a new captain on Nassau. She did the same with every new captain, according to Gates, but “most of the captains don’t bother. She has no real power here anyway.”
James went to see Miss Guthrie all the same, if only for the amusement of the thing. He was shown into a room, a spacious, well-lit office, which must have belonged to Richard Guthrie. But Richard Guthrie was in Nassau no longer, and only his daughter remained.
She was lounging when he entered, feet on the desk, swigging a bottle of rum, but she stood up to greet him. “Eleanor Guthrie, Queen of the Pirates,” she introduced herself, sticking out a hand, which he took, amused in spite of himself. “Who the hell are you?”
“Captain James Flint, of the Walrus,” he said in reply, trying not to smile. “And you’re hardly Queen of the Pirates, from what I hear. How many of the captains here answer to you?”
She smiled sweetly, then stuck her tongue out at him. “Not yet, maybe,” she admitted, looking angry. “But I will be.”
“And how do you propose on doing that, exactly?” he asked, thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Why should I share my plans with you?” she said, defiantly, and she truly was barely more than a child, but James saw something in her, some steel, real potential, and above all, belief, iron-clad belief, that she could be what she set out to be. James helped himself to a seat.
“Well, first of all, you’ll need to look the part,” he said, taking in her unbrushed hair and dirty clothes dubiously. She glowered at him.
“I do look the part,” she said. “I look just as grubby and uncivilized as any of them out there.”
“Ah,” said James, smiling, “you may look like a pirate. But you don’t look like a captain. And you certainly don’t look like a Queen.”
Eleanor pouted at him. Then she looked him up and down, taking him all in, and seemed to come to the conclusion that he was not simply mocking her. “And what would you suggest?” she asked challengingly.
That was how they found themselves, several hours and glasses of rum later (James supposed he should be shocked or even worried about how much the girl could consume, but in some ways it only made him admire her more) sat in Eleanor’s chambers, James brushing through her hair and then braiding it with quick, clever fingers.
Eleanor had relaxed and mellowed somewhat. “How did you learn how to do this?” she asked, leaning into his fingers, eyes closing slightly.
“I used to have longer hair,” he said. “I used to do this for myself, on occasion.”
Eleanor twisted to look at him, amused, forgetting his fingers were in her hair and wincing as it pulled. James let go immediately and Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Now you’ll have to start again,” she said. Then, “why would you have to do your hair up all fancy?”
“I was a Lieutenant, in the Navy,” James said, and the words came easily. “I had to be well presented.”
“And your hair used to be…longer?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“When did you cut it?”
James paused, gripping Eleanor’s shoulders very gently and turning her back to face away from him, so he could start to re-braid her hair again, and so he wouldn’t have to feel her piercing gaze on her. “Just after I arrived here,” he said, quietly.
“Why?” she asked, just as quietly, holding her breath, as though she knew it was not merely because the fancy had taken him.
James paused for even longer this time. He finally answered, “because I lost someone.”
“Who?” Eleanor asked, ever-curious, and James finished plaiting her hair.
“There,” he said. “All done. You look like a regular Queen if I ever saw one.” He passed her the mirror, but Eleanor was not remotely interested. Instead, she twisted around to look at him again.
James smiled, and met her gaze, but his eyes were hard as stone. She glared at him for almost a full minute, but eventually broke his gaze, and looked in the mirror.
“Thank you,” she said, and her tone would have been one of compliance and defeat, if it hadn’t been for the last word she uttered. “James.”
Eleanor Guthrie would be a formidable ally or a powerful enemy, and James knew from that moment that he would do well never to underestimate her.
#black sails#james flint#eleanor guthrie#black sails fic#fluff but they're also testing each other and pushing each other's boundaries from the first time they meet#formidable father-daughter duo of my heart#who fight because they care and because they want to make each other better#but also bc they're both curious and manipulative af and want to get the upper hand
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