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we-love-the-murder-bois · 2 years

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hi! may i request some Yautja x reader or Xenomorph x reader fluff where their s/o is is sick or injured? anyway, hope ur day is going well!

(Awe, my day is fine sweat pea! Here’s the Yautja part of your request, I may do the xeno too. Hope you don’t mind me using the Yautja from the last post. I call him Crook and he’s my favorite.)

Yautja x sick! Reader

The Yautja were a race of warriors. They were technical and built for battle, and rarely was there a problem that couldn’t be solved with weapons or bloodshed.

It was how they were raised, brought up to learn that their skill in battle was their greatest skill, that their honour was their greatest asset.

“Hiya Crook.” Their human whispered into the darkness of the morning, voice think with sleep and scratchy like they had been calling a war cry, shaking fingers tracing his crooked jaw. They had been given a name when they were born, another when they became a warrior, and yet another by their human. Crook was their favorite.

This was a problem he couldn’t solve with violence.

Y/n was never still, even in their sleep. They always moved, always occupied their hands with weapons or screens, learning and prattling on about everything and nothing. They added to their armour and sharpened their weapons, tried to run blindly into ecosystems of foreign planets, only stopped by his hand gripping the back of their armour. They were foolhardy, but smart in all the ways that mattered. Never still, always in motion.

Until today.

Today, the lights flicked on like they did every day at 0700, a median time between the mornings of their two worlds. The lights were necessary, the only sign of passing days in the black void of space.

Every morning y/n woke up with some complaints, making rude hand gestures at the lights and snuggling up to him before their usual energy pulled them from bed. They were a whirlwind of energy on the ship, bring life and motion to his life. Making his days so different that he wondered how he ever functioned before them.

But today they only whined as the sleeping room filled with light. (He used to call it the Rest Room but y/n wouldn’t stop laughing at him) Y/n pulled their covers over their head, curling into a ball beneath them. Just that was enough to tip him off that something was wrong.

He got up as he always did, giving them a moment as he found and fitted his armour. Most days Y/n would make their strange happy noises, whistles and loud calls made with a wide smile as they watched him, today they stayed silent.

“Darling?” He asked, laying a hand on their vague shape under the blankets.

“Mmm, love it when you call me that.” Came a muffled groan, a hand sneaking out from under the covers to gently grasp his wrist. Y/n was bad with translating early in the morning, another reason he had learned their language.

A warrior was patient, so he waited as they slowly peaked out with narrowed eyes, features drawn tight and skin ashy. They didn’t look their best, but human biology was such a strange thing. Maybe they were shedding? Did humans shed?

“Hey handsome, mind if I sleep in?” They asked slowly, sluggishly. They pat his arm, then slowly pulled it back under the covers like the retreating tail of a snake. Y/n usually proclaimed, very loudly with a lot of passion, that sleep was stupid and they were beyond such needs. They weren’t and they both knew it, but if it made them feel better he’d let them be silly and irrational.

He listened. He checked the ships controls and made sure the hound was fed, even letting the creature on the bed to curl into y/n’s side. Thankfully it was still rather young, he didn’t need to worry about it crushing them. He let a few hours pass, but Y/n didn’t leave the room, or their pile of blankets.

He brought them water, sitting beside them and digging around until he could feel their skin.

‘Too warm.’ He fretted, peeling away the blankets. Y/n whined and batted at his hands, taking a rattling breath that tapered into a cough that shook their shoulders. They gagged, curling against his side and clutching their chest.

Something was wrong. He looked for injuries, remembering how slow infection could kill, but every injury was healing well, stitches holding tight. They winced at his prodding, but no teasing, no strange human insults about parental chickens.

‘It’s fine, just…’ Their face scrunched up, the face they always made when a Yautja word escaped them. “Sick. I don’t know that word.”

“Sick?” It was a term they’d never used before. He didn’t have his translator, he rarely needed it anymore. Y/n had been all too eager to teach him, and they were far more interesting than a decryption software.

“Oh…It’s like, not well? Uh, we can get kinda sluggish and gross while our bodies fight off bacteria and stuff.” That didn’t completely explain the situation, but he stared at them in nervous fascination. Fighting? They were fighting something inside their body?

He retrieved his helmet, looking them over carefully and fretting. There was no tiny enemy, but their lungs weren’t right, too much fluid and working too hard.

“Help?” He asked, hoping there was something he could do. Inside his amazing little human was a battle, and he could do nothing to aid them. They were a fierce warrior no doubt, and this seemed to be a normal human issue, but he couldn’t help but fear for his human.

They just smiled, eyes still mischievous under the haze of fever.

“I got sick all the time as a kid, just keep me company, and hydrated and shit.”

Crook wasn’t good with enemies he couldn’t fight, problems unsolvable from technology. They were too far from Earth, too far from Yautja Prime, too far from anyone that could help. Just him and y/n. Normally he liked the privacy, now he hated it.

They told him about their childhood with a scratchy voice, about getting sick in the winter and how humans treated these illnesses. He liked their stories, but his human struggled to keep their stories in order, breaking off to cough up stuff he briefly thought was blood before he remembered humans had different colour blood.

The heavy humidity of the last planet seemed to trigger an underlying issue, leaving his human drowning in their own lungs. He would return to burn that planet to the ground if it wouldn’t put Y/n more at risk. Place probably wouldn’t burn anyways, stupid rainforest biogeography.

His warrior finally slept, fitful and interrupted by whimpers so unlike them. He didn’t judge, every warrior was allowed a few moments of weakness.

He carded through their human dreads, still baffled by the lack of feeling in them. He traced their scars with the edge of his claw, careful not to scratch. Their marks were still fresh, beautiful and stark against their clammy skin. Even then, with sunken eyes and paled skin, they were the most captivating creature he’d ever seen.

Yautja didn’t fear anything. Not death, not defeat. They were raised to believe that death was simply a part of a warriors journey, that to die in battle was a worthy cause. Technology came with advancements, and more wounds could be staunched until they returned home, where they could be healed properly. Still, warriors died of bleeding out, of infections that made their blood thick and dark. Those were unworthy deaths, deaths mourned by elders and bodies buried in sad shrines lacking of trinkets of honour.

Crook was afraid. Maybe it made him a coward, but he feared for his human.

Before them he had never needed a companion, never desired a mate past the season, content to hunt across the galaxy and prove his worth. He had goals of being elite, of being a elder warrior, and then he met them.

In two days, a series of small battles until a war, a clashing of titans. A human, prey to be hunted, standing up and fighting instead of running. A human that managed to get to a stalemate, one they both knew they could have won.

The truce had changed his life and he wasn’t sure he could function alone anymore. The ship was already so quiet and empty with them sick in bed, it would be maddening alone.

‘Get better, Goat.” He held them against him, feeling each labored breath and shuddering cough like they were his own.

“You definitely do that on purpose, asshole.” They wheezed, smiling with a flicker of their normal brightness.

He had to trust his human. They would win this battle. They had to.

—

(Poor Yautja, illness is scary. He doesn’t want his human to die, because surely they were dying.)

/part 1 of 2, I’m doing both requests because I have ideas/

#slasher x reader #slasher imagine #predators #slasher imagines #slashers x reader #horror imagines #predator x reader #prey 2022 #prey movie #yautja x reader #the predator #predator 2 #predator imagine #yautja oc #yautja #humans are terrifying

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galacticgraffiti · 3 months

Text

⋞ The War of Life and Death II ⋟

An Eya & Fives story. Huge thanks to @pinkiemme for loving me and letting me borrow Fives art for my little header!

Rating: Mature (for some gore and heavy themes) Wordcount: 3k Warnings: Angst, and then friendship, Eya is once again anxious as hell Summary: Eya awaits Fives for their sparring, and Fives gets another puzzle piece of Eya's life.

Part I ✧ Part II ✧ Part III

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Part II: The Path of the Sword

Coruscant, Ramikadyc Dojo. 19 BBY.

Everyone has gone home – it’s late. Eya is the only person left in the place, and they are on a mission. Well – they are waiting. For now. Just waiting. Not pacing, not preparing; not outwardly at least.

Earlier, this had seemed like such a fun idea: Meeting Fives at their dojo for a sparring match. A way too teach their little brother a lesson, take his cockiness down a notch. Now, Eya is not so sure anymore. They have fought since Brutus – of course they have, it’s in their blood. Fighting is still who they are, even at times where they wish it wasn’t so.

It’s an addiction, one they have to satisfy lest the bloodlust overtakes them. It was hard in the beginning, when they felt Brutus’s tendons snap beneath their fangs, felt his horn break in the palm of their hand with each hit they took and dealt.

Eya has gotten better. It’s been over a year now, and the memory of Brutus’s death lingers, always at the edge of their mind. But it’s not a conscious memory anymore – it no longer holds the power over them it once did. They can fight like they used to again, without the fear of killing without intention.

Eya tells themself that, over and over and over again as they wait in the dim lighting of the gym. They hug their knees and curl up in their corner, mumbling to themself.

“Gar ori’shya kad. Gar ori’shya kyr. Gar ori’shya kyramud. Fives cuyi gar vod. An’jate, an’jate, Kyr’eya, an’jate… Ibic kaan acyk burcye.”

When Fives said getting away from the barracks would not be a problem, they took that opportunity. There is much to say about an audience for a fight. Maybe it would have been good not to be alone, just in case… or maybe it would have been a bad idea, reminded them too much of the days they spent as Jaro, millions of miles away from their own self.

Kyreya has left all their gear at home, where it belongs, buried in a locked chest beneath the mountains of civvy clothes they have accumulated. They don’t want to look at the helmet they have discarded along with the life it had led them to. They don’t want to wear their armour, none of it. This is a fight between friends- just sparring for fun. They won’t need it.

They tell that to themself as they slip into their loose trousers and leave their chest bare. They tell it to themself as they discard their shoes and wrap their knuckles. They tell it to themself sitting on a crate in the corner where the lights don’t hurt their eye.

Eya still feels bare and vulnerable.

Fives’s chipper voice rips them from their trance.

“Dha o’r olar, osik.”

Eya gurgles in amusement as they watch Fives approach, his casual saunter interrupted by him stubbing his toe on a discarded weapon. The sight of him hopping on one leg exclaiming quiet expletives in various languages is almost enough to justify the cost of their cybernetic eye. Darkvision has its perks to be sure.

“Olarom, vod’ika.”

Fives startles and spins around, his eyes squinted as if it could help him see through the darkness. Eya grins so their fangs sparkle in the low lights – they always did have a flair for the dramatic when the opportunity arose.

“I forgot you can’t see in the darkness,” Eya states, the apology a mere implication. It’s not in their nature nor their upbringing to apologise.

“With my gear I can,” Fives grumbles, moving in their direction, gesturing vaguely towards his missing helmet. “Just didn’t bring it.”

“The light hurts my eyes.” Eya shrugs and hops off their crate to pull the lever for the lights. The sudden flood of brightness makes Fives curse again and Eya laughs. “This better?”

“Aye, warning would’ve been nice, though, haar’chak. For someone who can taste emotions you sure aren’t the most sensitive sometimes, are you?” Fives is laughing as he says it, swaggering over to Eya to pull them into a hug, his face squished into their pectorals. Eya plops their chin down into his soft curls and lets their tendrils wrap around him.

Fives is not as worked up as he was earlier, his anger about the mission seems to have settled down like dust. He tastes… excited. Full of sweet anticipation, happy to see Eya.

The taste of his skin calms Eya down, and they are grateful for it. If they hold him a moment longer than they usually do, Fives does not say anything about it.

When they pull apart, a slight blush creeps across Fives’s face.

“You are… uh.” He seems lost for words for a second, eyes wandering, and Eya cocks their head in confusion. Fives scratches his head. “You’re very… naked.”

“Oh.” Eya frowns and crosses their arms over their chest. “Are you uncomfortable? I prefer less clothing over more. Force of habit, I suppose, always used to spar like this when I was younger. I know other species are not so… forthcoming with their bodies. I can get my shirt if you want to?”

Fives shakes his head, his usual grin back on his lips.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, love.”

“Stop hitting on me, di’kut,” Eya grumbles and ruffles Fives’s hair.

“Sorry, reflex,” Fives mumbles, and that, for one, is an apology Eya can believe.

“Mmmh-hm,” they hum. “You good, then? Got it out of your system?”

“Aye,” Fives murmurs and ducks his head, but he is laughing under the played-up guilt. He strolls over to the lockers where Eya’s things are piled up on a bench, then stops for a second to turn around and fix them with a questioning gaze.

“How are we fighting, Eya?”

Eya shakes their tendrils.

“How d’you mean?”

“Weapons, no weapons… You have a bit of an advantage there, you gotta admit.”

“Mhhm, not my fault your army doesn’t allow cybernetics,” Eya chuckles, then raises their hands appeasingly when Fives opens his mouth to complain. “Udesii, verd’ika.”

They turn their palms inward so Fives can see the taped up backside of their hands.

“I’ve wrapped up my mareve. I won’t use my fangs in any case, believe me.” Their voice trembles slightly, but Fives doesn’t seem to notice. “No armour, no weaponry.”

“Hmm, alright… hand to hand it is, then?”

“Elek. We could do swords another time if you wanted?”

“Swords?” Fives sounds incredulous at the mere suggestion. “Kyreya, cyare, who in the absolute fuck still uses swords? The gods gave us blasters for a reason.”

“Uncivilised lot you are,” Eya mumbles. Louder, they say, “Do they teach you nothing of tradition? Blasters may be useful, but they are inelegant and… well. How would we even make that a sparring match? Take turns shooting at a target? No, no… I would prefer hand to hand. If we have the time, I’ll teach you the… the goyust kade in the future.”

Fives’s eyes shine bright as he walks up to them, armour discarded, leaving him in just grey sweats and his compression shirt.

“That sounds like a grand ole time!” He nods eagerly, then looks back at the pile of Eya’s things. “Do you have your sword with you? Can I see?”

“I do,” Eya says simply. “I always carry it with me. Promise not to use it in this fight, though.”

Fives narrows his eyes as he looks their body up and down - bare expanses of lilac skin save for the loose trousers hanging from their hips. Not exactly a hiding place for a weapon.

Kyreya stares at him for a moment, and decides… it’s alright if he knows. Maybe they want him to.

Fives sniffs and shakes his head.

“Oy, you’re just saying that to scare me. Where would you even hide a wholeass sword in that little getup of yours, except maybe up your a-”

“You better not finish that sentence the way you intended to, vod’ika,” Eya warns him in the same moment they turn around to present him their bare back.

Fives gasps audibly.

“-up your absolutely beautiful back,” he finishes his sentence, breathless and wide-eyed as he fixes their back with an awed stare.

Eya turns away fully and lifts their tendrils so he can see better, then flinches when rough, warm fingertips touch their skin, gliding up their side.

“Ulyc- Gods, do you always touch without asking?” they scold with a sharp voice.

Fives looks guilty when they turn around to stare him down.

“No,” he mumbles. “Sorry- ni ceta, Kyreya.”

Eya knows full well that Fives knows the extent of the apology he is offering. He recognises that what he did was rude, and that is enough for them to forgive him.

“Ni vore.” They cock their head. “Now, let’s try this again. No touching this time, you hear me?”

“Aye, jatne vod.”

“Hmph. Don’t oversell it now.” Eya grins down at Fives to soften the blow of their words, then turns around again to let him see their back in all its glory: thick lines tattooed into lilac skin, the perfect sword held in place by ornamental vines. A kar’ta beskar is embedded in the hilt – a detail Eya is sure Fives can appreciate. An otherworldly energy surrounds the lines etched into Eya’s skin, soft green mist seeming to rise from their bare skin when they move.

“This is… incredible,” Eya hears Fives whisper.

You don’t know what I did to get it, they want to say. They don’t.

“Isn’t it just,” they answer instead, schooling their face into a soft smile as they turn around and regard him.

“How does it… work?” The curiosity on Fives’s face is oddly endearing. “I mean- you said you would promise not to… use it? How would you even-”

Eya takes a step back, stretches out their arm behind their back and sinks it into their skin. The pommel finds their hand as if it was made for it – because it was. They pull, and just like that, the sword glides out from underneath their skin, made real by deadly magick.

Fives stares and stares, mouth hanging wide open.

Eya falls into stance as easily as they have done all their life. Sword practice is usually reserved for this time of day – when they have the dojo to themself, when there is no unwelcome audience. They are unusual enough as it is, but at least this bit of attention, they can try to avoid. Night magick… it’s not something most people are familiar with, even on Coruscant.

They swing their sword, parrying an imaginary foe, then lunge forward to stop the blade inches away from Fives’s chest. Fives does not even flinch, apparently paralysed by the sight of Kyreya and their sword.

“Kyrayc.” Eya says with a smile in their eyes. “You still sure you can beat me, vod’ika?”

Fives shakes once, like he is waking from a trance, and his eyes refocus.

“Admit it, you just did this to show off!” He says and stabs an accusatory finger at Eya’s chest. “You wanted to catch me off guard and throw me off for the whole rest of the night!”

“Ah,” Eya gurgles. “I’m not that sly, Rayshe’e. Wish I was, but I’m more of a force of nature than a planner.”

“I can sure see that,” Fives mumbles.

“Might be to your advantage,” Eya shrugs. “You’re a smart man, Fives. Use it.”

“Mhhm.”

Fives still seems transfixed by the sword in Eya’s hand, his eyes running up its length, taking in the details of the hilt, of the guard, the pommel and the blade. Eya sighs.

“I would offer that you could hold it, but that is not possible.”

Fives narrows his eyes.

“Me’ven?”

“Nobody else can hold the sword,” Eya repeats patiently. “It is mine – it was crafted from my essence and forged in my blood. If I drop it, if I throw it, if anybody else puts their hands on it, it simply… returns. Comes back to me, appears on my skin from whence it came.”

Fives shakes his head in awe, for once lost for words.

“It’s insane.” He stretches out his hand despite Eya’s explanation, moving his fingers in a grabby gesture and scoffing at Eya’s impatient expression. “I know you just explained it, cyare, but I want to- I have to see it. Can I? Please?”

“Suppose I should be grateful you’re not just ripping it from my hand,” Eya grumbles. Fives has the decency to look sheepish at the reminder of his earlier faux pas, and Eya sighs and nods.

“Fine.”

They swing the blade down and place the sword flat on the palms of their hands, presenting it to Fives as they bend down to him.

The air is vibrating with the taste of his surprise and his excitement, and Eya takes delight in it, savours it.

“Go on then, vod. Try and take it.”

Fives’s hand shoots out, closing around the pommel, and his hand touches the steel for a mere second before it only grips green smoke. Eya grins and twists around to show him the vines on their back, once again holding their kad in place on their skin.

Fives laughs, soundly only a little hysterical, and Eya has to give it to him – he is holding up much better than the few other people that have seen what he has just witnessed. He is a soldier after all.

“I would ask you not to tell anyone about this,” Eya says, thinking about his brothers back in the barracks, about the gossip of the GAR. “As you have seen, it cannot exactly be taken from me, but I would like to… avoid any questions where possible. It’s… well. It’s complicated. Maybe one day I’ll tell you the full story.”

Fives nods with serious eyes.

“I won’t tell a soul,” he vows. “Ori’haat.”

Eya smiles down at him and places a hand on his shoulders.

“I appreciate that.” Then, a thought crosses their mind. “If you do feel the need to… talk about it. I know it’s a lot to take in. You can talk to Kad or Kal about it. They know. So does Storm… and I think that’s about it with people you know.”

“Thank you.” Fives looks up at them, and there is a new thing in his eyes – like this has changed his view of them forever. “I’m not… I know you showing me this was not done lightly. Thank you for trusting me with it.”

“I think you deserve it,” Eya simply says. “You are a good man, Rayshe’e. A good friend.”

Fives smiles softly – not his usual cocky grin, nor the overwhelming sunshine smile he puts on for the masses. This one is a small smile, private and gentle and only for special occasions. Eya takes that smile and treasures it, locks the memory away in the biggest of their hearts to cherish it.

They stay like this for a moment, Eya’s hand still on Fives’s shoulder, basking in the warmth of his affection and trading his feelings for their own: Brotherhood, trust and familiarity. It’s been so long since they had that. Kad was the beginning of something new, and now Fives has been added to their small aliit.

“Well then,” Fives says eventually, clearing his throat. “Now that you have shown off enough, are we gonna fight or what?”

Eya’s tendrils dance when they gurgle with laughter.

“If you still think you can beat me, go right ahead, vod’ika.”

“Only thing I saw was that you are good with a fucking sword, cyare,” Fives teases, grinning up at them. “And since you swore not to use that in our little fight… I think I still have you beat. You’re too large to be fast, and you said yourself- you’re more of a force of nature, aye? I reckon I can take you just fine.”

“Ah, do you now.” Eya chuckles, letting their tendrils interlace into a bun behind their head. It’ll take some concentration to maintain during the fight, but they have learned from their past battles. Even when it is not intended, things happen – and after the last time they beat some girl from the dojo to pulp because she accidentally pulled their tendril while fighting, Eya is not ready to risk it this time round.

“I actually do.”

Fives’s cocksure smile would aggravate Eya if it wasn’t for the voice in the back of their head that is chuckling like a maniac, knowing – just knowing – that Fives is about to be taught a long overdue lesson in humility.

“I’m sure you do,” Eya agrees easily. They let themself fall into their fighting stance, familiar as old clothing, wrapping them in the safety of fighting protocols and movements that have long since become part of their very core.

Fives watches them intently. He shifts, hunches over, prepares himself for battle.

Gone is the sunny side of him, gone the easy friendliness that is as natural as breathing. This is the Fives his foes meet on the battlefield. This is a soldier, a warrior, trained by an elite force and bred to fight. This Fives is a hunter on the prowl, stalking towards his prey.

Only his prey knows how to fight back this time. Only his prey is not prey at all.

Ni a’den. Ni kyr.

Fives lunges forward to strike the first blow, and the dance begins.

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» Part III: A Dance with Death

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Mando'a:

Gar ori’shya kad. Gar ori’shya kyr. Gar ori��shya kyramud. Fives cuyi gar vod. An’jate, an’jate, Kyr’eya, an’jate… Ibic kaan acyk burcye. - You are more than a weapon. You are more than death. You are more than a killer. Fives is your brother. All is well, all is well, Kyreya, all is well... This is a fight between friends. Dha o'r oolar, osik. - It's dark in here, shit. Olarom, vod'ika. - Welcome, little brother. Di'kut - Idiot goyust kade - path of the swords Ulyc - Careful Ni ceta - I'm sorry (Lit. I kneel) Ni vore. - I accept Jatne vod - 'Sir', title of authority kar'ta beskar - 'beskar heart'; the traditional shape in the middle of the cuirass of mando armour kyrayc - dead Me'ven? - Huh? Ori'haat - On my honour. aliit - clan, family Ni a'den. Ni kyr. - I am fury. I am death.

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Taggies for Eya-lovers. Prepare yourselves for the next part :))) Shoutout to my beloved @baba-fett the bestest beta of all time.

@purgetrooperfox @ashotofspotchka @daimyosprincess @deewithani @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sleepingsun501 @queen--kenobi @kik51199 @ficsbynight @writingbylee @thefact0rygirl @wild-karrde @rescuethewretched @witchklng @ladykatakuri @certified-anakinfucker @mandoloriancookie @felinaone @rosieofcorona @amyroswell @palpipeen @mila-bee @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @kimiheartblade @ulchabhangorm

#ocs #oc eya #star wars oc #arc trooper fives #fives #ct 5555 #neyOCs #eya's adventures #nautolan oc #mandalorian oc #neyo writes

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bitsandbobsofwriting · 3 years

Text

Merlin asks the impossible of Lancelot;

The other knights watch on in horror as Lance refuses to allow Merlin to suffer.

TW: Violence/pain/blood. Assisted suicide (though only because they know he’ll wake up again).

No one had expected Merlin to get hurt.

The servant insists on coming along on every little adventure, never wears armour, and has a bad habit of jumping head first into danger, especially when his friends are in danger... so with the benefit of hindsight, they really should’ve seen this coming; Merlin was always going to be the first of them to die.

The Roundtable Knights (Leon, Elyan, Percival, Lancelot, Gwaine), The King, and The King’s manservant were on one of their various wacky adventures.

At this point, none of them really care to remember what it is they were doing; they were too busy trying not to panic at the blood coming from the wound on Merlin’s stomach, and the paleness of his face.

They had been captured by the villain of the week, and all bar Merlin and Lancelot had been shackled to the walls of their dungeon. Merlin was a wounded and slowly dying servant, and was therefor not seen as a danger, and Lancelot, after much begging, was unchained so he could make some sort of attempt to keep him alive.

It wasn’t working.

Everyone had tears in their eyes as they watched one of their dearest friends slowly bleed out, whilst Lancelot desperately tried to keep him awake and stop the bleeding.

The wound on its own wasn’t too bad. Definitely serious, but easily fixable with the right time and equipment. But they had neither time, nor equipment, and Merlin had already vomited once, and begun to shiver.

He had an infection and it was quickly going septic.

As Lancelot shook Merlin awake for the third time in as many minutes, the dark haired servant coughed violently, groaning as Lance rolled him on to his side, allowing the blood to dribble out of his mouth.

When the painful hacking stopped, he rolled back, blearily looking up at the tearful knight:

“Any... guards?”

Lancelot frowns in confusion, willing his tears away. If he lets on how scared he is, Merlin might freak out.... but... Merlin is a fully trained physician at this point. The sad truth is, he probably knew exactly what was happening to him.

The knight glances towards the door quickly, listening, before looking back down at Merlin:

“No, no one’s there.-”

He speaks quietly, in an attempt to stop the others hearing him, but they’re so focussed on the two of them that they hear anyway:

“-But either way, you don’t have enough strength to break us out Merlin, it would kill you.”

The other knights frown, even if Merlin wasn’t... injured, in what world could he possibly be able to break them out? But to be perfectly honest, they’re more focussed on his health right now, and trying not to cry.

Arthur speaks up, his voice shaky, before Merlin can answer:

“Just hold on Merlin. There’ll be a whole bunch of patrols looking for us, we’ll be back home in no time. I’ll even give you a day off, hear me?”

Gwaine clenches his teeth, and the other knights can’t look Arthur or Merlin in the eye. They all know he’s lying. The infection was too serious, even if they broke out right this second, and there was an army of Camelot Red waiting for them upstairs... no amount of treatment would save him now.

He was dying.

Merlin doesn’t even look in Arthur’s direction, still staring up at Lance and desperately trying to keep his thoughts at least vaguely coherent. The knight kept one hand pressed over Merlin’s wound, and moved the other up to his forehead, moving the sweat and hair back from his eyes as he mumbles:

“Check... my boot.”

The knight frowns, wondering if Merlin’s mind had finally succumbed to delusions, but at Merlin’s weak gesture and nod, he reluctantly pulled his hands away, and crawled down to his feet.

He runs his hands firmly down the length of Merlin’s boots, eyes widening when he feels something. He takes the shoe off and a small dagger, only about five inches long, clatters loudly to the stone floor. Lancelot curses and quickly picks it up, eyes zipping to the door in panic, but when no one comes, he relaxes and crawls back up to Merlin’s head.

There was no lock on this side of the door, so it couldn’t be used to break them out, and it was too big to jimmy the cuffs that held the others anyway, but before Lancelot can question Merlin’s insistence, the servant speaks, pain scrawled across his face as he wheezes:

“You... remember that... conversation we had?? Last... last month?”

Tears are falling freely from the other knights at this point; they were all desperate to hold on to hope, but their friend was in so much pain, and no one was coming for them any time soon.

Leon goes to question what Merlin was talking about, but before he can, Lancelot roughly shakes his head, the grip he had on the knife tightening and his knuckles turning white:

“No. Merlin there has to be another way. You... I can’t. Don’t ask me to do that... I... I can’t.”

Lancelot is breathing deeply, and Merlin gives him weak smile before grimacing in pain again; slowly lifting a frail hand to rest on Lance’s knee:

“Please... Lance... please.”

Lancelot lets out a sob, hand clamping over his mouth, and the other knights realise in horror what Merlin might be asking:

“You said you weren’t even sure if it was true... how do you know? What if I kill.... what if it doesn’t work??”

The tears in Merlin’s eyes overflow, but Lancelot can see only a fraction of fear. Mostly it’s just excruciating pain.

Merlin coughs again, blood dribbling over his chin as he groans, before gasping out a desperate:

“Please, Lance... it hurts... it hurts.”

Lance tries to stem the flow of tears from his own eyes, sniffing and taking deep breaths as he bites his lip.

It’s Merlin’s next rasping breath and whimper of pain, that has Lancelot give a shaky nod.

He wraps both of his trembling hands around the hilt of the dagger, holding it over Merlin’s heart.

Arthur yells and Gwaine lets out a pained cry of his own, but no one else makes a noise. This is destroying them, but they also knew that it was... merciful. It might be hours, even days, before Merlin died. But the agony would be cruel, and forcing him to hold on when there was no hope of a rescue would be torture.

Lancelot sobs openly, breathing deeply and shaking his head. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to the back of his hands; still shakily holding the dagger over Merlin’s chest:

“I can’t.”

Another wave of tears escape from Merlin’s clouded eyes, and he uses the last of his energy to move his hand on top of Lancelot’s head, running his fingers through his hair only once before his strength leaves him, and the arm flops to the floor:

“Please.”

Lancelot sits up and takes a fortifying breath, adjusting his grip on the dagger and staring at Merlin’s pained expression. He still hesitates, and his head whips up when Leon roughly whispers his name.

The two knights meet gazes, and Lancelot bites his lip, so hard he feels the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Leon’s face is a mess, hair knotted and tears from his red-rimmed eyes trailing down his cheeks.

He gives one shaky nod, swallowing before saying:

“Do it. He shouldn’t suffer.”

Percival speaks next, more forceful than Leon, but still shaky:

“He deserves the mercy.”

Lancelot gives a shaky nod of his own, looking back down at a near-delusional Merlin and whispering, this time quiet enough that no one hears him despite their focus:

“If this doesn’t work, I’m going to be so mad at you.”

With that, he firmly pushes the dagger down. They all hear the sickening squelch, but no one can rip their gazes away as Merlin takes in a sharp breath before going completely limp.

His face goes slack, and his body stops trembling. No one in the dungeon bothers to hide their sobbing, as Lancelot rips the dagger out, and angrily launches it at the wall.

He collapses back at Merlin’s side, wiping tears away from his face as he ignores the others, focusing only on closing Merlin’s eyes and covering him with his cloak.

Time stretches on.

No one had stopped crying, not for even a second, but the loud sobbing and heavy breathing had stopped fairly soon. They were knights. They would grieve later.

Lancelot didn’t move from Merlin’s side, holding his stiffening hand tightly in his own as he stared blankly at the wall. The others couldn’t bring themselves to look at him, or the body steadily growing cold under his cloak.

None of them had moved, or spoken, or even really made any noise, for hours, so when Lancelot’s head whips down to look at the... to look at Merlin, everyone’s attention is drawn to him.

He furrows his brows, and tilts his head as he stills, seeming to wait for something.

Elyan clears his throat, going to ask what’s wrong, but is frozen (like everyone else) as a wide grin spreads across Lancelot’s face.

Everyone is taken aback as he rips the cloak away, dumping it somewhere behind him as he puts his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, shaking them slightly and whispering:

“Come on, come on.”

A rasping:

“What are you doing, Lance-”

Comes from Gwaine’s direction, but Lancelot doesn’t even look up at he tells him to shut up.

Lancelot furrows his brow, huffing as he moves his hands down to where Merlin’s wound had been. He lifts the tunic up, and the others look away as he grimaces, before wiping at the skin.

Dried blood and puss comes away on his sleeve to reveal... nothing. The gaping, weeping wound was gone, replaced by a pink scar where the sword at entered him.

Lancelot smiles again, moving back up to Merlin’s head and giving him a gentle slap on his cheek.

At his murmur of-

“You’re all healed, Merlin. Come on, it’s time to wake up.”

-the others look back at him in confusion. At closer inspection, they see that colour has returned to Merlin’s skin, and his cheeks no longer seemed so sunken in.

Confused and desperate eyes rake down his body, and gasps fly up around the room as each of them notice the healed wound.

A chorus of “WHAT?” and “How is that possible?” and “What the genuine fuck?”, among other curses and bewildered questions, burst from the knights.

All of them pull against their chains, trying to get a closer look at Merlin, hopeful tears filling their eyes as they bruise their wrists. Lancelot pays absolutely no attention to them, back to shaking Merlin’s shoulders with one hand, and tugging his hair with the other.

Quick as lightening, Merlin sits up, eyes wide as he takes a deep gasping breath, before promptly choking on the blood still in his throat.

Lancelot sits back with, a hysterical laugh bubbling up from deep within him. He rubs Merlin’s back as the man violently coughs up the congealed blood, before falling back into the knight’s lap.

The others stare on in confusion and shock, as Merlin wipes his mouth with his sleeve, looking up at Lancelot and saying:

“I guess the Druids were right-”

He coughs a bit more, sitting up to support his own weight, before nervously looking at the door and mumbling:

“You don’t think anyone heard that, right?”

Lancelot laughs disbelievingly, putting a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder (to comfort himself or Merlin, he doesn’t know. Maybe both):

“No ones come in hours, not even when we were all hysterically sobbing at you dying.”

Merlin looks at him with an apologetic grin, the others still not having processed what had happened:

“Aww, you care about me.”

Lancelot huffs, giving him a pointed look, and at the remnants of grief in his gaze, Merlin has the decency to look at least a little guilty:

“Sorry. I know that must’ve been hard. But hey, at least we know for next time!”

Lancelot growls, looking a little angry:

“If this ever happens again... Merlin I swear to the Gods I’ll.... I’ll...-”

Merlin interrupts him with a devilish grin:

“Kill me?”

Lancelot promptly punches him on the arm, yelling:

“YES! And I’ll bloody enjoy it this time, you dick.”

The servant holds his hands up in surrender, muttering apologies whilst still chuckling, and it’s then, that a loud-

“What the FUCK?”

-Explodes from Gwaine.

Merlin and Lancelot wince, before slowly looking to the others. They all stare at them with a mix of shock, confusion, and happiness, but when Merlin looks to Lancelot for support, the knight shrugs his shoulder and gives him a smirk, clearly meaning “you’re on your own lol”.

Merlin shakes his head and gives him a betrayed grimace before looking back a Arthur, who has tears once again building in his eyes:

“So... it’s a very long story but... I’m sort of... immortal? I only found out like a couple months ago and I’ve never actually put it to the test before so up until like... two minutes ago it was just a theory but... yeah. Can’t die. Or I can, but I guess it just doesn’t stick? I don’t really know, I have no clue how this-”

Merlin’s rambling is cut off by Gwaine bursting into hysterical laughter to his side. Arthur continues to stare at Merlin, but the servant looks away, staring at Gwaine in bewilderment as he gasps out:

“Only you... only you, could be immortal and.... and not know how or why. I swear Merlin... what the fuck is your life?”

Merlin looks indignant, loudly proclaiming:

“Hey! I might not know how, but I do know why, I’m not that thick, you arsehole!”

Gwaine carries on laughing, and Merlin isn’t sure if the knight actually heard him, but his attention is quickly drawn to Leon, as he asks:

“Ok then... why?”

Merlin winces and bites his lip, looking guilty as he reluctantly says:

“Uh... it’s a long story, and I can say “I’ll tell you later”, but you’ll never ask again and we can all pretend I didn’t just die??”

Gwaine’s laughter gets louder, and he’s joined by Lancelot lowly giggling to himself. Leon shakes his head in disbelief, before beginning to chuckle. Percival stares at Merlin in shock, and Elyan just looks kind of... weirded out? By the whole thing?

Arthur still stares blankly, and if Lancelot wasn’t too busy trying to stop himself from laughing at Merlin’s face, he’d be worried.

It’s Percival’s next words, getting louder as he goes on with a look of realisation on his face, that promptly stops everyone laughing, and breaks Arthur out of his stupor:

“You’re... you can’t be. Oh my Gods you are! You’re Emrys, aren’t you?! The only other immortals are the High Priests and Priestesses, and you definitely do NOT have the time for that so... oh my Gods I’m... you... Emrys?!”

Merlin and Lancelot look at him in bewilderment, the others having their shock slowly overtaken by confusion. After a few moments, Merlin squeaks out a:

“How do you know about that??”

It’s Percival’s turn to look indignant this time, as he responds loudly:

“I grew up with the Druids, with the prophecies! Why the fuck else would I have become so loyal so quickly to Arthur?”

Arthur has just enough focus on Percival’s words to look mildly offended, before the rest of what he said caught up with him:

“Ok! Everybody shut up!-”

Everyone looks at him in shock, and Lancelot gives Merlin a consoling pat on the back:

“-I have a lot of questions, and as your King, all of them are going to get answered-”

Everyone gives shaky nods, though Gwaine looks like he might start laughing again. The King looks to Percival, taking a deep breath and saying:

“-You’re a Druid?”

Percival shakes his head:

“No, but they’re very welcoming of outsiders. I spent a lot of time in their camps as a child, but I was never officially Druid.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and nods, looking back to Merlin as the servant gulps:

“And what the fuck is Emrys? How the fuck are you alive? And.... and... what the FUCK is going on??!”

Merlin nods, muttering:

“Yeah, that’s a fair reaction.-”

Before standing up and saying:

“And I’ll... uhh... tell you later? For now, we really should get out of here. I think they just locked us up and left and hoped we would all starve or something.”

Arthur growls, muttering something about “You WILL tell me later or so help me God...” but Merlin ignores him, instead putting his boot back on, picking up his knife, and grumbling about the state of his clothes.

Lancelot rolls his eyes, following him to stand, and giving him a knowing look. Merlin sighs, biting his lip again as he replies to the Knight’s wordless statement:

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Bloody cat’s out of the bag now isn’t it? None of them have swords, might as well go the whole way. God I’m never gonna wash this out.”

With that, he waves his hand, eyes glowing golden as the cuffs on each of the knights wrist’s fall to the floor, unclasped. Another wave of the hand has the door open, and before anyone can say anything, Merlin speed-walks out.

Lancelot follows him with another roll of his eyes and a fond smile.

At first, the knight thought he’d be worried for Merlin’s safety, but as he walks down the hall after the Warlock, Gwaine’s loud laughter, Leon’s quiet “Huh.” and Arthur’s bewildered “What the FUCK??”, from behind him have him break into another round of disbelieving giggles.

THE END

K so I didn’t realise that this had heavy Mercalot vibes until I proof read but,,, I ain’t mad about it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I hope y’all enjoyed! Head to This List to see what might be up next, and share your preferences :)

Same as always lads, you wanna write it out properly, go for it, credit and tag me✌

@powered-by-notes asked to be tagged in this so🧡

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blzzrdstryr · 3 years

Text

Reveries of turmoil

Yandere!Childe x fatui!reader

[Previous chapter]

Just as you predicted that short and stifled conversation was a portent of future changes. Childe stopped trying to talk to you outside the business, he even avoided your eyes in those rare moments when you looked at him first. Normally obnoxious and persistent Harbinger seemed to deflate in your presence, as his swaggering and blustering attitude disappeared within mere moments.

You would be overjoyed for this turn of events, if you didn’t have any experience of dealing with and tolerating Tartaglia. Childe, as you already established, is a chaos personified, an erratic whirlwind that twists and ruins everything in its way wrapped in human skin and caged by human bones. It wouldn’t be a surprise if some nasty complications arose out of this faux armistice and sneaked upon your unsuspecting self.

Ajax wont do anything drastic, you reassure yourself - the Rite of Descension gets closer and closer with each passing day, he just can't afford to fail this, meaning that he will have to keep you on-field. It would be logical to do so, let you work, but logical sometimes means predictable and nothing about Ajax is predictable.

Fortunately he continued to keep this strange distance as days passed. Was your little episode and words you said to him enough to stop him in his pursuit? Maybe it truly hurt him, maybe it made him see how miserable he was making you, maybe his obsession with you ceased to exist, it’s flames fizzling and going out just as fast as they ignited. You doubt all of it, yet continue to hope for the better, despite the evidence of the opposite shoved in your face.

Ajax will never let go of you, not in the way you want. He killed and tortured people right before your eyes, sometimes had you assist him in doing so. Most of the time this was done in Tsaritsa’s name, for the future of Snezhnaya and her people, just another working assignment regardless of the blood curdling screams and alien agony.

However, in some rare cases the torment of others isn’t something that is totally impersonal to you, sometimes you’re the main cause. Childe is possessive, terribly so. He watches over you like a dragon guarding his gold, scaring away other possible admirers. And if his title and reputation wasn’t enough to keep away whatever poor sod who decided to tempt the dragon, well, other way more grim methods were used.

You never personally witnessed these kinds of torture, but you heard rumours and sometimes saw the bodies after, images that keep reappearing in your nightmares. Maybe this lull is nothing but a quiet before the storm, a short breather after he commits some unforgettable atrocity again.

He personally summons you the day before the Descension. You brace yourself for incoming nonsense, except nothing comes. “Agent [Last]”, he says, his voice tense and restrained.”I need you to attend the Rite of Descension with me. You will be disguised as a civilian", and then he dismisses you, no hint of mind games he likes to play in sight.

You want to hope that he changed, you succeed and fail at the same time - this new Ajax is pleasant, he’s cold and disinterested, just like any boss should be, yet you just can’t relax and focus wholly on doing the job - it’s a privilege only those who haven’t met Tartaglia can afford.

He’s a sea, treacherous and ever changing, calm and serene in one moment, yet violent and crushing in the other.

You spend the day torn between the anxious thoughts of Tartaglia and what he might do and the preparation for upcoming ceremony - it's a once in a lifetime event, it's Tsaritsa’s will and hope, it's Ajax’s eyes focused on you. You can’t afford to fail, you have no right to do so.

Wearing a simple Snezhnayan overcoat with nothing hiding your face is surely strange after years of donning a fatui uniform. Tourists and Liyuens alike pass by, not paying you any attention. Both vision and delusion glow under the thick fabric, asking you to use them.

You walk faster.

The top of the Yujing Terrace is lit with sunlight and full of human sounds, as merchants and other workers haste to finish their tasks and join the people at the top. You look around, quickly noticing the familiar ginger - he stays half-turned to you, his eyes focused on the figure of Tianquan. You quickly avert your gaze, as if not recognizing him, and shift it towards other people - you spot two vision holders among the crowd too - an electro and geo one, and a strange person cladded in the exotic clothes with some sort of flying fairy(?) floating around.

You walk to the altar placing Liyuen flowers nearby the multiple offerings of food, wine and gold, their simple white petals contrasting against the gaudy luxury of the rest.

"Qingxin flowers?", someone suddenly says, a speck of genuine surprise evident in the phrase. Their voice is too close for your comfort - you quickly turn on the heels, alarmed by a person somehow sneaking up on you only to be met with a pair of the golden eyes.

It’s a nicely dressed Liyuen gentleman, with the air of wisdom and elegance surrounding him, an inner dignity shining from beneath, and most importantly the one you saw wearing a vision at the back of the coat. You try to look as calm as possible, despite the senses telling you otherwise - after years of service any vision holder unadorned by the Fatui colors is perceived as a threat.

“Yes, it is”, you quip back, not wanting to look suspicious: “Is this improper? Qingxin as an offering?”, you mimic a light concern - something that would be appropriate for the foreign merchant who might have offended the god of commerce.

“No, not at all”, Liyuen laughs: “just in all of my years, I have never seen anyone offer these flowers”.

“Huh”, you smile, looking at the man before you. Is he a simple liyuen you thought of him at first? He has Geo vision - the symbol of Archaic Lord’s recognition - and the way he said “all of my years” carry more weight than usual, a mark of something hidden beneath the mundane phrase.

“Something tells me, you must have attended every rite of Descension”, you continue, the starter vague and innocent enough - a perfect way to fish out more information. For some reason, his golden eyes widen a bit, it’s subtle and quick enough to go unnoticed by most people, but you’re not the most people - all Fatui agents are trained to catch even the smallest changes and educated in multiple fields, physiognomy included.

What could have caused such a reaction and why did he react the way he did? The Rite of Descension is a prominent event in the life of every Liyuen, even if it’s annual, as thousands of thousands of people traverse great distances to see their god fly down from the heavens and grace his subjects with the wisdom of countless years. You remember seeing Liyuens living in Snezhnaya consistently take a leave every year for a week, when the prominent date showed on the horizon, missing working days and no doubt a lot of nerves, only to see the archon of their homeland.

So why did that man looks so surprised?

“You’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?”, he responds, voice calm and pleasant, despite the masterfully hidden surprise: “And yes, I have always tried my best to be at every Rite to this day. Rex Lapis shares his experience with his people, so it’s an incredibly important day. And what about you? What brings a foreigner here?”, he makes a gesture at your obviously snezhnayan clothes.

“Well, I am a travelling merchant as you can see”, you raise your hands, showing him more of the coat: “Having blessing from the God of Commerce won't hurt, right?". He, again, reacts in the way you haven't anticipated, a handsome face adopting a contemplating expression for a short second.

"Rex Lapis rewards diligent people, work hard and he shall bless you too", he says with an air of wisdom around him, like an old enlightened monk passing his knowledge to the disciples surrounding him: "And you shouldn't keep your vision beneath the layers of cloth. I feel its chill just standing here, who knows what it will do to your body?".

Then he simply turns away and goes to the exit of Yujing terrace, and it’s your turn to suppress the rising agitation - how did he know, where’s he heading now?

“Wait”, you say: “why are you leaving?”

“I dedicated my whole life to my job, which consists of a collection of small and incredibly repetitive tasks, they took up most of my attention and I slowly, but surely became a creature of habit, deaf and blind outside its limited field of experience and comfort zone. Time never stops, so I decided to leave the work I’ve been entrusted with, and I want to start it by breaking my strongest habit - religiously attending every Rite of Descension”.

“Ah”, you reply, equally impressed by his speech, and feeling that you are talking about two completely different and unrelated topics: “well, good luck on that”.

More and more people flood the terrace as one of the main threats to your plans finally arrives - stern and ambitious, Ningguang looks as elegant and intimidating as ever, geo vision and the tassel attached to it, shaking with every graceful step. She throws a short glance at Tartaglia - he stands surrounded by the rest of the agents - yet her face doesn’t change even a bit, whatever hostility she may hold for your faction masterfully suppressed.

You quickly look around - tourists and citizens arrive at the last minutes and milleliths come with them. Soon, all of the exits are heavily guarded by at least four soldiers, all carrying spears and clad in armour - surely a necessary precaution, given the presence of Fatui and their Harbinger.

There are no milleliths among the crowd though, not in the on-duty uniform at least. You study the group again, this time looking for anyone with weapons, as someone lightly pushes you away - it’s that foreigner again. “I am sorry, we need to go closer”, the pixie-like creature apologizes, as it flies after the stranger, and you conclude that there are no armed people, except you, Tartaglia, milleliths, Ningguang and that strange person.

“The hour is upon us”, Tianquan starts, after looking at the bright sun above, two women around her slightly bowing down, as she invokes the power of geo. The gold glow surrounds and illuminates her whole figure, before condensing into hard rocks of the same shade. They shine and fly around her for a bit, leaving the yellow trails behind before starting to spin around the shrine in the middle of the rock table.

Soon the golden inscriptions on the shrine start to glow too, before it sends a bright orange beam into the blue sky. The crowd "Oh!"s and "Ah!"s as the clouds deform around the pillar of light.

Tension, so thick it can be tasted, descends in the waves upon the Terrace as some - carefree and ignorant - hold their breaths in excitement and anticipation, whilst the rest focus in caution - Fatui and Qingxin alike. You shift, taking out both vision and delusion out of your coat, as your eyes frantically shift between Tianquan, Tartaglia and the spiraling clouds above, your whole being ready to aid Childe in his mission.

And then something unexpected happens: a majestic dragon does descend to his people. By falling straight to the ground. Serpentine body slumps around the crushed offerings, elongated tongue escaping the confines of the maw.

A long second of absolute silence passes before Ningguang collects herself, checks the body and orders milleliths to close off all the exits, as the crowd erupts into turmoil and chaos realizing what exactly has happened. You disguise amongst the panicking masses, hiding two glowing orbs in the deep pockets of your coat,before looking at Tartaglia again - he in turn intently stares at the blonde foreigner, who quite clumsily tries to sneak past the soldiers.

Milleliths catch onto that running after the stranger and you use this opportunity, turning invisible in the same second. People around you are too panicked to question your sudden disappearance or the unnaturally cold breeze swaying past them, as you make your way - Childe has already departed, chasing after the group of soldiers, and Ningguang is seen leaving too, giving the last orders, before turning to the Yuehai pavillion.

You contemplate for a second, unsure what to do - Tartaglia has ordered you to aid him in case of Qixing intervention, there was nothing about the death of your target and the glimpse into Tianquan’s actions might be a key to solving the mystery of said departure. The thing that you plan to do is opportunistic, reckless even - who would have known that Ajax will rub off onto you? You chase after Ningguang, careful to keep yourself invisible.

Who is Rex Lapis’ murderer?

She goes up to the aged man standing at the stairs of the pavilion, they exchange a couple of words before Ningguang steps up on the little floating island and it starts to levitate! You run after her, still unsure what to do - the platform is too small, Tianquan will no doubt feel the chill coming from you, but the opportunity to learn what Qixing are planning is too good to miss.

In the end, you come to compromise, jumping after the rising platform, as your hands clutch into its rough protrusions and you grit your teeth, enduring the pain and cold from the vision overuse. The little island rises higher and higher, as people and buildings underneath turn into small dots. Your fingers start to slide off a couple of times, yet you grab onto the island with a renewed strength everytime that happens, asking Tsaritsa to let fortune favour you.

The platform finally stops moving, and you pull up, once you hear her heels clicking away.

Jade chamber, as it turns out, exceeds all rumours, luxurious and opulent, shining above the prosperous city, it glows under the sunlight with a golden radiance. You would have stopped to admire it if it wasn’t for your goal. You sneak after Ningguang, following her to the office as she takes out papers and folders from the shelves. She focuses on them, as you carefully step near her, glancing at what she’s reading - it’s reports of fatui activity throughout the months, leading to this day, thankfully vague and very far from reality.

Does it mean that she also has no idea of what or who caused Rex Lapis’ death and tries to find his killer? Or does it mean that she looks for a way to deduct Fatui's next actions?

You don’t have time to contemplate, as the frost worsens and you feel cryo energy exhausting from the overuse - one more minute and you’ll become visible. You quickly walk away - you don’t have enough time to reach that platform, so you do the most logical thing - fling yourself out of the window, opening the wings of the glider halfway the jump.

You push the most of your invisibility, letting go of the cryo powers once you're only a couple of meters above the ground. In the end you find yourself tired and frozen to the very bones, slowly coming back to the Northland bank.

***

You approach the building as the Sun begins to set - its pink-orange rays dying everything in the warm glow. The bank looks glorious like that, sinking in the reddish tones, it looks like an illustration out of children’s books - a place of something miraculous, a place of something hopeful.

“Hi”, you throw to the tired Vlad and he nods, after suppressing an escaping yawn: “Is boss here?”

“Yeah”, he croaks, drowsiness evident in his speech: “came back like an hour or two ago. Can’t really remember”.

“Huh.. Well, thanks”, and with these words you enter the bank, pushing the doors and preparing yourself for the confrontation to come.

After chatting with Ekaterina and confirming that yes, he is in his office, you head for the staircase, all of the information you learned today buzzing inside your head.

Childe sits, hunched over the papers, as you enter, not paying you even the sliver of attention. For some reason he’s in a different clothes.

“Eleventh Harbinger”, you start the standard greeting, all formal and stiff: “this subordinate has finished the task”.

This finally prompts him to raise his head, cold blue eyes look at you, no hint of the usual obsessiveness in sight: "you may speak, agent" he succinctly says, putting the writing feather aside. You quickly report to him all you have seen today, without your own thoughts involved - they’re just baseless theories, after all.

“So you say, Tianquan was reading the reports about Fatui activity. Haven’t you destroyed those reports earlier?”

“Those papers contained nothing about the current situation, they were actually far from reality, I doubt that any of those reports survived the fire”.

“Seems, I’ll have to take your word for it”, a sigh, he leans closer in his seat, propping left cheek on the palm: “Why did Tianquan look at them? What was she trying to do? Pin her crime on us?”, he glances at you again, gesturing that you can speak your mind and you do.

“Highly unlikely, sir. From the short time I spent watching her and her reputation, I have an impression that Qixing Tianquan is a person who prefers to plan her every action. If she or any other Qixing higher up, were the one who murdered our target, then every needed preparation would be done months, if not even years in advance. She would somehow cast us as the killers right at the ceremony, in front of thousands of Liyuens, making us a scapegoat for public outrage and creating alibi for herself”.

“So, that’s how you think”, he hums, blue eyes deep in thought: “Your entire conclusion is based on the mere impression. With Tianquan’s ambition I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one behind this...”, a vague hand gesture: “catastrophic situation”.

“When I sneaked inside the Jade chamber, she looked very frantic, it didn’t show on her face, but her movements were harsh and quick, lacking any of her elegance. She looked like she tried to keep herself together”.

“Anyone would try to do that, especially after killing a god”, he looks somewhere to the left, no doubt imagining battling the dead archon: “Well, my conclusion isn’t based on anything solid either. We don’t know who killed Rex Lapis, but we still need to somehow obtain his gnosis”, the last part isn’t addressed directly to you, it seems that Ajax just decided to voice out his worries.

“You can go”, he says, standing up from the table. You are touching the door handle, when you hear him asking:”what’s with your hand?”. The tone is nothing like that time, yet shivers still go up your spine when you remember what happened that day.

"Frostbite, from my vision", he comes closer to you, hand outstretched to yours: “Can I?”, he asks and waits for your faint nod, before gently pulling it closer to his face.

“It’s a second degree”, he mumbles, inspecting the white-blue discolorations and small angry blisters - the skin throbs and aches at his touch, yet most of it remains numb, muffled, like sounds underwater: “You should get it treated”.

“I should”, you agree, eager to leave this room and situation: “I will ask medics for some..”

“I already discharged them”, his hand suddenly shifts, now resting atop of the door handle, his frame suddenly looming over you: “I have a medkit here, with the ointments and balms. Maybe you should stay here and let me patch you up?”

Why did you even think that Childe could change?

***

Ajax has you sitting on his chair, with sleeves rolled up to the very elbows, as he frets around you - checking the temperature, pulling the warm water closer to you and taking out needed medicine out of the kit. It’s mostly silent, except the tune he quietly hums - Childe looks peaceful and content like this, maybe he likes caring for you.

“Does it hurt?”, he takes a discolored finger, probing around the blister, as the warm hydro energy engulfs your damaged hand. The burst of sensation explodes at this action - pain, tingling, throbbing, even relief.

“Bearable”.

“Understood”, Childe gets back to his task, continuing to rewarm your hands, still humming that tune as he does so. He takes out the healing ointment, when the healthy color and warmth returns to your limbs and spreads it on the skin, bitter herbal scent filling the room in an instant.

“[First]”, he says, as he rubs the place between the index and middle fingers: “I think we need to talk. About that day and your reaction”.

“And what about it?”, you respond, too quickly and snappy for the calm-facade - the memories of that day, of what you thought he will do to you, of how he witnessed you falling apart - all of these are too much, a maelstrom of conflicted feelings rising every time your thoughts stray to this topic. He finishes applying the balm and now switches to the bandanges, wrapping treated hands in them.

“Don’t you think you treat me too harshly, [First]? I understand I may have been… unpleasant in the Past, but I thought we moved past that. What have I done to warrant such ire?”, he says it with his usual smile, but there's a tense, heavy tinge in his words. It’s subtle enough to miss, but you knew Ajax since you both were fourteen, so the strain doesn’t go unnoticed.

Everything, you want to coldly respond, but you stop yourself again - Ajax is still a Harbinger, even if he trailed your steps at the training camp like an overeager and highly murderous puppy not even a decade ago, no matter your own feelings or sentiments or even experiences he still holds that power over you, whether he realizes it or not.

“There were.. things”, broken bones, coppery scent of blood, someone else screams: “training with you wasn’t pleasant for sure”. Childe laughs at the last part, yet the tension clouding in the air doesn’t dissipate, turning more tangible instead.

“I see”, a long pause: “I want to prove you're wrong, I want to prove you that I will never do something against your will”.

You already did. You stay silent at that, anger and fury and frustration boiling underneath, burning and scorching your insides like a magma moments before the eruption. His hands finally wrap the last layer of bandage, tying the ends into a neat little bow, yet he doesn’t let your palm out of your hold, as his lips hover over it, breath burning the skin even through the fabric. And then he releases it, not doing anything.

“Good luck with that”, you finally suppress the inner storm, and stand up from the chair, quickly heading to the door. The place where he almost kissed your tingles and throbs with a renewed strength. Your cheeks burn for some reason.

#Yandere Genshin impact #Yandere genshin #Yandere Childe #yandere genshin x reader #Yandere tartaglia #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere childe x reader #male yandere #yandere #yandere x reader #my writing

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viltrumitesuperboy · 3 years

Text

Babysitting Job (Peter Parker x Natasha’s Brother Reader)

Sorry for any errors within the plot. I wrote this over the course of two weeks. Reader’s powers not mentioned much.

Requested by: anon Could I possibly request a Peter Parker x Male Reader, where the reader is Black Widow's younger brother and has trained in martial arts and gymnastics and the like, but also has the ability of animal shape-shifting? Maybe all the avengers meet him for the first time when Black Widow finally gets him to live with her and Peter gains a pretty big crush on him?

Word count: 3352

You trained under your older adoptive sister for years. Natasha found out that you had been born with the ability to shift into animals. She brought you to her workplace where you would be treated as a person and not as a weapon like she had. You never stayed with her after you'd trained for a few years, leaving America to take other jobs. Every once in a while she'd check up on you, asking if you needed anything or if you could help her find some information. Even miles away, she still acted like your older sister and was just as protective.

Eventually you decided to finish your education in America, staying with Natasha at the Avengers Tower. She had an entire floor to herself, but rarely used most of it. She was a minimalist to an extent. She made sure you were settled before going to her briefing late, assuring you that she wouldn't get in trouble. If anything, you were sure that she'd scold them for starting without her.

You spent the first few nights extremely uncomfortable in the new place. You had never needed to stay somewhere for a long time, and even if it had only been a few days, you knew you'd be there for a while.

After a week, you were roaming about the R&D floors and bumped into someone.

"Oh, you," Tony Stark said.

"Who do you think I am?" you asked warily.

"Natasha's kid brother, right? With the powers? Listen, I have something for you."

"Uh..."

"Here. Have you seen this?"

He pulled out his StarkPad. You watched the video he pulled up, not wanting to interrupt someone who seemed like he was always in a rush. It was a boy with a lean figure, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants along with a mask covering his entire head. You silently applauded him for being a beginner vigilante who wore something practical considering he probably couldn't afford body armour.

"This is Spider-kid. Well, Spider-Man. But he's young, and I want to keep an eye on him. You mind helping me out? Of course, I wouldn't tell you his identity without his consent, but he agreed that he'd be fine with me giving him protection after..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hand as if you knew what he was talking about. "Anyway, you feel up to going to high school? You're young. You'll probably fit right in."

"Mr. Stark, I have no social skills. I assure you, putting me in a high school considering my powers and training is likely a danger to my mental stability and their physical well-being. I'm not going to babysit someone for you."

Tony's features seemed to soften a bit. He looked less like he was in a rush as much as he normally did. It was something he reserved for the people he cared most about.

"Look, I get it. People are hard to talk to. And I'm not saying this as Tony Stark, owner of a large company. I'm saying this as the reason I'm Iron Man. You've seen all that through files from Nat, right?" He awaited your confirmation, and you nodded. "Good. All you need to do is just be with Peter. And I'm sure you qualify to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. This can just be a mission and they'd be glad to know that my- uh, the kid is being managed by someone they can trust because at least they know Nat. It doesn't have to be anything else, not even a favour for me. Just a job."

You thought about it for a moment, then asked to see more of the videos. Stark held out the device for both of you to see and swiping through a few. You both stood there in the sunlit hallway for a while. He was barely trained and relied a lot on his powers. Maybe you could help him.

"I'll speak to Natasha today. I think I'll help you out, but talk to him first," you said finally.

"Great. By the way, I think he'd be a lot more comfortable if he knew that you were working with me," Stark said, just about to walk away. "He knows that someone will be sent to watch him, but he doesn't know who and he doesn't trust easily. He'd appreciate if you told him who you were right off the bat. Be careful."

"For him or for me?"

"Personally? For him. I think you can handle yourself."

He walked away, the device tucked under his arm as he made his way to one of the labs. It was obvious Stark cared for the boy, and you respected Stark for his efforts to make the world safer after what he'd gone through. If this was a job, this was one you'd take very seriously.

———

Your powers meant you could shift into animals, but you could also just take the attributes of any animal you knew to exist. It was much easier than turning into a large wildcat in the middle of a city street. You'd taken the climbing abilities of a gecko, leaping from another building to climb up the tower. There was a bandana covering the lower half of your face, just so you couldn't be recognised by cameras. You had just started to open the window when a reflection on the window blocked the lights inside.

"Hey, uh, what are you up to?" Spider-Man asked.

You turned to look at him, adjusting your bandana.

"Nothing, just going home," you replied, opening the window.

"Oh! Do you live here?" he piped up.

"No, but it'll be my home once I break in."

"Uh..."

"I'm just kidding. You can come in if you want. I know Stark has a soft spot for you."

"Mr. Stark? Really? I mean, I try to text Happy all the time cause I really want to tell Mr. Stark stuff sometimes but I didn't really think he actually-"

"Hey! Get inside!" your sister shouted from the kitchen.

You quickly slipped in, Spider-Man following and shutting the window behind you.

"What have I told you about coming in from there?" Natasha glared sternly.

"That there's an elevator and I should use it like a respectable person."

"Exactly. Go change and then help me out with lunch. Hi, Spider-Man. You know where to go."

"Yeah, sorry, Ms. Romanov. I didn't know you had a friend coming over."

"He's my brother. Now hurry up. Pepper will have your head if you're late."

The conversation trailed off, likely followed with goodbyes, as you went to your room. Lunch led to a very serious conversation about joining the secret government agency along with your first job: keeping Spider-Man in check.

———

The flash drive you received had the worst possible photo of Peter Parker you could imagine. It was as if they couldn't get an actual photo of him. Considering the fact that he was an official intern here, you figured that they might be able to get something that didn't look like an unfortunate accident from Picture Day. Because in person, he looked... not as stupid.

Going back to a public school was strange. You hadn't gone since you were a child, the rest of your education mixed in with the martial arts training you had to take. There were so many people, but at least they were ignoring you for the most part. The main problem was finding out where the hell B104 was.

"Um, are you lost?"

A girl with curly hair and a sketchbook to her side had a locker open next to you. You glanced at her putting books away and taking things out before responding.

"Yeah, I don't know where this is?"

She looked at your schedule, nodding as she shut her locker.

"Yeah. That's the basement. There's one science class down there," she explained. "I'll go with you; I have something there, too."

You thanked her as you both walked through the crowded hallways. She occasionally nudged people aside, giving absolutely no shits to the people standing in the way. Natasha would like her. When you accidentally mentioned it in a quiet mumble, she laughed. She claimed that if she ever met Black Widow, "it'll be over for all you bitches." You didn't doubt it. You both went down a floor and she led you to the room.

"I have to go a bit further down, but..." she quickly pulled out a pen and wrote down your room numbers on her wrist. "I have some classes close to these, so I can bring you there for the first half of the day before lunch. I'll see you after class?"

"Uh, sure?"

"My name's Michelle."

"I'm (Y/N)."

She stuck her hand out in a way that you became extremely uncomfortable with, not used to shaking hands. She seemed to notice your hesitation then held it up for a high five. You gave a small smile of gratitude and gave her one.

"I'm sorry, that's so awkward. Um, if you stick with me, I'll teach you the secrets of this school. Okay, there aren't really any, but you really look like more of a loner than I do."

You nodded awkwardly in response and turned to walk into your class without another word.

Michelle had about three of her classes with you, and you shared 4 with Peter Parker, two of which were before lunch. She walked you to the table she usually sat at, a relaxed gait to talk to you comfortably.

"Everyone kind of adopts their own spot in the cafeteria at some point. Those tables are usually empty, and that's where I sit. I have a feeling you're going to be spending your time there too."

You spotted Peter, who waved at you. Confused, you waved back, then Michelle voiced an excited greeting. You put your hand down after pretending to scratch your head.

"This is Peter and Ned. They're in some of your classes."

"Oh, you're the kid who broke one of the beakers today, right? Man, that's so weird. How did you manage that?" Ned recalled.

You weren't about to tell him that you hadn't broken it at all. It was sitting on one of the heating plates and you were trying to put it away, but it fell as you'd tried to catch it with your sticky gecko hands. It didn't work.

"I have super strength," you deadpanned.

The three laughed, somehow. You hadn't interacted with such a close friend group like this ever. Peter was an awkward teen just like the others, and you wondered how difficult it must have been for him to adjust to his powers in the middle of his schooling. If anyone noticed you staring at him, they didn't mention it.

———

You did not tell Peter that he was just your job.

He was completely oblivious to your role in his life and laughably terrible at hiding his secret. You once caught him pick up an entire row of lockers with one hand in between classes. He picked up a bottle that looked like it held arsenic and placed the lockers back down. The sunlight streaming in from a nearby classroom's glass window made you realise that this boy had no regard for his surroundings. He was incredibly stupid. You really had to tell him soon.

He'd visited the tower a few more times, and you'd sometimes see him practice with your sister. She'd look up at you in the doorway of the training room and glare at you, as if telling you that she was doing your job. You walked away before he saw you every time. Instead, you followed him around when he was Spider-Man, choosing when you wanted him to know you were there and when you didn't. You'd learned that from Natasha. He'd tried to get your attention a few times, knowing you were there, but you slipped out of sight every time.

Michelle started to ask you to call her MJ. Ned showed you pictures of the Death Star he and Peter built together. It suffered destruction twice in the past, but it was perfect now and sitting on display in Ned's home. Peter offhandedly mentioned that Tony Stark wanted to display it at the tower. Ned was all for it, and you wanted to hit your head on a wall. Peter consistently confirmed his parent-child relationship with Stark without realising it. It was a bit infuriating for everyone else who could see it.

Peter had started to become more awkward around you. He'd been more comfortable over time, but one day he just started to get fidgety and stammered a lot. It only happened when he spoke to you. You were aware that you were probably one of the very few people that he felt any romantic attraction to, and he probably felt like you were his only option. Unsurprisingly, you felt the same way. It sucked having only a few friends.

At some point the secret had to come out. You were just standing in the kitchen, opening the fridge for the second time like it would suddenly become interesting, and jumped once you closed it.

"Oh my god, Peter," you huffed.

"(Y/N)? What are you doing here?"

Your eyes darted to Natasha for help. Peter followed your line of sight to her. She shrugged and hauled her duffel bag further up her shoulders.

"I have a mission. I'll only be gone less than a week. Get groceries."

The elevator arrived in seconds and she went up, likely to the helipad. You both stood there in silence for a moment.

"That's my sister," you admitted.

"Hold on, so you're telling me the person I met sticking to a window was you? The new, awkward kid at my high school?"

"You're awkward too."

Peter began too look a bit uncomfortable just standing in front of you in plain view, like he was suddenly aware of how open he was.

"You were the one following me around the city too. When I'm Spider-Man."

You nodded, gesturing to the living room so you could both take a seat. He was quiet as you went to your room, coming back out with the flash drive you had on him.

"Stark wanted someone to watch you, and he doesn't have many younger options. Then Nick Fury apparently wanted to keep an eye on you, so it all worked out. Natasha talked to him about having me join, and you were supposed to be my mission."

"Then why didn't you tell me? Are we... friends?"

"Yes!"

Peter looked away from you and looked out the window, the same one you both climbed into a while ago. He looked down at the flash drive, his teeth biting his bottom lip. You slowly sat down next to him, being sure to keep some distance away.

"I just didn't know how to tell you. Stark said that I would have been fine if you didn't know who exactly was watching you. I didn't expect to become your friend."

He put the flash drive in between the two of you, sliding it back over. You looked at it, your stomach doing turns knowing that you never would have hurt him if you said something earlier.

"My sister's been training you because I couldn't. I've learned a lot from her, but I've traveled more than she has. And I can adjust my powers to be more like yours. If you'd still want me around, I can teach you more."

Peter stood up, holding his hand out like he was going to shake your hand. You followed suit, holding your hand up for a high five. You both switched your hand positions, then settled for a fist bump that wasn't quite coordinated.

"I know we're both a bit awkward and we don't know how to talk to people normally, but I don't think I'd ever give you up. I'd like to be more than a mission to you."

"Like a friend?"

"Whatever you want."

———

It was easier to be with Peter in the tower. You realised how little you actually know about the building, and the next few days were spent with the both of you walking to the subway together and taking it to where you lived. He always brought you up to Stark's personal floor, to both his and Stark's labs, then to the R&D floors that you stopped exploring ever since your interaction with Tony Stark. He showed you what people were working on if they allowed you both in, and you'd watch him work on projects when he figured he'd procrastinated long enough. Sometimes MJ and Ned would tag along because apparently both you and Peter vouching for them was enough for security to let them through. Of course you had MJ meet your sister. It was a terrifying experience.

You spent weeks training Peter, watching him crawl up walls and do flips with more grace than you ever could and learning from him, but also taking him down much faster than he could ever take down anyone else. He was resilient but needed the training that both you and your sister provided. And even if your sister had been doing this longer than you had, you had abilities she didn't that could match and counter Spider-Man's.

Somehow Peter got even more awkward. He was clumsy, and was only lucky he didn't break things (or his own body parts) because of his powers. You didn't really want to tell him that you knew why. If you didn't have your own response to how he felt about you, he'd think that you were rejecting him. Though conflicted, MJ decided to make that decision for you.

"Ned, wanna come with me to see Ms. Romanov while she's training?" MJ asked, slinging her sweater over her shoulder.

"Uh, I don't really-"

"We have lovebirds to leave alone. Come on."

Ned looked a little torn, considering he had either the option of staying and not letting his two friends talk alone for once or leaving and being constantly terrified of a woman and a teenage girl for hours. You felt he made the worse choice, as he followed MJ. Fool.

"Did you just call Ned a fool?" Peter laughed.

You put your hand over your mouth, but laughed with him anyway. You were both sitting on the same sofa that led to Peter finding out that he was a part of your job. His hand reached yours, putting it on top of where they rested on your lap. He pulled it towards him and held it like romantic couples usually do, with fingers crossed together. It took some struggle because you both moved your hands the same way. Once again, you shared a laugh, though this one was more strained and uncomfortable.

"You like me, Peter," you said, not an ounce of doubt in your words. "I've known behaviour long enough to know. And I like you too, but I'm scared that it's because you're the first friend I've had that wasn't my sister."

"I was supposed to say it first," he pouted. "I had those two leave on purpose!"

You laughed and lightly squeezed his hand.

"I mean, what's life if we're not going to take risks?" he continued. "You decided to go to public school after years of not making friends, and I went on a school trip, got bitten by a spider, and decided not to tell anyone. If it doesn't work out, we can still be friends, right?"

"Nat would force me to stick around you as part of the job. Keeping you around as a friend is just a plus."

"Well, don't think that I'm letting you off the hook for telling me how you feel first. I'm holding you to this." Peter pointed a finger menacingly at you, which you pushed away.

"Sorry for stealing your thunder. And speaking of thunder, Thor's coming in a few hours. You wanna hide his food and blame it on Barton?"

"Hell yeah."

#x male reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x male reader #peter parker x male!reader #peter parker imagine #male reader #male reader insert #peter parker #request

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havenoffandoms · 3 years

Note

also this “You fainted… right into my waiting arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” geralt x fem!reader if im not annoying u by now omg

Nonnie, you’ll never annoy me by sending in these requests <3 I managed to get this written before class, so it’s a bit on the shorter side. But it’s cute and fluffy, so it really put me in a good mood to start the day. I hope you enjoy it.

Tumblr Request Masterlist

Warnings: brief mention of fainting, otherwise none.

Toussaint is notoriously hot in the summer, but even though you were prepared for that eventuality, you seriously underestimated just how unbearable the temperatures could get. You wipe the sweat beading on your forehead with the back of your hand. Even the flowy material of your skirt doesn’t help, and the mosquitos that keep buzzing irritatingly close to your ear do precious little to improve your rapidly souring mood. You huff out a breath and reach for the waterskin at your hip. You know you should ration water as much as you can, but you’re just so thirsty you can’t help yourself.

“How much further until we reach Corvo Bianco?” you ask Geralt, who is trudging behind you and leading Roach by the bridles. You feel your heart go out to the poor mare - if you’re suffering that much from the heat, you can only imagine how Roach feels. You dart a glance over your shoulder at Geralt, clicking your tongue disapprovingly as you once again take in the sight of his black armour. “You know, Geralt, since you insist on spending most of your free time in Toussaint now, you should really invest in more appropriate clothing.”

“Hm. I have some diagrams for sleeveless Cat witcher armour somewhere.”

“Now there’s a thought,” you turn around to face the road again, your hand coming up to wipe your forehead again. You try not to think too much about Geralt in sleeveless armour. “How much further then?”

“Not long, dove. We’ll get there by sundown.”

“Sundown?!” you exclaim loudly, suddenly coming to a halt and whirling around to shoot Geralt an exasperated glare, “Geralt, I can’t! It’s too damn hot, I’m thirsty and sweaty, and all I want to do is jump in the nearest lake and go for a swim.”

Geralt frowns at your sudden outburst, but when he takes in the sight of you - sweaty, flushed and irritable - he decides that perhaps a break is not the worst idea. He offers you a bashful smile, his eyes crinkling adorably at the gesture. Sometimes you forget just how old Geralt is; the wrinkles always take you by surprise.

“I suppose we could stop for a while to refresh ourselves.” Geralt stills as he takes in his surroundings. Years of travelling by his side has taught you how to recognise the signs of Geralt tapping into his witcher mutations for location and tracking purposes. He’s probably listening for the soft splashing of water against the bank, or trying to pick up the smell of bloodmoss which tends to grow near lakes and other bodies of water… whatever clue Geralt is hoping to pick up, it does not take him long to point west. “This way. There should be a lake close by.”

As you and Geralt head in the direction he pointed you in, you start to feel slightly light-headed from the heat. You think nothing of it as you take another swig of water, less mindful of the fact that it might have to last you another while. If you’re heading towards a lake, you’ll be able to fill up your waterskin with fresh water… or sun-warmed water, more like. The thought almost makes you whine in frustration, but you bite back the petulant noise. Geralt is trying so hard to keep you happy, you don’t want to undermine his efforts.

Soon, you catch a glimpse of the lake through the row of trees. The deep blue surface shimmers in the sun, occasionally blinding you and forcing you to look away when the light catches the water’s surface just so. You allow a small smile to tug at your lips as relief washes over you. You simply can’t wait to jump into the lake and wash off the sweat and grime of the road. Just as you and Geralt reach the shore, your entire world starts to spin so fast you find yourself pinching your eyes shut to ground yourself. You try to warn Geralt of your sudden dizziness, your hand blindly reaching for any surface to brace yourself on. The nearest surface happens to be Geralt, whose black armour feels almost scaldingly hot to the touch.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” you vaguely hear Geralt ask you before you lose your footing and stumble over your own feet. You expect to land on the sandy shore, but just as you collapse you feel strong arms wrap around your waist and shoulders. You manage to blink your eyes open, taking several seconds to adjust to the glare of the sun. You see Geralt gazing down at you, his amber gaze alight with worry as he gently lowers you down to the ground.

“Oh. What… what happened?” you ask, feeling slightly disoriented.

“You fainted… right into my waiting arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

You weakly punch Geralt’s arm in retaliation and your action pulls a breathless chuckle from your lover. Geralt positions himself so that he’s shielding you from the sun, his hands instantly grabbing the waterskin at your hip. He clicks his tongue impatiently when he realises that you emptied its contents already, then reaches for his own waterskin, still nearly full. He brings the nozzle to your mouth and gently supports your head so you don’t choke on the liquid flooding your mouth and running down your throat. You should find the act of Geralt feeding you water mortifying, and under any other circumstances you would fight him and stubbornly snatch the waterskin from him.

But, admittedly, it’s nice to be doted on once in a while. Besides, you’re far too hot to move even a muscle. You’re beginning to understand why Toussaintois hide in the coolness of their homes most of summer.

“Enough, I’ve had enough,” you croak out after Geralt forced half the waterskin down your throat, “thank you, Geralt.”

“Are you feeling better?”

You take inventory of your body, making sure your head stopped spinning before attempting to sit up. You shield your eyes from the sun and offer Geralt the most genuine smile you can manage.

“I feel better now after my knight in … scalding armour came to my rescue.”

Geralt huffs out a small laugh before leaning in to steal a kiss from you.

“I wish you’d told me how much you were suffering from the heat. I would’ve stopped sooner. Or at least, I would’ve tried to find a shaded path.”

“Really? The constant huffing and complaining didn’t tip you off?” you mock him gently.

“It really should’ve, huh?”

You roll your eyes fondly at him, leaning in to kiss his stubbly cheek affectionately. “It should’ve. But I’ll forgive you, my dearest, silly witcher. But for now, I am dying to get into that lake.”

Geralt doesn’t have to be told twice.

#geralt z rivii #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n #geralt x you #the witcher x reader #the witcher x y/n #the witcher x you #havenwrites #tumblr request #reader insert

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omgkalyppso · 3 years

Text

The Unforgotten King

A Dimimari drabble that fits into Fae's post canon.

The icy winds pouring down from the frigid Fraldarian mountains were starting to upset the horses with how cold they were. Many roads this far north were impassable for carriages; even the main roads, which in many cases were the only option, were made to constrict the approach of enemies and allies alike, venturing to and from the historically chaotic northern border, and the capital to the south.

They had come first by boat and then followed the trade routes carved out by the fishing villages on the eastern coast.

Marianne held her scarf against the chill, wincing and shaking her head about Dimitri, with his scarf pulled down around his smile as he spoke about his homeland. He'd long ago let his hat fall back around his shoulders, secured by a cord about his neck, and his bound hair was a tangle as a result of the gales. He was going home, and it was as clear in his person as it was in his temperament. His nose and cheeks were pink and frozen, and his beard was gelid with frost, but the Faerghan climate suited him. Marianne even suspected that the temperature might have been harsh on another man's injuries, but Dimitri was only livelier by the mile.

Some might have said he was as a boy gone to the fair, but she knew him too well now, and could see the flit of his eye as he watched the forests. He was fighting his hauntings and his memories of war, and trusting her and their guard with his insecurities. A vast improvement when compared to the dreary state of his heart and mind during the year or two past.

Marianne had worried that despite Dimitri's growth, that returning to Faerghus was going to upset him and his friends, when he and they found him without the crown, without the armour and attire one expected of a king, and with the continued trauma of never having achieved his vengeance. She was overjoyed that it was nothing so simple.

"Do you see how the trees have turned from green to blue here?" Dimitri asked, gesturing to the evergreens, brightening as Marianne nodded. "They say the Goddess took pity on the verdant evergreens of Fodlan after her first ice storm, and blessed all the trees north of Conand River with a piece of her home on the Blue Sea Star, that they might from then on weather the storms."

Marianne held her scarf from her face as she replied, "They're quite beautiful. I hear they house wildlife too? I would have expected we'd only find migratory birds out in these temperatures."

"It would be wonderful to hear an owl at night," Dimitri mused. "You are right, though. There are a variety of creatures in the underbrush."

"As stubborn as any Faerghan," Marianne joked. "Although I suspect, in regards to your tale of a blessing, that similar accounts are told of the seas themselves, rather than only of Faerghan forests. Anything blue."

Dimitri had blushed and laughed awkwardly at Marianne's initial declaration, knowing that it was true that sailors in Faerghus were revered and worried perhaps even that he had misremembered his own short yarn, but then he'd smiled and contributed softly, "It is a color dear to my heart."

"Because of your house banner?" Marianne asked as if to confirm, offering Dimitri no space to argue. "Perhaps a square or kerchief could be sewn in one of your pillows? Or some other secret space? I am sorry that you're only clad as one of my guards."

Dimitri shook his head. "An honor. I am glad to ride beside you, Mari— my lady, and ... maybe with the right materials, I could try to award myself with the gift you suggest. It would be a small and challenging project for a man of my extremely limited skill."

Upon their arrival at the manor in Fraldarius, they were escorted to the entrance hall, where Dimitri embarrassed Rodrigue with a bow and an embrace.

"Dimitri," Rodrigue said softly, as a reprimand and a prayer, testing the name, free of title and ornamentation. "It is good to see you again. If Felix had not seen you himself, I would have assumed a ruse or extortion." He pulled away, a hand still on his once and fallen king's shoulder. "To bury you, would be as burying another son—"

"Rodrigue—" Dimitri said, meaning to interrupt.

"Humor me," he begged. "Hear me. Not only am I proud to host you, in secret, in public, but should you ever need a home in Faerghus, we will never turn you away." Rodrigue swept a tear from his eyes, "Hm. I think you'll find my lack of decorum is your fault, for hugging me first—"

"My sincerest—"

Rodrigue chuckled. "Don't apologize. Just know that I intended to be more reserved, for the sake of Lady Marianne, if not for that of my son."

"Where is Felix?" asked Dimitri, as a door to the entrance hall opened at the top of a far stair, and Felix, Annette, Sylvain and Ingrid rushed out of it.

Although Felix had been to visit him in Margrave Edmund's territory three times, Dimitri could not suppress his joy at his friend's reveal, and after Rodrigue's admission, he could either hope that Felix too thought of him more fondly, or else worry that he needed to apologize to the younger Fraldarius for what he'd inspired in his father. "Felix!"

Dimitri spared a glance for Marianne, who waved him off delicately so that he could rush to his friends at the base of the stair. She shared a far more respectable greeting with Duke Fraldarius.

"Wait—!" Felix started to object, but too late or with too little conviction to keep Dimitri from fitting his arms around him and Ingrid and squeezing them to his chest.

Ingrid laughed happily, and Felix scoffed when Sylvain was greeted with only a joined hand and a clap on the shoulder, though Annette then jumped into Dimitri's arms.

"I half worried it was an exaggeration," Dimitri said softly. "That you all could make it."

"Mercedes and Dedue's boat is expected tomorrow," Sylvain said to assure him.

"Ashe won't be here for a week," Annette lamented as her feet hit the floor, "but I hear that will be long enough to see you?"

"I won't leave before," Dimitri promised. "It would break my heart if his journey from Gaspard was fruitless."

"Did you know that he needed to wait for Linhardt to take up residence in Gaspard?" asked Ingrid. "To deter the Adrestians from overreaching — even now."

"As well as general rebellion," Felix supplied. "Things aren't exactly settled that far west."

"You're helping him?" Dimitri confirmed, and a part of his heart stirred to be able to have this conversation with Felix in person, rather than over a period of days by letter.

"Fhirdiad's helping him," Felix said and then frowned when the others around Dimitri looked at him more directly, and corrected himself. "Yes, I'm helping him."

Fhirdiad had been Felix's home and his charge these past few years. He had taken up the title of Archduke and wielded his role with purpose. He always intended to return to Fraldarius, imagining that there would be an opportunity to suggest another lord be honoured with the capital region, but some days he worried he had sealed his fate. His father, and Sylvain, were less subtle in their matching inquiries about his return, but it seemed all others were slowly becoming accustomed to him sitting in that place of kings in the more temperate south.

"I appreciate it," Dimitri said carefully.

"There'll be plenty of time to worry about the shadow of dissent tomorrow," Sylvain said, looking to change the subject. "What are you wearing?"

"Oh," Dimitri said in surprise, looking down at himself, dressed as a Leicester soldier in wool and armour.

"Are you warm enough?" asked Annette, turning over a side of his cloak to assess its thickness.

Dimitri chuckled. "I'm plenty warm, I—"

"How many layers is that?" Ingrid inquired critically.

"Do the rest of Marianne's escorts have hats like this?" asked Sylvain, propping Dimitri's upon his golden hair.

"Four. No, most have wool lined leather caps."

"Four? Like this? That's not enough," Ingrid worried.

"We'll warm him with drink and games," Sylvain suggested. "Maybe dancing if Annette feels like singing?"

Annette squeaked in protest, but Felix spoke first.

"You're being ridiculous. Dimitri's had a long ride—"

Dimitri's lips tightened to hear Felix call him by name, and he spoke gently, worried he might break this simple spell of friendship when he spoke in favour of Sylvain's suggestions, "I think it would be nice to drink with everyone, but I might like to bathe first. I fear as soon as I loosen my collar my sweat will thaw from where it's frozen upon me."

Three exaggerated tongues of disgust extended in sympathy.

"Do you want to stay inside?" asked Felix. "Wood fires can heat baths in the lower levels."

"Oh, no, lets show Marianne the hot springs," Annette said, as if pleading with Dimitri, though he would have agreed without any provocation.

"I would like that," he agreed, looking at Felix for permission.

With an expression of vague annoyance, Felix nodded, and then he and Dimitri each glanced to where Marianne continued her conversation with Rodrigue.

There was a social element to the hot springs that Marianne feared, but Sylvain made a joke that set her at ease, and challenged her to try the new experience.

Dimitri half expected Felix to return home after dutifully guiding their group to their destination, and thanked him for his continued company and conversation, such as it was, while they sat together in the steaming water. Sylvain was kind and assertive, inspecting Dimitri's right side as he stretched his arm and took advantage of the heat, to massage strong fingers into his shoulder.

Elsewhere, Ingrid and Annette had Marianne giggling as the trio raced from the spring to the snow and back again each time they grew over-red from being boiled together.

Later, they drank and reminisced, and Ingrid pulled Dimitri aside, to reaffirm that she would have been his knight and protector ... and that she still would, if he wanted to pursue his place in Fhirdiad. She saw no reason to defer to the law in Garreg Mach when Faerghus could still have its own king, and if not that, then at least he could be recognized, as the rest of them were, within Fodlan's nobility.

The shock that overtook Dimitri frightened her, when she had only meant to offer him his ancestral home, and the respect many had died to get him.

Sylvain and Felix were in listening distance, and Ingrid had known that; the four of them looked to Marianne, weaving Annette's hair in a five strand braid, while they spoke of seals and bears and other creatures that plagued the harbours.

Felix hissed about how Ingrid would throw them from one war into another, reminding her that Dimitri was hidden away precisely to avoid what she was suggesting: that there would be people willing to die for their rightful king to reclaim his place in Fhirdiad.

Everything would change if Dimitri returned, and they'd lose the trust of the Adrestians, especially Ferdinand, when they had already been caught in another lie.

"You can't come back," Felix said to finish his argument. Aggressive, nervous, cruel.

"Dimitri should be given a choice now that he's recovered," Ingrid said, firm.

"He's recovering," Sylvain insisted.

With a great expression of self control, Dimitri maintained his volume as he declared for his friends' forgotten benefit, "I am right here." He waited for the shame to silence them before he went on. "And things are not ... how I envisioned them — how I wanted them? My mind and upbringing feel ... wasteful, at times; and yet I have been consulted," he sighed, "on strategy and trade, customs and etiquette — by Felix and Marianne both. My input is heard in Faerghus and Leicester, and if I willed it, I am sure that Garreg Mach is within my reach ... even Almyra."

Sylvain raised his tankard in salute as he walked away then, seeing that a fight wasn't about to break out, and that Dimitri had their conversation well in hand. He complimented Annette's hair, and strove to further distract the ladies from the dark turn of that other corner of the room.

"If Faerghus was threatened, I would find my way back here, lance in hand. But I trust the peace that's been building. And the crown, as it was, only invited duplicity and massacres. Faerghus will thrive without me." With one arm he embraced Ingrid, pressing a kiss to her temple. "And Sylvain is right, I have been recovering. I would not risk all of Faerghus' progress, all of your work," his eyes drifted to Felix for a moment, "because I could not accept the truth of what a minister said. I still struggle. I am more comfortable with smaller challenges ... and I would appreciate your reassurance of our friendship as I am."

"Of course, Mitya," Ingrid insisted.

"Thank you."

"I miss you," Ingrid clarified. "I miss... The lives I thought I'd have by now."

"Change is painful," Felix agreed, sharp and forgiving.

"Yours is a life worth celebrating," Dimitri promised. He drank at the same time as his old friends, and then fumbled after, worried about sounding too much like his healers, but still he added, "Take time to recognize success."

Their quiet conversation was interrupted by Marianne and Annette hollering with laughter, and Dimitri could not even imagine Marianne's disappointment in him if in returning to Fhirdiad he brought a new conflict to her doorstep. He could not imagine his own heartbreak if their peoples ever returned to bloodshed. Sadly, he had imagined his horror with the possibility of witnessing another day like the tragedy, his blue love desecrated, their hypothetical children screaming, and him again, a lone survivor.

He would not speak of this in casual conversation with his friends, though perhaps in private with Marianne at some later time.

He was grateful for his anonymity.

It was late in the night when they made for bed, and Marianne was as drunk as he, and Dimitri worried between her state and their locale that he shouldn't have followed behind the door of her rooms. They had lain together a handful of times, but not for weeks now, yet she pressed him against the door like it was a casual thing, delicate fingers curving over his hips.

They leaned close as if they might kiss, and then she turned her face away from him with a sigh.

"I hope I haven't made a fool of myself. Did you have a good night, Mitya?"

"Beloved," Dimitri beckoned, curving a large hand around the side of her face, his scarred fingers had been mended and shattered an embarrassing number of times in the early use of his Crest. He guided her to look at him, his shining blue eye, deep as the ocean in the dark of the room.

"Thank you for bringing me here," he said, his tone deep and sincere. "The snow, the culture, my friends... I missed them more than I realized. I've had a very good night."

His last sentence was near whispered upon her lips, his thick lower lip tickling against her mouth.

Eyes closed, Marianne hummed her approval, bumping her nose against Dimitri's; narrow and then bulbous, a pretty princely feature that somehow he still maintained despite the violence in his life.

He bent to kiss Marianne, his hands finding her upper arms, her shoulders, her neck, and her twin braids, a gift from Annette that extended nearly to Marianne's waist.

"I should let you sleep," Dimitri whispered, though he felt how Marianne's hands wandered, pressing his shirt against the muscles on his chest and stomach.

Marianne looked from her bed to Dimitri. "Let me sit," she requested, "and I'll untie your hair. Stay with me a while longer." She swayed a little and Dimitri worried he would have to catch her. "Your friends are kind," Marianne confided, "but it felt a little strange as the night wore on, and maybe it's just me, and maybe it's just the building, but I know I can rely on you. Say you'll stay."

"A while longer," Dimitri agreed, drifting a thumb through her bangs as his hand rested on the side of her tightly bound hair again.

He sat between her knees while she pulled the ribbon from his fine hair, carefully carding through it with her fingers around the strap of his eye patch, and then allowing her hands to find the muscles of his neck, thick from stress and training.

One dainty foot made it's way over one of Dimitri's monstrous shoulders, and he brought the opposite one over his other side, leaning back into Marianne's space so her skirt ballooned out around him. They shared a soft laugh.

"Did you have any trouble today?" Marianne asked, gentle in her approach of his occasional visions.

"I thought of Glenn," Dimitri confided, "but I am uncertain if I saw him or imagined him today. There are many memories of him here. And ... at the gates, I ... I saw some violence that was not there, but I could not hear it. I'll write it down tomorrow."

"Tell me about Glenn? There must be a happy memory tucked into what came to mind."

"He would have made you feel welcome," Dimitri insisted with a smile. "He was very personable, and I was always glad to be in his company — though I was always closer with Felix, and so thought, like Felix, that I was in contest with him. Unless my Crest activated, I was always left embarrassed, and regardless of whether my Crest activated, I always lost. Felix was often disappointed in both of us."

Dimitri spoke of friends like family until well after Marianne curled up on her side. He stayed on the floor, and spoke with less frequency, though the memories didn't fade. He could picture Glenn on the opposite side of the room, a macabre spectre of the self from his memories, but it wasn't a hallucination this time, just a horrible imagining, the loss of a friend.

Dimitri kissed Marianne's forehead, and she mumbled that she was still awake, despite sounding as if she were miles away. Still, Dimitri smiled and kissed her lips, just in case, and then left for his own chamber.

#dimimari #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #marianne von edmund #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem #long post #my writing #i made this #the fanfiction i mean #i'll probably put this on ao3 later #this is what i was writing to Maybe address things i find attractive about dimitri though it turned into something else entirely

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allegra-writes · 3 years

Text

“Heartfelt”

Bar musician! Harry styles x Bartender!Reader

General audiences

Warnings: None

Just some Valentine's day fluff with our favorite green eyed boy. Dedicated to @gaycinnamonrollgirl for giving me the idea, and @tomsrebeleyebrow for patiently listening to me endlessly gush about Harry Styles and still being my friend. Happy belated Valentine's day 💖

"You don't have to say you love me

I just wanna tell you somethin'

Lately you've been on my mind..."

Adore you - Harry Styles

...Oh, she looks so good, oh, she looks so fine

And I got this crazy feeling that I'm gonna ah-ah…

"Bartender, my good friend! I'll have my usual and a plate of your finest chips, if you would be so kind"

It was closing time when Harry, the local musician, sat in front of you, elbows on the bar you were wiping down while humming to Patti Smith's "Gloria".

You raised an eyebrow at him, but the willowy man could see the slight tremble at the corner of your lips, a tell that you were suppressing a smile.

"I'm afraid the kitchen is closed, mister Styles. Sam left an hour ago."

"Yes yes, but I have it from a very good source he left you a big pile of leftover chips before he did," He accused, "you know, as he does every night..."

You frowned in confusion,

"I thought you hated cold fries. That you found them to be, and I quote, soggy and disgusting"

"I guess you can say I acquired a taste for them" He shrugged, mischievous green eyes sparkling, "Just like you did for this lowlife songwriter in front of you and the heartfelt conversations you share with him"

"Did you now?" There was an edge of scepticism in your voice, but you were already disappearing inside the kitchen.

Harry's heart did a little jump as you didn't immediately deny liking him.

"Hey, Joe" he called out, "why don't you go home? I'll help Y/N close when we're done…"

There was a deaf noise as a young waiter, the only person left in the bar beside the two of you, set the last chair on top of a table.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I got this" he reassured him, "did it dozens of times. Go home to your girl"

"Thanks, mate!" The second brit practically skipped on his way to the backroom, but turned around just before reaching the door. "Listen, you know I like you, but if you hurt y/n in any way…"

Harry smiled, genuinely. He could never get mad at anyone that protective of you.

"You know where I live. Pick my sister on the way, though. I think she would like to join you."

Joe rolled his baby blues,

"I know you're not a creep. I meant her heart"

"Yeah, me too…"

Whatever your friend saw inside Harry's eyes was enough to convince him. He nodded and left, as the musician got up to lock the front door and turn the "open" sign off.

If you noticed Joe's absence at your return, you didn't comment on it, simply setting the giant pile of chips and two cans of cherry cola you were carrying, down in front of Harry, who had returned to his seat.

"Ah, you always have the good stuff!" the sigh that left his lips as he took the first sip of the soda was not unlike the one any of your regulars made after the first taste of something strong after a hard day.

"Rough night?"

"Kind of. Good show though, so at least I have that going on for me…"

"It really was, I'm actually impressed" You had to confess, "And surprised too, it was a bold choice going acoustic on a night like this, with such a big audience," So many people had gathered to see the show that the bouncer had to start rejecting people so you wouldn't have trouble with the fire department "but it definitely worked"

There was a slight blush on the singer's cheeks when he replied, far more humble than you were used to,

"Well, you know, Valentine's day and all that. The band, all have boyfriends and girls they wanted to spend the evening with…"

You tilted your head,

"And you didn't?" It was hard to believe, when almost every night he played there you would see him leave with a different, always sculptural, painfully perfect girl. Or man.

Harry didn't reply, choosing instead to stuff his face with stale fries.

"Alright then" You raised your shoulder in surrender, "keep your secrets…"

He squinted in disbelief,

"Did you just quoted The Lord of the Rings at me?"

"Did you just recognize my Lord of the rings quote?" You countered.

"You are such a nerd!"

"Look who's talking, chicken little!" You gestured at his powder blue sweater with a yellow baby chick at the front and herringbone pants.

"Oi!" His manchester accent popped out, like it always did whenever he lost his cool "I'll have you know, this is Gucci"

You scoffed,

"That doesn't make it any better, it just means that you spent a shit load of money to look like my third grade teacher, mister Harrington!"

"Ok, first of all," he countered, "your teacher sounds awesome and second-"

An inelegant snort escaped your mouth. Harry's emerald eyes pinned you down.

"Second of all, you're no one to talk either, kitten hoodie"

You could feel the heat creeping up your cheeks. Praying he couldn't see your blush in the dim light, you took a mouthful of soda to cool you down.

For a moment, none of you said anything, the sweet notes of Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" the only thing filling the silence.

… Players only love you when they're playing

Women, they will come and they will go...

"Listen, y/n-"

"If I'm being honest-"

He chuckled,

"I'm sorry, ladies first"

"Now I'm not sure if I wanna tell you…"

"Come on" A grown ass man pouting should not be that cute, "I want to know"

You feigned a long suffering sigh,

"Fine, if you must know- If you must know, I actually like your new style. It's way better than that... rock and roll cliche... thing you had going on when we first met" You gestured vaguely in the direction of his body, "You know, the long hair, black clothes, doc boots…"

He flinched,

"Ugh, Don't remind me. I was trying too hard back then. And not only with my clothes, with my music too"

"Oh, yeah, I remember. All you used to sing about was" You chose your words carefully, "frisky girls and being horny…"

"Well, to be fair, I still sing about being horny"

"Yeah, but now you're…"

You trailed off, unsure of how you could explain the difference, the change in your feelings towards his music, without explaining the change in your feelings towards the man that made it.

However, Harry would not let it go that easy. He was used to you being sharp, opinionated, guarded. Now there was a crack on that armour, and he wanted to see what was underneath it.

You hadn't even realized how close you had leaned into each other until his hot breath fanned over your face.

"Now I'm what, y/n?"

More real. More mature. More emotional, as if he had finally found the link, made the connection between sex and love.

"More open"

Harry smiled,

"Open. Yeah, I like that…"

So close. He was so close now, his malaquite eyes were out of focus. So close you could feel his magnetic field, the gravity of his atoms pulling in yours.

"Harry…"

Never in his twenty seven years of life and over ten as a musician, had he heard a more beautiful sound than his name, breathlessly falling from your lips.

"Yes?" He murmured, lips ghosting over your soft, perfect ones.

"No"

"No?"

"No" You repeated, more firmly, taking a step back, putting as much space between the two of you as possible, "I know what this is"

"And what is this, y/n" To your surprise, he didn't sound mad, or demanding. He sounded confused and sad. Dissapointed but unsurprised, as if he had expected it to go south or… never had dared expect it would actually happen at all.

"A bad idea" You explained, "with guys like you, is always the same: You have beautiful women throwing themselves at you every night. And you take them home with you cause why wouldn't you? You are young, and free and hot. There is nothing wrong with taking what's being offered"

"Y/n-"

"I'm not saying it's your fault" You went on, ignoring him, "And I'm not saying you don't fall in love, sometimes. But that's the exception, not the rule, and I… I'm the kind of girl that's the rule. Not the exception"

Harry had always thought the worst that could happen to him was losing your friendship. Finally making a move, a real move, and getting rejected by you. He thought that was the definitive pain, the one that would obliterate him, if things were not to work out. And he was almost certain they would not work out.

But sitting there, in front of you, separated by a wooden bar that might as well have been the great wall of china as you stood there, arms around yourself, small and defenseless as you explained to him all the reasons why you wouldn't allow yourself to love him… that was way worse.

"What if you already were my exception?" He blurted out, before he could stop himself, "What if I was in love with you?"

You laughed, bitterly.

"Harry, I'm not even your type. I've seen you leave night after night with models and socialites and actors, each one more surreally stunning than the last one…" You didn't have a bad self esteem, you didn't. You considered yourself attractive, but the people Harry usually went for were on a whole different level.

"Yes, but that's only because the most absolutely perfect woman in the world for me, keeps me at arm's length!" He rubbed his face in frustration, "And it's so maddening, so fucked up, the way I can't even get away from her long enough to get over her, because even the pain of seeing her every night knowing I can't touch what I see, that I will never have her, is better than the pain of being away from her.

So I keep on taking home the hottest people I can find hoping they will keep me distracted long enough to fill the hours until I can see her again… until I can-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Never, in all the time you had known each other, had Harry given you a single signal indicating he had any kind of feelings for you. Your relationship had always consisted of friendly banter and quip battles. Sure, you could get flirty sometimes, but you were a bartender, flirting was pretty much your customer service voice, and he was a musician, he would flirt with his own shadow if he could.

Harry opened his mouth to explain, but a familiar melody started coming from the still working speakers.

Walk in your rainbow paradise

Strawberry lipstick state of mind…

"Hey, this is my song!" You didn't quite understand why he seemed so marveled, "You never added any of my songs to your playlist before!"

Oh. Oh.

"Yeah, well" Harry could now clearly see your darkened cheeks as you stumbled over your words, "I guessed I never liked one of your songs so much before"

This time, he was the one blushing and avoiding your eyes.

"What would you say if I told you-... If I told you I wrote this one for you?"

"I'd say you're full of shit" You scoffed, "Didn't you tell me you only ever wrote about girls you had dated?"

"No," he corrected, "I said I only ever wrote about women that had broken my heart…"

"How did I break your heart?"

Harry sighed. Your walls were back up, higher than ever, and he didn't know how to break through them. It wasn't your fault -and had it been your fault, truth was he could never blame you either, there was something about you that made it physically impossible for him to get mad at you- you spoke from experience, he didn't need to unlock the secrets of your past, didn't need the details. It was obvious you had been burned before, and though he hated it, hated them for whatever they had done to you, he couldn't fault you for trying to protect yourself.

Not when he wanted to protect you too.

"You didn't like me, back when we first met"

"Harry-"

"No, it's ok. You didn't like me, and you were right not to like me. I know you probably didn't realize it but, that first time you rejected me, when I flirted with you that very first night and you rolled your eyes at me… you changed my life"

"What? How??"

"You weren't wrong, I was a cliche. And I was trying way too hard, to be cool, act like a rockstar… but you took a look at that guy, at that though, playboy, sex, drugs and rock 'n roll guy… and you hated him" Harry snickered. You didn't understand what about all that was so funny, "I had created that guy so that everyone would like him, and you hated him. And the funny thing is-" He finally met your eye. No, he caught your eye and imprisoned them, "The funny thing is, you hating me for what I wasn't, somehow allowed me to start being myself a little bit more, because if you already disliked me… then I had nothing to lose"

You didn't quite know what to say to that.

His bright green eyes were unable to face yours, choosing instead to focus on the palms he was picking at,

"Is that why you… uhm…" You pointed at his sweater.

"Yup" He admitted, "I showed up here one day, on laundry day, in one of my old nerdy sweater vests and you smiled, when you saw it"

"I remember that!" You chuckled, "It was the brown striped one, it almost looked like a crop top, cause it obviously didn't fit anymore"

Harry nodded,

"I may have had a couple grow spurts since I got that in high school"

"Ok, but, you made it work somehow…"

"Thank you. The point is…" he turned serious again, his deep, rich voice even more hypnotic than usual. Or maybe it was just you, for the first time allowing yourself to enjoy it without reservations. "The point is, you didn't like cool Harry, but you liked the real me. Even if just a little bit, and that meant the world to me. I… I adored you because of it. So I wrote a song for you, cause even if I couldn't say it to your face, I had to get it out. Just like I had to get this out tonight"

He opened his arms wide, in his typical ta-da gesture, sad, resigned smile on his face, before getting up from his stool, grabbing his jacket and guitar case.

"You don't have to say anything, I don't expect you to love me back" He declared, "I just- I thought I'd let you know. Valentine's day and all that."

He turned to leave, his own voice still signing in the background,

I'd walk through fire for you, just let me adore you

Oh, honey…

"Harry, wait!" You almost fell on your face, trying to jump over the bar, but managing to stop him right before he reached the door. His poorly concealed smirk told you he might have seen your little show, but you didn't care.

"Did you mean it? That you'd do anything for me?"

"I did" He confirmed, earnestly, "I still do. Anything you want, just say the word"

"Well then," you took a step towards him, that he mirrored without even noticing, "what about a date? A daytime date. At a public place." You clarified. Harry did smirk at that.

"What's the matter, afraid you won't be able to keep your hands off me?" He teased, leaning closer.

"Don't ruin this, Styles" You warned, raising to your tiptoes to meet him eye to eye.

His smile faltered, replaced by the most sincere intensity you had ever seen on his handsome face,

"Wouldn't dream of it, bartender" He whispered, before capturing your lips with his.

#harry styles #adore you #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #valentines day special

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daceydeath · 3 years

Text

Family Breakfast

Paring: Jesse x reader

Words: 863

Warnings: none this is just fluff

You awoke with your head aching and Jesse's side of the bed was empty, the sheets long since cooled from his warmth. Last night had been the first night you had ventured out since his return a few days ago. It was to be just the normal thing grabbing a quick dinner, going to 79s, having a few drinks with his brothers and unwinding. How hard had you gone last night? Surely he hadn’t gone back to the barracks the 501st were planet side for 2 more standard weeks. Groaning you slowly dragged yourself upright noticing a sweet note with a collection of pills and a glass of water on your bedside table.

Take these when you wake up babe Kix said they will fix you up in no time x

You grinned Jesse always took such good care of you, as though you were the most precious jewel known to man. Heading to the fresher to shower you started feeling slightly more human.

Soft noises were coming from down the hallway. Making you think Jesse was attempting to keep himself amused while you slept. Throwing one of his clean workout shirts over your underwear you surfaced from your room to hushed whispers and muffled laugher. Yeah you didn’t remember anyone else staying over, but hopefully you hadn’t been too much of a handful and had forced Jesse to enlist help to get you home. Sudden shame tinged you cheeks pink as you tried to remember everything you could have done last night.

Entering the lounge you encountered neat stacks of armour along the far wall and bodies of several troopers either lounging on your couch or on the floor or quietly joking around near the kitchen. Jesse shushing them while he poured mugs of caf, Hardcase fliping flatcakes and helping Rex on quantities of ingredients for something he was sifting into a large bowl.

Tup and Fives were sitting at the table watching and joking while Kix, Dogma and Echo were still lounging when your presence was noticed.

“Looking good” whistled Fives waggling his eyebrows at you “sometime I think Jesse might be onto something getting a full-time girl”. The attention of the others turn to you as you realise that Jesse’s shirt is probably a little too short for you to be wearing in company you flicked him the middle finger scowling playfully as Jesse smacked his brother on the back of he head as he made his way to you.

“Feeling ok Cyare you had a big night” his tone soft as one of his hand cupped your face his lips meet yours in a soft chaste kiss.

“I’m ok baby, the pills have helped” you mumble quietly resting your forehead to his.

“I told him they would” Kix interjected as everyone made there way toward to table

“I’ll be honest I don’t remember inviting your brothers round for breakfast though” gesturing around vaguely. He chuckled leading you to the table to sit you down beside Echo placing a hot caf in front of you.

“Yeah well you were a little drunk last night pretty girl” Jesse murmured into your hair “you wanted flatcakes so badly when we left 79s you cried when we couldn’t go to get any.”

The boys sniggered making you pout dramatically. Once again getting smack on the back of the head except this time by Echo. You had obviously been fairly drunk last night so it wasn’t a total surprise that you had made a bit of a tit of yourself.

“it was pretty cute” Kix quipped patting you head as he passed behind you to take his seat making you blush. Tup nodded in agreement as he and Dogma took there seats too.

“so to make up for not getting them last night I demanded Hardcase and Rex come round and make me flatcakes for breakfast?” you mused making the boys chuckle at your confused expression.

“No I offered” Hardcase hollared from the kitchen grinning almost gleefully “ plus the Captain needs the practice” Rex hummed in agreement as he checked his dish in the oven.

“They all invited themselves over after that” Jesse shrugged.

“Food that taste like food, who wouldn’t want such luxury” Dogma drawled raising his mug to you

“In our defence, you didn’t specify a time you just said breakfast” Rex murmured apologetically as he lowered a very full plate of Kessinnamon Rolls. The sweet smell wafting around the room causing your mouth to water.

“It’s fine Rex I promise besides a family breakfast sounds lovely” you smiled up at him as you started putting syrup on your flatcakes. “I would have been awake as soon as I smelt this anyway it looks and smells amazing”

The rest of breakfast was a mix of quiet eating and gentle banter. It made you smile watching you lover and his brother interact around something as normal as a meal. Joking, laughing, and occasionally stealing each other’s food the way a family of boys would. Their smiles came easily corners of almost identical eyes crinkling as they spoke. You were grateful for them after all they were your boys and you adored them.

A/N: Thank you for reading. It has been probably over a decade since I have actually written fiction and I'm very rusty. Any sort of feedback is appreciated truly.

#501st #arc trooper jesse #domestic fluff #jesse x reader #pure fluff #Excuse me I haven't written in a decade #totally self indulgent

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hansoulo · 4 years

Text

cold when you hold me (warm when I cry)

pairing: din djarin/reader (gender neutral, no y/n, could be platonic)

warnings: cursing? mild angst, crying, hurt/comfort oh ye boiiii

word count: like a cute 1.5k

a/n: may i offer you some catharsis in these trying times?

Today... today just… sucked. Like, really really sucked. What was that law? Anything that could go wrong, will go wrong?

Maker, it wasn’t even anything that bad, y’know? It was just.. Frustrating. The kid was frustrating. Mando was frustrating. Everything was just…

Fuck.

You’d been in a fit the entire day, hating how shrill your voice sounded when you became short with the both of them. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t want to. It’s just that everything managed to become incredibly too much for seemingly no reason at all, enough so that just the sound of the Crest’s controls was enough to bring you near tears.

One of the subjects of your ire spoke up.

“Are you- alright?” his words were stilted, halting and unsure but edged with soft concern. You let out a laugh, the sound watery.

“Yeah, yeah I’m-” you swiped your knuckles across your eyelids, tracing the sunburst dust that follows the pressing on your vision before the shine of his armour came back into view. “I’m good,” you finished with a small sniff and a bobbing nod, trying to convince yourself more than him.

A few seconds passed in silence. You wiped at your eyes again. Tasted one roll of dripping salt. And turned away.

The Mandalorian’s hands curled around the ship controls. He was still, ever-stoic save for one slight turn of his head. “Do you want to… talk about it?” he asked when you only breathed, the sound rattling a wheezed hollowness in your chest and against the cockpit walls.

You smiled - or tried to - and shook your head gently, feeling the pool of crackling tears before you willed them back down. “No, it’s okay,” you answered after a moment, quiet. “Thanks, though.”

The hem of your shirtsleeve caught in your nails when you fiddled with it, drawing out a loose thread and watching as it piled around the skin of your wrist. It was white. The thread, that is. Which was sort of strange because the fabric was black, so it really didn’t lend itself to blending into the rest of the- oh, shit you were crying again.

“I’m gonna go, uhm-” you swallowed, ducking your head with a cough as you stood up from the copilot seat. “Check on the kid. Maybe nap.” You offered up a vague wave up towards your head in half-hearted explanation. “Headache.”

The Mandalorian nodded. “The Mandalorian” felt… impersonal, though. Mando, you called him sometimes. Nerf-herding hunk of fucking metal, other times. None suited him very well, you thought before you turned to go, the goosebumps rising on your arms from the chill of the air vent above your head. You knew better than to ask for his name, though. Maybe one day, you could call him something else.

The ship’s filtered air washed over you in waves, trickling down your neck and through your sleeves like recycled water, soothing some of the raw sting still settling in the base of your stomach. One breath. Two breaths. In. Out.

No tears. No fuss.

No one to witness when you do.

You shook yourself out of your shallow stupor when you heard a voice, deep and rasped in modulated timbre. “Sorry,” you said, your hand curled around the edges of the entrance. “What was that?”

“I said ‘try to sleep,” he repeated.

Oh.

That was… not what you thought he’d say.

In all fairness you didn’t really expect him to say anything, but that was… considerate. Sweet, even. Maybe.

“Thanks,” you whispered, fighting down the thick notch in your throat. “I- I will.”

-------

You coudn’t fucking cry in peace.

You only heard a slight shift, one barely audible step, before the glint of beskar took up your entire field of view, looming dark and sudden above your seated figure.

“What happened?”

“Fucking- oh, for Maker’s sake,” you cursed under your breathe, burying your face in your hands with a hiccup. “Don’t- don’t sneak up on me like that, okay? Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“You look close to it anyways,” he responded.

You glared at him through the spaces between your fingers, mumbling dryly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Groaning, you let your hands fall beside your legs until they dragged limp over the threadbare covers. “Why are you here?”

The Mandalorian took another step forward. “It’s my ship, isn’t it?”

“You know what I mean,” you rolled your eyes, drawing your knees up to your chest. The stiff rod of the bedframe dug into your heels when you shifted, scooting sideways with a pat of your hand to the space next to you. His shoulders stiffened and you managed a soft smile. “It’s your bed,” you parroted. “Isn’t it?”

He conceded, tilting his helmet as if to say I guess, and your knees jostled against metal when he sat down, apologizing. You tucked your legs underneath you. Told him it was fine.

It’s hard to tell what time of day it is. In space, everything looks the same. Cold and sterile, a vacuum of glittering crystalline set against empty, empty air. You’d been traveling in hyperspace for hours. Still had hours left to go. A long ways for a good bounty, you supposed. Wasn’t really your area of expertise.

“You can tell me,” he offered quietly, careful not to press close. Professional, huh. What was this, then? Emotional insurance? Preemptive therapy so he wouldn’t have to go find someone else to drag across the galaxy? “If you want to.”

“Tell you what?”

Maker, you were a horrible liar. As if he couldn’t see your puffy eyes and your nose rubbed raw with his stupid, fancy high-tech heat vision sensor-thingies.

The Mandalorian didn’t say anything. If you could see it, you think he’d be raising his eyebrows. “There’s nothing to tell, honestly,” you said after a moment, leaning to rest your chin on your knees and looping your arms around your calves. You stared ahead at the far wall, following the dingy metal plating. “I just… had a bad day.”

“A bad day,” the man beside you said, his arms braced on his legs as he sat.

“Yeah,” you sighed, tucking your chin and letting your eyes shut. “A bad day.”

“I know the kid-” he began, “ I know I can be… difficult. And I’m sorry-”

You shook your head, turning to look at the sharp metal of his visor. It was always so strange, hearing him disembodied. Only to face its source and find a mask.

His voice sounded human.

He wasn’t wearing gloves.

“It’s not your fault,” you assured him. His armour reflected hazy glints of gaseous blue light and you followed them with red-rimmed eyes, your gaze curious; his, unyielding. A stare-down. Stare...off? There really wasn’t any way you could know he was even paying attention. He could be sleeping right now, for all you knew.

He wasn’t, though. He was looking at you.

“It’s not your fault,” you said again, more to yourself. “It just gets too much sometimes. Y’know,” you gestured vaguely at your surroundings. “Everything. Anything. Stuff.”

The Mandalorian let out something that could possibly, maybe, in some ways, be interpreted as a laugh. “Stuff, right?”

You squinted, watching him through the sideways vision of your tilted head, and faked offense. “Are you mocking my pain?”

He let out another raspy chuckle, the sound reverberating in your ears and melting in the tips of your fingers. “No,” he said.

“Good,” you replied.

His posture loosened, more slack beside you. A little closer. “You know, you don’t have to.”

“Have to what?” you asked, your question genuine this time.

The edge of your thigh knocked against his cuisse when he spoke again. “Pretend like you’re okay.”

Well, shit.

“I don’t like it,” you admitted as you twisted your sleeves in your palms, wringing the trailing hems until they grew damp. “I don’t like-” you exhaled shakily. “-crying, in front of people.”

Hands that didn’t belong to you, tan and wide and ever-so-careful, reached up to pry the fabric from between your fingers. Then, they pushed the sleeves up, to the slope of your elbows. Then, they traced the skin of your forearms and down your wrists. And then, they stayed there. Pressing two soft thumb circles into your tremoring palms; waiting.

Your vision burned blurry as your chest tightened. “Your hands are warm,” you whispered.

The Mandalorian raised one to the curve of your cheek, over the leaking rivulet trails you hadn’t realized were falling. “Yours are cold,” he replied.

You swallowed, feeling the light callouses. Turned in. “Can you stay?” you asked. His visor revealed little, but if you let yourself slip into a half-state you could almost imagine the color of his eyes. Something dark, to match his voice. Something warm, to match his hands. “Just for a bit?”

He nodded and so you let your eyes fall closed again, your thoughts slow in that tired, aching way that prying something open makes you feel.

When you moved to rest your head on his pauldron, you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders.

#*slaps roof of fanfic* this bad boy can fit so much self-projection #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian/reader #din djarin/reader #the mandalorian oneshot #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin oneshot #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian fic

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dinner-djarin · 3 years

Text

dar'manda (Mando x f!reader)

Chapter 2: A Valuable Friend

Summary: After surviving the Empires attack on Nevarro, you reluctantly go back to your monotonous life. But when the Mandalorian returns, you find yourself in a new position you never would have expected: his friend.

Warnings: Me making shit up about Mandalorian culture whoops, alcohol consumption & getting sick (reader gets drunk), some self-deprecation on the part of the reader, vague talks about having children, mature language (real life and starwars),

Word Count: ~6.5k

Notes: (more at the end for important note on one line in the fic)

Previous - Next

No. NO?!

How and why would you -

Did you really -

You really kriffed up that one.

Not only was that the single most embarrassing moment of your life, but you also just blew your first real chance at escaping this prison sentence of a planet.

Ever since you arrived on Nevarro you’ve wanted to leave. It was something of an accident, ever ending up here in the first place.

After the death of your mother, you were effectively an orphan, although old enough to care for yourself. In fact, you had already been caring for yourself and your sickly mother ever since your older sister left to fight in the rebellion. You always admired her bravery, her passion to do good in a galaxy that had treated her so poorly. You only wished you had half of her sense of purpose. So, when your mother finally passed, you decided you needed a change. You needed to find your purpose. You had nothing and no one to hold you back, so why not search for it in every remote corner of the newly liberated galaxy?

After gathering your dwindling stash of credits, you caught a ride to every backwater skughole you could find, just for a change of scenery. Along the way you learned that being a young – relatively attractive – humanoid had its fair share of advantages. It wasn’t long until you picked up certain…skill sets…to help you survive. But you didn’t get very far. You somehow ended up on Nevarro with little to no credits remaining. Meaning you were stuck in the same position you had been desperate to leave behind in the first place – broke and alone. You figured you could pick up a job to save up, but it barely paid enough to get by. You were stranded.

But suddenly the perfect opportunity to get away from it all had landed in your lap. In a moment you were granted the perfect opportunity to flee this hell hole and never look back. But in that same moment your incredible ability to self-sabotage just couldn’t be contained.

You had no kriffing clue why he would ask you – someone he barely knew – to join him on his new adventure, but nevertheless he did. Had you really proven yourself that trustworthy, or was he just able to see that you were evidently no threat to him? But why even ask you in the first place? How could he know of your deep desires to traverse the galaxy?

You were baffled. So much so that in that overwhelming moment your confused consciousness decided to betray you. What in the outer rim could possess you to say no. To travel the galaxy with a Mandalorian, The Mandalorian that you couldn’t get out of your head.

He said join him. But now you realize he probably just meant like for a little while, until their next stop. Right? But your flustered idiotic brain had to go and overthink it. In your panicked state you started to imagine what it would be like to travel with the Mandalorian and his child. To see the galaxy, as you always dreamed, at the side of a man who could protect you from anything. There would be no safer companion, but maybe that's just it. You’d been crushing on him so hard that being stuck in confined quarters with him might not be the best scenario. There’s no way you could force yourself to act normal for that long. And that must have been the thought racing through your head at light speed when you choked out the words you may now live to regret.

A week later you decide its probably time to get over him. Your crush over Mando has only caused you pain and put you in unbearably uncomfortable situations. You’d be much better off forgetting about him and moving on with your life. Besides, you don’t even really know him. You’ve probably spent a collective hour or so with him, maybe a bit longer if you add up all of the small conversations you held whenever he bought supplies from you.

It’s not even a real crush, just some lustful wishing. Do you secretly wish he’d take you out behind the cantina and fuck you into the next millennia? Yes. Would you let him do absolutely anything he wanted to you... probably? But is that very realistic? What is all of that really based on anyway? A suit of armour. His hypermasculine gait. The intensity behind his unflinching helmet. Nothing really about him. You don’t know his name, or his age. What he even looks like, but you bet it wouldn’t matter. No-

You need to stop those thoughts if you’re ever going to get past this. You. Do not. Know him. Therefore, there is no logical reason you should have any emotions invested in him. And that’s that. The plain and simple truth. It just doesn’t make any sense. So, you need to stop. Take control of your horny ass brain and stop thinking about him.

And just then – as if the Maker himself planned it – the Mandalorian walked by your booth. The sight of his broad shoulders almost erases all thoughts of letting go of your feelings. But just then you notice something. Something in the way he’s moving through the bazaar. It strikes you as odd, almost as if he were stalking prey. He’s hunting, you think. He scans over the area, but a little too erratically for someone of his status. You thought he’d be more elegant, sticking to the shadows until the right moment. Invisible. Deadly. However, here he is frantic. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was afraid.

You don't know how one of the most frightening beings in the galaxy can become a beacon of panic and worry, but there he was. Suddenly, he spots you and makes his way over in several large strides, making quick work to shorten the previously large gap between you.

“Have you seen him?” he barks forcefully.

“Who?” you ask, immediately catching the worriy in his tone.

“The child, my-”

“You lost your kid?!” Your worst suspicions confirmed before he even finishes his sentence.

“I didn’t - I thought he’d be safer with me than on the ship. I looked away for one second-” and then you hear it. His fear finally pried its way into his voice and cracked it. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he may be on the verge of tears.

“Hey it’s okay,” you place a hand just below his pauldron, grabbing his warm, thick bicep. If the situation had been different you might have let yourself think about the fact that only a slip of fabric separated you from him. That only millimetres below was a man of flesh and blood, not of cold hard metal. “I’ll help you find him,” his tension melting away slightly at your words and your touch, so you continue. “You take this side of the market and I'll look over there,” you insist, hoping that giving him some sort of tactical plan might spring him back into bounty hunter mode and away from panicked Dad.

“Thank you,” he stops, and stares at you. “I’m sorry I never asked…”

But you finish his thought, and finally tell him your name. You can’t believe after all that has happened, all the times he came to your vendor, your dumb ass never told him your name. But he nods and returns quickly to his search for the kid.

You turn on the spot and sweep the area with your gaze. In that moment you think back to when you were small. You loved to hide. You were amazing at it. So good, that your father once looked for you for over an hour and the only way to lure you out was with the promise of your favourite Alderaanian sweets. You use that memory and thought where you might have hidden. The market is buzzing and booming, much livelier now that the Imps were gone, and amongst all the chaos it would be natural for a child to feed off the wild energy. You begin peering under other merchant tables, behind walls and crates, when you stumble across a vase. Oddly out of place, but the perfect size for a little green monster to hide. You lean closer and hear a distinct coo as you tilt the lid back. Those giant black orbs staring back at you fill you with relief. You scoop up the child as you wonder how the hell he would have even got in there in the first place, never mind how he then placed the lid back on top.

You move quickly to find his flustered father, hoping to give him that same sense of relief you just experienced. When you do find him, he meets your gaze and moves quickly towards you. So quick it's unbelievable. One minute he was across the bazaar, the next he was scooping the baby up from your arms.

“Don’t ever do that again kid. You had me worried sick.” the child’s mischievous grin suddenly disappeared at this scolding and he became quiet in his father’s arms. “I better let Cara and Karga know. I was with them when he went missing and they also went looking for him.”

“Tell them to meet us in the cantina, I think you could use a drink… or at least a minute to unwind,” you silently curse yourself for being such an idiot. Offering a Mandalorian a drink might be the most oblivious and inconsiderate gesture you could make. In your shameful silence you watch Mando place the child in a floating orb. You recognize it as the same one that trailed him into town on the day everything went down.

“Don't you have to go back to work?” Mando questions, kindly skipping over your foolish comment.

“It was a slow day, and the sun is almost down, which means I’m almost off anyway. I don’t think my boss will miss me. But I mean, if you prefer to be alone I-”

“No, please come” He interrupts. “Without you I may have lost him for good.”

“I seriously doubt that Mando. I don’t know if you know this, but you are a bounty hunter.”

And then he chuckles. Like an actual laugh. Quick, quiet, and modulated, but still there. You think about memorizing the gorgeous sound, which also makes you wonder how often that happens. When was the last time he actually laughed? And what it would take to make him truly laugh? Loudly and unabashedly. You wonder what circumstance would allow him to fully let his walls down around you. How you would fall apart at the sound of his full tenor. Finally, you make a mental note to scold yourself later for these thoughts.

As the three of you make your way to the cantina you decidedly lag one step behind the Mandalorian, walking right next to the floating orb that contains the child, just to make sure the kid doesn’t pull anything before you can get there. You’re shocked at how Mando can be so trusting of this little menace so soon, letting the orb follow him without keeping an eye directly on the kid. It’s starting to make more sense how he might have gotten lost in the first place.

When you finally reach the cantina Cara and Karga are already set down at a table with possibly the largest bottle of spotchka you’ve ever seen sitting centre of the table. You take the seat next to Cara, while Mando places himself directly across from you, next to Karga.

“So, we have you to thank for the capture of this bounty huh?” Karga somewhat insensitively jests as he glances over to the child. In fact, you think you see Mando stiffen at these words. The last time you were all together was in service of protecting the child from the people who put a bounty on him in the first place.

“She’s truly a wonder.” Cara says in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I mean how’d you find the little bugger?”

“Truthfully? It sounds kind of odd, but I put myself in his position. I just thought about what I would have done when I was a child” You answer back to her, a little embarrassed at your confession. “I remembered how I liked to hide when I was that age. I figured he’d probably be wanting to have some fun. Of course, he couldn’t know that hiding in the middle of a crowd was only fun for him.” You continue as you look down into your hands, slightly lost in your thought, “Kids are often like that, giving us grief for their own enjoyment. But it really is a wonder. They seem to have an ability to find joy in the most desolate of places. They still see magic in the galaxy; they still believe in the impossible.” A subtle comfort fills your chest, and you smile as you remember your time spent with children back on your home planet. Time spent with your younger brother. You glance up at the child in his crib, “They have natural curiosity for the world around them. An endless hope for what the galaxy could be.” When you finish you look back to the group at the table, only to see the shared glances of amusement between Cara and Karga at your naïve outlook. You felt a little embarrassed at their reaction, but it didn’t last.

A droid disrupts the uncomfortable silence by approaching your table with 2 extra glasses, obviously unaware of the fact Mando would not be joining in the drinking. Good to know your common sense was on the level of a bartender droid.

You however were unsure of what to do. It wasn’t that you were necessarily opposed to the beverage now being offered to you by Karga, but this didn’t seem like the right time to indulge. You had probably already embarrassed yourself enough in front of this particular group for one night. So, when the child began to stir in his crib you took it as an opportunity to forgo the beverage and focus on him. With your arms reached out towards the child, you suddenly think to get the consent of his guardian. You look up at the Mandalorian and smile when you receive a silent nod from him. After grabbing the child and setting him in your lap, you hope that you had successfully removed yourself from the attention of the others.

“You like kids then?” Cara pries at your thoughts, trying to continue your previous chain of conversation.

“Well, I haven’t really been around them in a while, not since being home. There were always so many children in my village, and they were always so filled with wonder. It made me see the world a little brighter.” You finish, hoping the conversation ends there.

“Ever think you’ll have your own?” She continues, obviously seeing the gleam in your eye as you speak.

You laugh at this question but honestly you hadn’t really thought of it. You’ve never been able to picture a future like that. Husband. Kids. Home. It had been too long since you had any feeling of security to hope for that type of life. You'd pretty much spent more of your life alone than with your family, to the point where you don't even know what it’s really supposed to look like.

When you don’t give her an answer past laughter, Cara switches her attention to the Mandalorian, “How ‘bout you Mando, ever thought you’d end up with a kid of your own?” and you turn back to the baby, hoping that you had finally left the center of the conversation.

It seems to work as you overhear the members of your table switch their topic to the criminals that still plague Nevarro, and the recent advances ‘Marshall Dune’ has made in her efforts to clean the town.

Tuning them out, you begin to play with the child, making faces and babbling along to his adorable coos. The child becomes fascinated by the idea of hiding your face behind your hands, only to suddenly reappear seconds later, and he tries to pry your hands away every time. After popping your face out for the tenth time the child begins to reach for your face again, but this time grabbing your nose, and you can’t help but giggle at his precious three-fingered grip. However, when his tiny hand slips to your cheek, a sudden wave of emotions rips over you, and you feel overwhelmed by a grief you haven’t felt in years. Your eyes tear up, and you remember flashes of a memory you’ve worked hard to repress. Standing in a dark closet huddling tight to your brother and sister. Then, the loudest sound you’ve ever heard fills your ears and-

“Kid!” Mando bellows and removes the child from your grip. You turn away from the table and look up at the Mandalorian, cheeks drenched by your tears and barely able to breathe. He sets the child in his pram, and crouches in front of you. “Hey, it’s okay just breathe, slowly, breathe. You’re okay, you’re safe,” he reminds you, holding your knees. It takes a few moments for you to catch your breath, but in those moments, you stare through the visor, past your own reflection, and focus on the eyes that you knew were staring back at you.

“What… was that” You finally manage to choke out.

“The kid, he must have done something to you. He’s got these powers-”

“He made me remember?” You blurt in disbelief.

“Umm, I’m not sure. Maybe. The people he belongs to, the Jedi, they are sorcerers.”

“So, whatever he just did to me… that’s what that woman, the other Mandalorian, was talking about?” You ask.

“Yes, whatever he just did, and more,” Mando adds

“More than that?”

“So far, a lot more.”

You finally snap back to reality, remembering that there are other people present, so you turn to give them a reassuring nod.

“How ‘bout that drink?” Karga asks in an attempt to lighten the mood, and you shoot back the beverage quickly, attempting to wipe the resurfaced memory from existence.

After the first round of spotchka had been downed, Cara and Karga made their way to the bar for more drinks, leaving you and the Mandalorian alone.

“So… you’re stuck with him, huh?” you ask, feeling quite light-headed from the drinks, any filter you previously possessed had now dissipated.

“Well, I wouldn’t say stuck,” Mando states sitting up straight.

“You don’t think you bit off a little more than you can chew? He seems like quite the handful.”

“He’s a good kid.” Mando snaps shortly, making you finally realize he has become defensive from your words.

“Oh. No, I just meant, kids are already a lot of work, I can’t imagine the magic powers make it any easier,” you joke, trying to diffuse your mistake with a small chuckle.

“No, I can’t say they do. Although without him or his powers I’d be dead.” Mando says blankly, as if his words were common knowledge to you.

“Wait, what?” You ask in shock, wondering if in your current state you forgot about some lifesaving event that took place previously.

“Yah, so would Karga.” He glances over at the pair at the bar, and you follow with your eyes. “Saved me from a mudhorn the first day we met. Healed the poison in Karga’s arm when he was attacked by a reptavian.”

“Wow,” you say quietly to yourself, “Look at you go kid. You’re pretty dang special.” You say towards the child, sticking your tongue out and successfully getting the kid to giggle at you.

“Yah he is.” The Mandalorian says quietly, almost a whisper to himself, and with a lightness that makes it sound like he might be smiling.

“So, will you raise him to be Mandalorian as well?” You wonder aloud, taking a swig from your drink, as if you needed to increase your level of inebriation.

“Not necessarily. Although I’ve adopted him as my founding, he belongs with the sorcerer group called the Jedi. My goal is to reunite him with them, but until then, technically yes.”

“Does that mean anyone can be Mandalorian, if they get adopted by one?”

“Yes. But they may not need to be adopted. If someone was old enough, they could simply train under another Mandalorian, and then swear an oath to the Creed once that training is done.” And although you want to know more about how he grew up, some grain of restraint is planted in your brain, thankfully stopping you from prying into his private life. Instead, your interest in the Creed is piqued, and you decide to follow that train of thought instead.

“And is that a difficult process then? I mean, not just anyone would be able to pass it, right?” And even though warning signs were flashing in your brain, telling you not to risk disrespecting the secrecy of the Creed, the Mandalorian responds. He continues to tell you intimate details of his training process, specifically towards the fighting corps, including how his adoptive siblings and he were forced to spar with each other, often walking away with several harsh wounds. He tells you about how he studied the language as much as he could, as it was rarely used, but still sacred among his people. How he had an affinity for languages, and how he specifically enjoyed the simplicity and poetic nature of Mando’a. He tells you of grueling trials, times where he thought he wasn’t going to make it. But he also explains how his low moments lead him to find the strength to persevere.

The whole time he spoke, you stared at him with glimmering eyes. You hung onto every word. Even through the modulator you could hear the care and restrained excitement in his voice,. You could tell just how important this culture was to him, how he cared deeply for the history and sanctity of his people and Creed. And as he spoke with such tenderness, you felt yourself become entranced with his words. As he detailed the responsibilities and dedication to his covert - how important his training had been - you felt something within your heart, a longing sentimentality. His words describing a life you wish you had known. A sense of purpose and duty. A greater cause to fight for. A chosen family with a common mindset. A place in the galaxy.

These were things you had dreamed about for your entire existence. Every day that passed felt meaningless and draining, knowing that you were doing nothing of importance. The life Mando described to you sounded like heaven. The idea of having something to fight for filled your entire body with electricity. You couldn’t help but stare at him with wonder as he detailed to you a life you had always wanted.

“Dank ferric.” He grumbles. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said all that.” Mando says, snapping back from the trance he had found himself in.

“Oh gods, no that’s my fault I shouldn’t have pried.” You try to apologize. “I’ll forget everything you said.” Although you don’t truly know if you had a choice. You think you might never be free from the wishful idea of belonging that had latched onto something deep within you.

“Oh, I don’t mean that I shouldn’t have told you. I trust you won’t do any harm with that information.” He says with a nod towards you and you can’t help but blush at his compliment. Being trusted by Mando might be the highest honour he could give. “I just shouldn’t have gone on so long. I apologize for taking up your time.”

“Mando, you don’t have to apologize for speaking.” You joke, although simultaneoausly noticing the way Mando had stiffened at your words, you continue, “At least not to me,” you say reaching out across the table to grab the Mandalorians hand, a gesture that your sober self would never have had the courage to do. “You obviously care about your heritage, and rightfully so. It sounds magnificent. You should be able to be proud of it.”

“I don’t usually have that privilege. Many people would take advantage of such knowledge.”

“Well, you deserve to have the freedom to talk about something you care about,” you say as you bring your other hand across the table and give a caring squeeze to his hand, “And I swear, the only exploitation you’ll get from me is my claim to babysit your little womp rat whenever you come to town.” you say retracting your hands away from Mando and instead making grabby hands toward the child.

“Well, I don’t know anyone better suited to the job. It would be unwise to deny you that wish, especially now that you have intel on me.”

“Was that a joke, and a complement? From a Mandalorian?” you scoff, “Wow. I never thought I’d live to see it.”

“Does that mean I have to kill you now?” he shifts to the edge of his seat and leans towards you.

“Oh, I’d like to see you try, bucket head.” you tease, knowing full well he could kill you in an instant without even trying. Regardless, you shift forward and cross your arms on the table, challenging him with the mirrored motion.

The two of you stare at each other in silence, your mouth creeping into a mischievous smile. You wonder what might be going through his mind, as all you can think about is the idea of him pinning you to the ground in a millisecond, and just when you think he will break, a voice brings your attention away.

“I think we gotta call it,” Cara says, a little too loudly for her close proximity to your ear. You wince at the intrusion, cursing the fact that you won't get to know how your challenge ended.

“I should be on my way then” the Mandalorian states, “Although I’m still missing some supplies-”

“Lemme grab them for you.” You insist, “I can meet you back at your ship in 30 minutes. Got a list?”

The Mandalorian lists off a handful of items, and you instantly know you have them all in stock. You give him a nod and stand from your booth. “See you in a few.” You say with a wink that you instantly regret the minute you turn your back.

“How long do you think you’ll be gone for?” You question Mando as you approach him with the crateful of supplies he requested.

“Not really sure. If I get any leads on the Jedi, I have to follow them up. Of course, Nevarro is always a safe place to refuel and restock.”

“So, you’ll be back as long as you need shit from me?” you startle yourself with your choice of language, remembering the several shots of spotchka you just downed and how your tongue might be a little looser.

“Not just you.” The Mandalorian states rather quickly, in a tone you’d almost label as flustered. “I can’t get fuel from you,” he continues much more coolly.

“Mhhhm, right. That is true. But no other reason.”

“Another reason for what?”

“For you to come back. Here. I mean you’ve got friends here-”

“I don’t really have friends.”

“Well, that mighta hurt my feelings if I knew you a bit better, but I’m certain Cara and Karga would feel a bit under appreciated. Especially after everything that happened…” You trail off.

“They are much more business partners then friends,” you squint your eyes and raise your brow at him with those words, making him corrects himself, “But sure. If you want to classify them as friends, then yes.”

After a brief silence you somewhat bravely somewhat stupidly ask, “And me?” Eyes wide and hopeful, sober-you would be ashamed. Taking a step towards him you muster up even more courage, “Would I be classified as a friend too?”

“Yes. A valuable one,” He states stepping towards you as well, “One who could teach me something about caring for a child.”

“Oh, no. I know nothing about that. I guess I’m just good at relating to them. Maybe I’m still young at heart” you tease. Something about the Mandalorian tells you he’s got a lot of years behind him, a lot of...experience. You don’t have much evidence to back it up, more of a vibe really.

After another small silence the Mandalorian speaks. “I guess it’s nice to have friendly faces around, for the child's sake. Perhaps I should make it a habit to return until he’s been united with his people”

“And what about you? You don’t go crazy having no one to talk to but the kid?”

“Not much of a talker”

“Except for tonight.”

“Fair.” He bluntly states. “It doesn’t seem too difficult to get information out of you”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“You seem to like to talk, is all”

“Well, it’s been a while since I've been in good company. To be honest I think I talked more tonight than in the past several years''

“I can agree with that.”

“We make a good pair then. Two people who don’t talk yet can’t shut up around each other” And at this point you don’t even know what you’re saying. The proximity to the Mandalorian and the alcohol in your blood are mixing at a dangerous level, making you blurt out things you’re sure you’d never have the courage to say.

In the silence that followed, you are eager to find something to fill it. You think back to how he talked of his upbringing, the joy you felt in his voice. It reminded you of the last time you could remember feeling that way.

“You know, the way you spoke of sparing with your siblings, it reminded me of my childhood.” You say, eager to find something to fill the silence. Normally you don’t mind quiet but drunk you has decided otherwise. “When I was very young my siblings and I would fight constantly, always in good nature of course. We wanted to win the affection of our parents, although they would have loved us either way. But they would cheer us on. They always encouraged our fighting, telling us we would be stronger for it when we were grown.

“When they watched us, they looked so in love, so proud. My mother would turn to my father and say ‘we raised warriors’. It was like they knew things would turn bad. I mean of course there were wars, and the Empire was a constant threat, but somehow, they were always prepared for the worst. Like they were ready for a fight that might never come.”

The Mandalorian stood silently, and it seemed your attempt to relate to him failed spectacularly. However, for a moment, you thought you caught the subtle tilt of his visor. Like he was examining you, maybe unsure of what to make of your lengthy anecdote.

“That does resemble my upbringing.” He spoke softly, finally filling the conversational void. “Quite a lot, actually.” But then silence returned. A buzzing filled your ears from the complete lack of auditory stimulation. You felt yourself becoming unsteady, like the force of the silence was pushing you off balance. You now realized the total effects of your inebriation were hitting you. “Were you-” but before Mando could finish his thought, your stomach forced its contents out violently, and you were lucky enough to find the sense to turn away from him, and rush towards a near alleyway, just in time.

As your body rid itself of the liquid poison, you couldn’t help but let multiple tears spill out of your eyes, unsure if it was from the force of the projectile, or the complete embarrassment.

“Oh, dear gods,” you finally croak as you regain your bearings on the spinning world around you. “I am so sorry, Mando. That was so kriffing embarrassing.” You try to cover your face, as you sweep your tears from your cheeks. But Mando already made his way over to you, crouching to meet you on the ground, grabbing your hands in his and placing a canteen in them instead.

“Drink. It’ll help.” He says in a soft hushed tone. You aren’t even sure where he got the canteen from, maybe it just happened to be near at the time, or he went back up to the ship in the time you were hurling… “Drink.” He repeats, interrupting your train of thought.

You unflask it with shaky hands and take a large swig, immediately feeling some relief from the burning sensation in your throat. “You need food as well.” He adds simply, grabbing your arms and heaving your dead weight off the ground as if it were nothing to him. After helping back to standing position, he turned toward his ship and made his way to the ramp. Before ascending, he turned back to you and finished his original thought, “Let’s see what rations you gathered for me. Come on.”

So, you make your way over to the ship, which is a task in itself as your legs felt as though they might give out at any moment.

“Wow,” you say in astonishment. You’d never seen a true cruiser like this. Any inter-planet hopper you’d taken to make your way to Nevarro had always been either completely basic and Imperial made, or a complete hunk of junk. And although you had nothing really to base it on, this ship was leagues ahead of anything you had experienced before. To think he got to spend all his time travelling the galaxy in a ship like this, all on his own. That was true adventure.

And you knew from the carbon scoring on the exterior that he had actually seen it. Excitement, danger, freedom. But the inside of this ship told a more complex story. You think that before it would have been simple. A weapons locker, a tiny sleeping quarter, a refresher, and not much else. The bare necessities for a man always in motion. No home. No attachments. But what you figured must have been new additions showed glimpses of a different man. A tiny hammock over the sleeping area, a small padded seat lifted to meet the height of a protruding shelf that almost resembled a dinner table, and what looked like makeshift toys strewn across the hull. All signs of another lifeform making itself comfortable on his ship and in his life.

“Here.” the Mandalorian grunted, breaking you from your daze, as he held out a ration stick to you. “Are you alright?”

“Well, I don’t feel as… vomitty, as before.” You start, now staring at the man in front of you, right where you figure - where you’re almost certain - his eyes are meeting yours. You think of his willingness to take care of you, twice tonight. Nothing added up. He was a complete mystery. Just when you thought you had him pinned, everything was suddenly flipped.

“That’s good, you just look a little out-of-it.” He said as he placed a hand on your shoulder, probably trying to steady you from whatever state you were in.

“Oh no, I’m just admiring the place.” You say, breaking eye contact to scan over the area again, taking in new details as you did so.

“Ha ha.” he says dryly, retracting his hand from you.

“No, I’m serious,” you reply sternly, offended that he would think so little of his own ship. “I’ve never seen anything like this, except for maybe in my dreams. I can’t imagine getting to fly in this every day. Or, oh maker! You get to see the stars in hyperspace, that was my favourite part! I only got to travel through hyperspace once. And, dank ferric, it was spectacular. Every other damn transport was sublight, not fun. Very slow, but generally cheaper, I guess. I’d kill to get to see that again” You could feel the excitement within you reach your face. A giant grin bursting out of you when you could no longer contain the joy within.

“Where were you travelling?” He questioned after examining your elation, and you could hear the genuine nature of his question, like he actually cared. Most people had never taken this much interest in your past.

“Oh, really anywhere I could. I just wanted to get away from, well, everything. My family, the war, my whole life. I tried to start over, but I didn’t get very far. Got stranded here, and I could never find the means to continue my journey.”

“Your journey?” He prompted, trying his best to stifle the laugh that followed.

“Yah okay that sounds a little ridiculous, but really I was just trying to find some excitement, something different. Just trying to find… something. It sounds dumb, I know, but I was so sick of my life, so when I had the opportunity to go, I went. I went everywhere I could afford, until I could barely afford food. So, I worked at that vendor for scraps until I saved enough to keep going, but I guess I never saved enough.”

“So, you’re still looking?’

“Huh?”

“You said you were looking to find something, but it doesn’t sound like you found it.”

“No. I haven’t. Not that I even know what I was looking for. But it seemed like one of those ‘you’ll know when you know’ things”

“Well, what if someone could take you away from Nevarro?” he questioned.

“Wouldn’t happen. I’ve got barely enough credits to buy bantha crap.”

“What if that person didn’t need credits, just company.”

The statement threw you. Suddenly you weren’t sure what Mando truly knew about your reputation. “Uhhh what kinda company, because I really don’t-”

“A friend.” He paused, making you wonder why he would propose such an idea, “A valuable one.”

And only then did the wires connect in your still-woozy brain. He was asking you to join him. Again. But this time as a friend. Someone he knew and trusted. Someone who he felt comfortable enough with to talk about his Creed with. And suddenly your heart stopped beating.

You could not – for the love of the Maker – mess this up again. But maybe you should make sure.

“Me?” you say while lazily pointing towards yourself for further clarification. “Mando are you asking me to join you two?”

“Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.” He says before making his way back out of the hull to finish packing the remnants of the supplies, apparently making the decision for you, as you definitely gave no answer. But it was the answer you wanted. A way out. An escape. And for kriffing sake, free.

As you stood, dumbstruck and alone, in the hull, you wondered just what it might be like. Getting to see some danger up close and personal. To see treacherous planets one week, then beautiful landscapes the next.

When Mando returned to the hull with the last of the supplies, only two words could escape your mouth, quieter and softer than you may have ever spoken before. “Thank you.”

Chapter 3

☆ I appreciate every like and comment so much, thank you all! And if you’d like to be added to the tag list let me know ☆

Taglist: @peppywitch @tobealostwanderer @thecraftyartist @ajeff855 @greatcircle79

Notes: In this chapter I say that the reader is “relatively attractive”. I’m not trying to single anyone out here or make you feel like you can’t be the reader if you don’t view yourself as attractive (because we are all fucking gorgeous anyway fuck societal norms). What I really mean to say is that like being a human looking person makes the reader more attractive than some alien-being might be (like weird alien species that would make up the general population of the more ‘outer rim’ planets she might be on). I was just trying to emphasize that she would be viewed as rare since young female humans wouldn’t normally populate those types of planets. Also, because the reader being female and kinda youngish will play a role later as I kinda touch on the dangers of the bounty hunter life and how the reader needs to navigate it.

#mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian #mando #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din #star wars #the mandalorian x reader #fem reader #mando fluff #Star Wars fanfiction

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mintaka14 · 3 years

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See the Light

A Miraculous Ladybug fanfiction

By Mintaka14

Chapter Three – Living in a Blur

“No Rose or Juleka today?” Marinette asked as she stepped down into the galley of the Liberty with that effortless grace that Luka was coming to associate with the woman she’d become. She reached up to tuck back a lock of hair that had escaped from the braid over her shoulder, and Luka moved around the tiny kitchen, pulling out mugs, while the kettle whistled loudly in the background.

“No, they had a few things to organise today for the wedding. They said to say hi, though.” He didn’t mention the other things that Rose had had to say, or the broad, suggestive beams she given him before she dragged Juleka away on whatever mission she’d manufactured.

He handed Marinette the tea that he’d just made and shifted towards the couch in the living room, cradling his own coffee. Marinette sank into the armchair across from him. She blew on the mug and closed her eyes to inhale the steam.

“I still can’t quite believe that Juleka and Rose are getting married. It feels like only yesterday we were all in collège.” Marinette smiled, and sighed.

“They’re incredibly lucky to be getting MDC original wedding dresses. That’s one hell of a wedding present you’re giving them.”

“Juleka and Rose are covering the materials I’m just volunteering my time and a bit of sewing.”

Luka’s eyebrow rose sceptically. “One artist to another, I know it’s not ‘just’ anything, Marinette. Your time and skill is a very generous gift, and don’t forget, I’ve seen what you’re putting together for them. Jules and Rose can’t have been straightforward to design for.”

Marinette laughed. “But they’re giving me the chance to have fun,” she insisted. “I spend all day every day dealing with clients with no individuality or imagination, trying to convince them to trust me, so it’s a relief to get a chance to do something interesting for a change, with friends who are happy to indulge me.”

Luka leaned back, all plans to rehearse forgotten, as he watched Marinette talk about the inspiration behind the wedding dresses and the creative possibilities in dressing certain clients, her face lighting up and her hands gesturing animatedly as she grew more impassioned about her theories of clothing as a reflection of self. He followed the movement of her hands and lost himself in the endless blue of her eyes.

“I really need to ask Juleka if she’d be willing to model for me sometime. She’s always so compelling in whatever she wears, and so much fun to design for,” she said eventually. He found her eyeing him speculatively. “I’d love to have the chance to dress you one day.”

“You could at least buy me dinner first,” he said without thinking.

There was a heartbeat, then Marinette burst out laughing.

“Smooth line, Couffaine. Does that work on all the girls?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He decided to lean into it, and grinned at her. “I’ve only ever tried it on you. Is it working?”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “How are you still single?” she asked.

“You’re a hard act to follow,” he said, and Marinette levelled a look at him.

“Luka, I was a fourteen year old clumsy mess who kept on flaking out on our dates. You can’t tell me I’m the gold standard of your relationships.”

Put like that, it was ridiculous, but it was true nonetheless. He’d had relationships, and they were sincere in the moment, but he’d drifted out of them as easily as he’d drifted into them, and they’d left him with little more than fond memories. None of them had left a mark like Marinette had. Over the years, he’d put it down to rose-coloured nostalgia, but then she’d walked into his life again, more Marinette than ever, and he’d fallen harder and faster than he had before.

He looked down at the mug of coffee in his hands.

“How about you? Anyone special in your life these days?” he asked the coffee with casual disinterest. She gave a soft snort.

“Hardly. It’s not like anything’s changed since we were going out.” She seemed to catch herself, and froze as Luka’s head came up to stare at her. “I just… mean, who’s got time for a relationship, right? Life’s too busy.”

“Not since we were going out?” Luka echoed her, frowning. “Marinette, you were fourteen. You haven’t dated anyone since then?”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “I dated. It just never lasts long. It’s not that big a deal. And besides,” she muttered, “I’ve learned my lesson, the universe doesn’t want me to have a relationship.”

She put her mug abruptly on the table and stood.

“Weren’t we supposed to be practising?”

Luka got to his feet and reached for his guitar. Clearly this was a line of conversation that Marinette did not want to go down with him, and he dropped the subject to run through the song with her a few times, correcting her gently when her voice faltered.

He had to wonder, though, what the hell was wrong with the men in Marinette’s life that had left her love life such a sore subject?

Luka stopped again to make a suggestion about phrasing and breath control.

“All that time, never even knowing just how blind I’ve been,” Marinette tried again, sounding more confident with the slightly awkward vocal skips this time, and Luka gave her a smile.

“See?” he told her. “Fashion designer to the stars, artist, and now singer. You can add that to your résumé.”

He’d finally coaxed a laugh out of her, and then Marinette’s handbag buzzed. Luka watched the smile drop off her face. Her eyes flicked to the door. “I’m really sorry, I have to go. I have… a thing…”

She was gone before he could say anything further. For a moment, Luka sat there with his guitar silent in his lap, frowning thoughtfully. Apparently she was right – not much had changed in the ten years since they’d been kids together. There were still the abrupt excuses, the silences, the sudden disappearances.

Luka plucked out Now she’s here, shining in the starlight, and he considered the empty space where she’d been. He was coming to suspect that whatever had been going on when they were kids, whatever she’d been keeping to herself when she broke it off with him, it was something bigger than he’d imagined.

At that moment, Luka’s own phone chimed with an akuma alert, and the timing of it was jarring. His hand dropped, as it always did, to touch his empty wrist. He looked down at it, his frown growing troubled as a new thought took hold.

He found himself thinking back over the timing of some of those disappearances, and odd excuses, and the times she’d had just a little more knowledge of Ladybug's movements than any random civilian ought to, but it had all sounded so plausible at the time. Seen through this new lens, those moments took on a new significance the more he turned them over in his mind.

Black pigtails, unmistakeable blue eyes. The same damn plain black earrings that Marinette, the consummate fashion designer, was still wearing ten years later.

How had he never put it together before?

Luka was still sitting there, his hands resting on his guitar and his gaze fixed on nothing, when Juleka and Rose came home.

“Where’s Marinette?” Rose asked in obvious disappointment when she took in the quiet room.

“She had to leave,” Luka replied absently.

“Luka! You just let her leave?”

Luka could see the tiny frown that he was feeling reflected in his sister’s face, although he wasn’t sure what had prompted it in Juleka’s case.

“I’m not going to badger her into staying if she needs to go, Rose,” he said mildly.

Rose threw up her hands. “And how is she supposed to know you want her to stay if you don’t tell her? I don’t get why you’re both fighting this so hard. She’s single, you’re single, but both of you are too chicken to make the first move.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Juleka interjected, shooting a dark look at her brother. “Because I remember weeks and weeks of Taylor fucking Swift, and I do not want to go through that again.”

“That was ten years ago! You cannot tell me that there’s not something there!” Rose whirled and stabbed a finger at Luka. “You can’t argue with the Sparkly Sense.”

Luka was only half paying attention to the argument, and responded vaguely, “Marinette has too much going on in her life right now to worry about a relationship with anyone.” Like saving the city, over and over and over again, holy shit, she was Ladybug.

Once seen, it was hard to understand how he could have missed it, and his mind briefly derailed to speculate that it must be some sort of kwami-induced magic that obscured her identity. Given how adamant Ladybug had been back in the day that the secret of the miraculous holders’ identities had to be preserved, and how hard she had worked since then to maintain that secrecy, Luka had a bad feeling about how things would go if he told her that he knew.

He was about to become another crack in her armour, another worry dumped on her already overloaded shoulders. Although, what did he really know, when all was said and done? He had his suspicions, nothing more.

“Hopeless, the both of you,” Rose complained, and glared at Juleka. “Don’t you want your brother to live happily ever after?”

“I don’t want to have to live through weeks of I Almost Do again, because my stupid brother hasn’t got the sense he was born with, and you’re just encouraging him.”

Rose stomped away, muttering things under her breath, but Juleka stayed silent after that. His guitar still in his hand, Luka got to his feet and headed for his bedroom before Rose could come back and start again. He had too much else on his mind to deal with Rose’s matchmaking.

Every time he thought Marinette couldn’t get any more extraordinary, she surprised him all over again, but the music he played softly in the solitude of his room that night ached with all the burdens he’d seen in her eyes.

Some time later, he heard a soft knock on his door and it opened quietly. When he looked up, Juleka was leaning there, her hand on the door handle and a look of equal parts irritation and uneasiness on her face.

“Luka –“

“I’m fine,” he cut her off before she could say what he knew she was going to say. “I know what I’m doing, and it’s all good.”

Juleka’s mouth pinched. “Do you, though? Because from where I’m standing, we’re heading for Taylor territory again.”

Luka didn’t answer, his focus on his hands and the fragments of melody that he’d come to think of as Marinette’s song. Eventually he heard a sigh, and Juleka said, “I love you, you dumbass.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

The door shut behind her, and he was left alone with his thoughts and Marinette’s secrets.

~~~~~

“You’re playing with fire,” warned the voice of responsibility in Marinette’s handbag, and Marinette sighed. She shifted the bulky dress bags in her hands so that she could see the little round face peering up at her.

“It’s just a dress fitting, Tikki. Can’t I even have friends anymore?”

“It’s Luka,” the tiny kwami said primly. “Things never stay just friends with Luka, and I saw the way you’ve been looking at him. Remember what happened the last time you told someone?”

“That was ten years ago, and Luka is not Alya. Don’t you think things have changed a bit since then?”

“It never ends well,” Tikki insisted, and Marinette felt the weight of Ladybug closing in on her all over again. She looked up at the Liberty as she drew closer, and had never felt less free in her life.

“Don’t worry, Luka’s not even going to be there,” she said wearily. “Juleka said he’s got something tonight, so it’ll just be her and Rose there. And anyway, there’s no chance he’d ever be interested in me like that again.” Because if there was a chance, then Marinette would have to walk away now before she could do any more damage, and she’d never get to see Luka again. She couldn’t do that. She just couldn’t.

“Luka was a wonderful holder for Sass,” Tikki conceded, “but he’s always been a little too perceptive for comfort. If he were to find out…”

“We��re here,” Marinette said, cutting off the rest of Tikki’s dire predictions. The kwami vanished into the depths of her handbag, and Marinette maneouvred the dress bags carefully as she climbed the gangplank onto the boat and called a greeting as she reached the empty deck.

In spite of her mood after Tikki’s lecture, she felt a tiny smile curl her lips as Rose’s answering shriek echoed up from below deck, and she followed the sound down into the depths of the boat.

“Marinette!” Rose scolded reproachfully as Marinette descended carefully into the galley with the two dress bags in her hand and moved through into the living room. “You didn’t even say goodbye last time! We got back and you were just gone.”

Marinette held the dresses clear as Rose engulfed her in a whirlwind hug, and turned to meet Juleka’s more sedate greeting. The dark-haired girl gave her a nod and a quirk of a smile that turned to a frown when Rose gave her girlfriend a smug look.

Rose turned towards the bedrooms, and bellowed, “Luka! Look who’s here!”

“What’s up?” she heard Luka’s voice, and felt her heart stutter. Oh, that wasn’t good. Luka swung around the edge of the door, leaning against the frame behind his sister as he directed a slow, sweet smile at Marinette.

“Hey, you,” he said, and Marinette couldn’t help but smile back at him. Juleka rolled her eyes and slugged her brother in the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Juleka!” Rose scolded.

“Weren’t you going out? Rose said you had a thing tonight,” Juleka said, and Luka frowned at her.

“Not for another hour. The band we were going to check out isn’t on til later.”

“Did I say eight?” Rose said innocently to the ceiling. “I meant nine. Oops.”

Marinette found herself standing there awkwardly holding the dress bags, her eyes shifting between the three of them.

“You don’t want to keep the guys waiting if you said you’d be there,” Juleka pushed.

“I only said I might,” Luka said, shooting his sister an annoyed look.

“Besides, he can catch them another time,” Rose insisted, staring at her girlfriend with a pointed message that Juleka ignored for once. “They won’t mind, and Marinette’s here now.”

Luka elbowed Juleka aside none too gently and came into the room. “I’m getting a coffee. Did you want anything, Mari?”

“I’d like a coffee,” Juleka said in a saccharine voice, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“I didn’t ask you, monster child.”

“You don’t have to stay on my account,” Marinette told Luka. “I’m only here to do the final dress fitting.”

“Oh no!” Rose protested. “You have to stay for dinner. It’s the least we can do after everything you’ve done with the wedding dresses.”

“You haven’t even seen the finished thing yet,” Marinette pointed out, and felt a flush rising at the smile that Luka was giving her.

“We don’t need to see them to know they’re going to be incredible,” he said. “And it wasn’t important. I was only half thinking of going out anyway.”

The noise Juleka made was not polite, and Luka made a rude gesture back without looking at his sister.

“Well,” said Rose brightly. “How about we leave them to it? They’re going to be doing this for a while.”

In Juleka’s bedroom, Marinette didn’t have to ask Rose if she was happy with her wedding dress once she’d settled the clouds of soft pink organza around her and done up the miles of tiny buttons. Rose was making a noise like a tea kettle on the boil that rose to a squeal of happiness as she spun around in front of Juleka’s bedroom mirror. Handbeaded organza flowers spilled down in glittering trails across the skirts as she turned, and Rose raised a hand to touch the flowers that clustered all over her bodice.

“It’s perfect!” she breathed. She made a move as if she was going to throw her arms around Marinette, but Marinette fended her off with a laugh.

“Hug me when we get you out of the dress,” she smiled. “How does it feel? Nothing slipping, or too tight?”

“It’s perfect,” Rose repeated, her voice turning a little wobbly with emotion.

When Marinette finally got Rose to stop twirling around for long enough to take the gown off again, they headed back to the living room to find the Couffaine siblings glaring at each other. Luka looked away as they came in, his mouth pressed in a tight line, and Juleka spun on her heel, stalking towards the bedroom without a word, leaving Marinette to follow.

She carefully removed Juleka’s wedding dress from its hanger while her friend stripped down to her underwear and slipped her formal shoes on, and then Marinette started easing Juleka into the gown.

“Mari, what’s really going on with you and Luka?” Juleka asked, her voice a little muffled by the softly glittering black fabric over her head. Marinette slid the dress down and settled it into place. “I love you, but he’s my brother and I’m worried about him.”

“We’re just friends,” Marinette said, and suppressed a flinch at the words. Juleka rolled her eyes.

“You were never just friends even when you were just friends. And the last time I thought you were just friends it turned out you’d been dating my idiot brother. So excuse me if I’m not buying it.”

Marinette swallowed at that, stung but unable to argue the point.

“Believe me, Juleka, I’m well aware of how badly I fucked up back then, and the last thing I want to do is hurt Luka like that again,” she said, insistent in the face of Juleka’s scepticism.

“You won’t mean to, but Luka gets stupid when you’re involved.”

“That was ten years ago,” Marinette protested.

“That was two minutes ago.”

Juleka’s exasperated words provoked a cold wash of dismay. Juleka had to be mistaken. Luka was long over her, he had to be. Somewhere deep down, though, Marinette felt a tiny fireworks explosion of something that she didn’t dare acknowledge.

“The moment you turn up, he drops everything without a second thought,” Juleka muttered as Marinette eased the hidden zip up. Marinette stepped back, and Juleka turned to face the mirror.

“Wow. Damn, Marinette,” she breathed. She angled herself a little, her eyes still on her reflection in the mirror. “I take it all back. You’re welcome to wreck my dumbass brother, as long as I get to keep this dress.”

Marinette gave a tightlipped little smile, and went back to regarding the gown with a critical eye. There really didn’t seem to be much that needed adjusting. She repositioned the crystal chipped dragon brooch that coiled over Juleka’s hip, where it caught up the fall of the fabric, but it all seemed to be working.

She extracted Juleka from the gown again, and back in the living room Rose was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through something on her phone. Luka had his guitar in his hands again, strumming something with his coffee forgotten on the table beside him. He looked up as Marinette and Juleka came in.

“How’s the dress?” he asked.

“It’s stunning,” Juleka said, and heaved a put-upon sigh. “I can’t stop you from being stupid, but at least you have good taste.”

He gave her a suspicious look, his eyes shifting to Marinette when there was no further explanation forthcoming. “What was that all about?”

Marinette shrugged awkwardly, but fortunately he didn’t press her on it.

“So are we doing Thai or that new Indian place tonight? There’s nothing on the Akuma alert,” Rose said from the couch, “but there is a new theory about who Ladybug is on the conspiracy forums.”

“Aliens, or the Mayor’s secret revenge love child this time?” Juleka asked, dropping onto the couch beside her.

“I miss the Ladyblog,” Rose said, stretching her arms over her head. “Remember that time Alya thought that Chloe was Ladybug?”

Marinette remembered.

On the couch, Juleka laughed. “How is Alya,” she asked, and tilted her head to throw a look at Marinette. “Have you seen her lately?”

Alya again. The universe seemed determined to beat her over the head with her failures. She opened her eyes to find them all watching her, and she gave a strained and unconvincing smile.

“Not recently. I think she’s working in a travel agency now. It’s been a few years, though.”

Nearly six years, to be exact, since she’d last bumped into Alya.

“Jules,” Luka said casually, “how about you and Ro go pick up dinner? Mari and I really should work on the song for the wedding a bit more.”

It was a transparent excuse to shift the subject and give her a bit of space, and she was grateful for it, even if Rose did give Luka a very unsubtle wink that he pretended to not see. Rose and Juleka didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd, but Luka threw her a quick glance as he laughed at something Rose said, and reached out to toss his wallet at Juleka, who pulled a few euros from it and threw it back. Marinette managed to respond lightly enough to a question about her preferences, and by the time it was just her and Luka she’d pulled herself together again.

“I take it that things aren’t good with Alya,” he said gently.

She shrugged, and the smile she gave him was a little unsteady. “Our friendship didn’t end well. We don’t talk to each other anymore.”

It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was as close as she could get without giving away too much. There was no way she could explain how her former best friend had looked straight through her as if she was a stranger the last time they’d run into each other, or the sickening wash of guilt, remorse, and self-loathing she still felt over the reason behind it, even after all these years.

“It was a long time ago,” she said as easily as she could manage, but Luka had always been able to read her better than that. His hand closed over hers briefly, reassuring and strong, and for a moment she let herself draw on his warmth.

“It still leaves a mark, though, doesn’t it?” he said.

She couldn’t help wondering a little bitterly how different things might have been if she’d told Luka everything, instead of Alya, back when she was fourteen. Would it have been Luka looking at her with that terrible emptiness?

Marinette broke eye contact and pulled her hand away to wrap it around her now-cold mug. She was aware that Luka was regarding her as if he saw a lot more than she was letting on, but he didn’t push for more. Instead, he got to his feet.

“I need another coffee,” he said, and gave her a questioning look. “Tea for you?”

She took the distraction, and followed him into the galley.

Luka kept to safe subjects after that, telling her about the group of students he’d been working with after school, and a gig that had gone disastrously wrong, until she couldn’t help but giggle when he described the drummer slowly sliding off his stool and passing out face down on his snare drum.

“It actually improved the quality of his playing,” Luka said wryly.

And he laughed when she countered with an account of Chloe Bourgeois commisioning her to design and make an outfit last season.

“I don’t think she’d even considered that MDC might stand for Marinette Dupain-Cheng until she turned up for the fitting,” Marinette grinned. “You should have seen the look on her face, though.”

“Ridiculous!” Luka scoffed in a passable immitation of the Mayor’s daughter, and waved his hand in the air as Marinette giggled at him. “Utterly ridiculous!”

“And of course, nothing was good enough. She couldn’t believe I was expecting her to pay full price for such shoddy workmanship. I should be paying her to wear my rags.”

“Tell me you told her where to shove it,” Luka said, and folded his arms on the benchtop, leaning forward in anticipation. Marinette’s smile grew broader.

“Oh, better than that. I told her if it wasn’t to her satisfaction she was welcome to leave the dress and I’d cancel her contract, and I’d even waive the cancellation fee because we’d known each other such a long time. I was very helpful. I told her I was sure I could find someone willing to buy it instead, and Clara Nightingale had already seen it and asked if it was for sale. Which was true,” she added as an afterthought.

“And?”

Marinette tilted her chin, her smile turning smug. “She took the dress, of course. And ordered another one under a fake name a month later.”

“Seriously?”

“B. Queen, to be delivered to the Grand Paris Hotel. With her exact measurements. Seriously.”

Luka tipped his head back and laughed hard, and Marinette lost herself in the sound. God, he was a beautiful man.

Next to the couch in the living room, her handbag shuffled in agitation, and Marinette ignored it, but her smile faded in response to the reminder.

“Marinette,” Luka said more seriously, and when she looked up his blue eyes had deepened into something that was a little hard to read. He frowned a little, as if he was trying to decide what he should say. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I get the feeling that things haven’t been so easy for you. I know it’s been hard to let yourself get close to anyone.”

He was speaking slowly, measuring out each word carefully, and it felt like there was a whole lot he deliberately wasn’t saying.

“I just need you to know, the Liberty is always a safe place. We’re here for you. I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

It would be so easy, so very easy, to fall into those ocean deep eyes and fall into his arms, and tell him everything. That was what made Luka Couffaine so dangerous to be around. With ten years of Tikki’s constant litany of concealment and duty ringing in her ears, Marinette clamped her mouth shut on all her secrets even as a tiny voice in the back of her head pleaded but this is Luka.

“Weren’t we supposed to practise the song?” Marinette blurted out, and felt the heat of an embarrassed flush rise in her cheeks. She hadn’t felt this thrown in years.

Luka accepted the abrupt shift with nothing more than a nod and a soft smile, as if he’d expected it.

“Back to the Disney salt mines,” he said drily, and startled a laugh out of her. “Don’t tell Rose I said that. She’d have me tried for treason.”

“How did we get ourselves into this?” Marinette asked, and Luka chuckled.

“Well, Ro loves Disney, no surprise there, and Jules loves Ro.”

“And you love them both,” Marinette said softly.

“And you’d do anything for the people you care about, even agree to sing at their wedding if they asked you to,” Luka said just as gently, and they exchanged glances. “So here we are, knee deep in Disney magic. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to sit through Cinderella, both versions, and I can recite Tangled in my sleep.” His smile softened. “I’m developing a new appreciation for it, though.”

Marinette dropped her gaze, avoiding his eyes. He said in an easier manner, “I have to admit, there’s some great music. You should hear Rose belt out Let It Go sometime, and Jules did an incredible cover of Once Upon a Dream one Valentine’s Day for Rose.”

“What about you? Do you ever sing along?” she asked, trying to match his tone.

“What do you think? Music nerd here.”

He rapped out a solid, syncopated beat on the benchtop, and that husky voice of his sang, “Tatou o tagata folau...” She couldn’t help grinning, and he grinned back as he segued into a phrase from Circle of Life before riffing a bit of the simple bear necessities, and then finished on “You’re welcome, and thank you!” as she burst out laughing.

“Good music is good music,” he said with a shrug. “I get a lot of eyerolling from some of the kids when I start talking Disney in class, but it’s a starting point for a lot of discussion, and it turns out everyone always has their favourite song.”

“So what about you? What’s your favourite?” she asked, and he said easily, “Oh, there are a lot I could go with. It all depends on my mood.”

“Yes, but if you had to pick one?”

She wasn’t sure why she was pushing, and he hesitated for a long moment. Just when she thought he was going to brush it off, he reached for his guitar.

“It’s not strictly Disney, but ...” She didn’t recognise the soft, rippling intro that he played, and it wasn’t until he started singing that she worked out what it was.

He didn’t look at her as he sang about someday, out of the blue. It didn’t have to mean anything, it was just a song, he could have been thinking about anyone, but when he sang about still believing and still having faith in a voice that was far too heartfelt, Marinette felt her breath catch.

She couldn’t be doing this to him all over again.

~~~~~

He knew, the moment that his hands stilled on the guitar strings, that he’d gone too far and given away too much. The stricken look on Marinette’s face made that blatantly clear.

From the doorway, Rose breathed, “Oh Luka, that was lovely!”

Juleka dropped the bags of takeaway on the table and muttered something, while Luka watched Marinette and felt his heart sink like a stone.

“We so have to do a Road to El Dorado movie night tonight,” Rose was saying brightly. “You’re staying, aren’t you, Marinette? Otherwise Luka’s going to be the odd man out again.”

“I wish I could,” Marinette said. “I… I have to go. Sorry, Rose, maybe another time.” Her glance flickered in his direction. “Sorry. I’m really sorry I can’t stay for dinner after all.”

She scrambled her things together, dropping her handbag and coming up red-faced. This was more like the Marinette he remembered from their teenage years, and it brought up some difficult memories. She flashed an awkward smile in answer to Rose’s protests, and then she was gone.

“Well,” Rose said, staring at the empty doorway. “I guess Marinette’s still Marinette.”

“Rose!” Luka’s voice cracked like glass, and his future sister-in-law’s eyes widened at Luka’s uncharacteristically sharp tone. “Remember all those plans to get Marinette and Adrien together?” How well did those work out?”

“But this is different!” Rose protested.

“This is no different. No more plans. I’ve screwed things badly enough as it is.”

He drew in a deep breath and blew it out again, thinking of all those secrets that Marinette had to keep, and the distances that had grown in her life because of them. More quietly, he said, “Marinette could really use a few good friends in her life. I don’t want her to lose us again because we’re pushing for more than she can give.”

“I…” Rose looked away, biting her lip, and then met his eyes. “Yeah, I get it.”

Dinner was quieter than usual, and Luka ignored the perturbed glances his sister kept shooting him. He pushed the food around, barely tasting it, and put it aside when he couldn’t pretend he was actually eating it anymore.

Luka swung away from the table, his phone in his hand, and hesitated, then he texted Marinette before he could talk himself out of it.

+Sorry about that. Rose has promised to back off on the matchmaking – I think she’s just got wedding fever. Want to run through the song one more time before the wedding?+

It wasn’t Rose’s schemes, though. He knew that. Marinette was taking far too long for it to mean anything good, although he kept trying to tell himself that she might not be able to answer, she might be in the middle of something, she might have her phone off... Juleka muttered at him to stop fidgeting so much, god, you’re driving me crazy, before it finally chimed with a response.

+I think I know it now+ she sent back. +See you next week+

Luka stared numbly at the words on his screen. It was happening all over again, and this time he had no defences left. Juleka was watching him with a look of exasperated sympathy.

“You’re just as stupid as you ever were,” she told him, and Luka exhaled heavily. It was hard to argue with that.

#see the light #lukanette #lukanette endgame #pro lukamari #Disney

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rocking-space-dragon · 3 years

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Burning Flags, Burning Bridges

So...I may have been inspired by chatting with friends and decided to write a short fundy-centric fic centering around what Philza said to him after the house arrest. Will I write more like this in future? Probably! Will it probably be angsty? Most likely! I hope you enjoy!

I’m gonna put the first page in this and the rest under a read-more so I don’t clog up timelines!

2313 Words/10k Characters Characters Involved : Fundy, Ghostbur, Philza.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

It was a cold, wet day In Lmanburg; the rain came down heavily, thick sheets that crashed down onto the wooden floors of the city and the deep pools of water beneath and around the city proper; creating a drumming, echoing ambience that seemed to isolate the two of them as they stood; the Fox, soaked through with hat and coat, damp fur and wetter clothes; though for all of the cold that the weather bestowed, it couldn’t compare to the ice that seemed to have bloomed in his chest.

The words cut through Fundy like a knife as his gaze met that of the figure standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. A steel monitor was wrapped around one ankle, and they both knew that if he took another step forward it'd go off and he'd be in trouble. Philza was the one who was trapped, so why was it that Fundy felt like he couldn't move, trapped in the cold embrace of the man in the doorway, a gaze leagues apart from the warmth behind his eyes that he remembered from their days fishing and hanging out. That cold seemed to spread from his chest until it wrapped around his bones, keeping him locked in place.

The words brought back bad memories; often said in joke or incredulities by his friends, he’d only heard this kind of inflection once before – after his appearance in Pogtopia. He still remembered it vividly; the way Wilbur had cast his eyes towards him, looking down at him with contempt, with pain written across his face and spitting the words towards him, accusatory and harsh. He’d explained himself then and Wilbur’s face had softened, a laugh breaking across his features as he turned excitedly back towards Tommy and Quackity, but the eyes that met his whenever Wilbur turned back towards him were as cold as ever. It was those same eyes that were fixed on Fundy now; like father, like son. The kind of gaze that made him feel small, made him feel weak, no matter how many weapons hung by his side or how much armour he had in his inventory.

He swallowed for a moment, before forcing a smile across his face, gesturing towards Philza once more "W-Well, I figured that we could hang out! I know you're stuck at home because of the…” He gestured vaguely towards the bracelet before continuing “so maybe we could... Play some board games, or you could show me some of the old photos you have of Wilbur and Tommy, or we could work on the basement or-!"

"No."

The word felt like a punch to the gut and Fundy's voice died in his throat, his lips going dry as he opened his mouth to talk, going to say something before Philza's voice cut into him once more, stealing the voice from his throat "How dare you. You broke into my home and demanded that I give up my oldest and most trusted friend, then when I told you I wouldn’t, you threatened me, ransacked my house, imprisoned me in my own home and then mocked me. You stood outside of my home, mocking me, before running off with the Compass that Techno trusted me with, to hunt him down.” Philza’s grip tightened on the doorframe and Fundy could swear that he could hear the wood beginning to crack beneath the grip of the man; the cold in his eyes was gone now, replaced with a fire that crackled in his throat and lit every word that he spat towards the fox. “And then- AND THEN. You drag him from his home, where he’d been living in peaceful retirement, under the pretence of a trial, only to try and execute him in front of me, when I couldn’t do anything but watch.” Fundy could feel his fur standing on end, even as damp as it was, but he couldn’t move an inch away from the man who’d locked him in place much like they’d trapped Techno days before. All he could do was stand there as Phil continued. “Allow me to be very clear with you, Fundy. If Techno had died in that cage, none of you would have lived to regret it.” His wings flare up behind him, obscuring the light coming from the house behind him before folding behind his back once more as he turns around, glancing back towards the rain-drenched fox standing out on the wooden platform “The last thing I want to do is kill another son of mine, but It seems like this city hasn’t given me a choice.” He turns, back facing him, pulling his hat down low “Because you’re already dead to me.”

The sound of the door slamming shut echoed out around the city, leaving Fundy alone, clutching at his jacket, gaze turned down towards the ground, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched tightly as the rain helped to mask the fresh dampness on his face. After a moment, he turns, walking away from the house, every step echoing out on the wooden floor; it was only after he was far enough away from the house that he broke into a sprint, running along the wooden path leading away from the city, then away from the path itself, kicking up damp leaves behind him as he goes sprinting into the woods until his legs give out and he collapses back against a tree, pulling his knees to his chest and curling up into a ball. Once more, his mind turns back to the man who’d just slammed a door in his face; his grandfather, who’d been so kind and gentle with him; who’d taught him how to fish, who’d taken him in when he lost his home, who’d been there when nobody else was – and what had he done? He’d done the same thing he always did – he went along with the orders of someone in power and ended up pushing away his family because of it. Before it was Wilbur and Schlatt – pushing away his father and burning down the flag under Schlatt’s orders, and now it was Philza – following Tubbo’s orders and burning the bridge he had with his grandfather too. If there was one thing he was good at it was lighting fires, but those same flames, he found, always came back to turn the things he cared about to ash.

“Oh, hello Fundy! Are you alright?” He’s jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of a voice, echoing and faint – he knows who it belongs to even before he raises his eyes to meet the empty, white eyes of the ghost hovering in front of him, a smile on his face as he tilts his head to the side and floats down into a sitting position beside Fundy, looking out at the rain still coming down in sheets as he sighs “I was coming to see L’manburg, but the rain started coming down before I could get there, so I had to run to this forest so I didn’t melt! What’re you doing here?” He turns to the fox, but Fundy turns away from the figure who used to be his father, staying silent as Ghostbur’s smile turns into a frown and he floats around till he’s in front of the Fox once more, lightly hovering in the air “Oh no! You seem upset, Fundy – here, have some blue, it’ll help suck away the sadness!” he smiles, rummaging about in his pocket and throwing some of that strange blue ectoplasm out towards Fundy, who let it land in his lap.

There’s a pause for a moment as ghostbur floats, looking around nervously before Fundy sighs, taking the blue and looking at it, letting it stain his paws before clenching his fists around it and throwing it into the forest, causing the spectre to gasp “Oh no! If you do that, it won’t-“

“Forget it!” Fundy snapped, catching the ghost off-guard, who seemed to recoil for a second from the outburst; he watches as Fundy uncurls, letting the back of his head hit the tree and looking up into the branches of the tree, drops of rain making their way through to drip down onto his face. He sighs heavily, closing his eyes before lowering his head once more to meet that empty gaze “Of course, you would show up now.” He laughs, sharp and devoid of humour, hitting the tree lightly “Wilbur was never around when I needed him, and yet, and yet YOU somehow seem to ALWAYS know when to show up!” the laughing continues, as Fundy’s voice cracks and breaks until he’s sobbing audibly, face buried in his arms so he can’t see the ghost reaching out towards him for a moment before pulling back. “Why? Why can’t I stop fucking up like this? It feels like everyone I try and get close to, I end up either pushing away or losing entirely! All I ever wanted to do was…” His voice drops, turning and looking up at the ghost with tears running down his face and drawing in a shaky breath “All I ever wanted to do was make him proud, y’know? I wanted to hear him say, just once, that he was proud of me.”

So engrossed is Fundy in his own sorrow that he doesn’t notice the effect that his words have on Ghostbur; how every mention of Wilbur makes him flinch and recoil somewhat, and how the mention of wanting to make him proud causes the ghost to bring a hand to the wound in his chest, slowly trailing over it as he looks away and Fundy squeezes his eyes shut to try and stop the tears running down his face.

So deep is the fox in his bittersweet grief, that he doesn’t realise that he’s been pulled into Ghostbur’s lap until it’s already happened, his hat removed and set to the side as the spectral figure rests his chin between the fox’s ears, atop his head, arms wrapped around him and brought together in front of him; it’s a moment before he speaks, looking out into the woods “Alivebur…sounds like he was a terrible father. Everything that I’ve heard of him sounds like he was a terrible person, so I can’t imagine he was a good dad, either. But…if that’s the case, why do I have good memories as your dad?” the question hangs in the air, and he continues “Does that mean I wasn’t always an awful dad?”

The only sound that follows is the impact of rain coming down on the leaves and the rustling of the wind rushing through the forest, before Fundy breaks the silence “…You didn’t used to be bad. I still have…good memories, of growing up with you, in L’manburg, it’s just…things went wrong somewhere along the way” he turns his gaze up, looking at the dark grey sky above through the leaves “Sometime – I wonder, y’know? How things could be if you were still around. If Tubbo wasn’t president, if Tommy wasn’t exiled. If you- if Alivebur…had been here when I needed him most instead of just leaving me to deal with everything by myself.” Wilbur rubs his arm sheepishly, looking up too “I…don’t know. People didn’t seem to like Alivebur much, but…everyone still followed him. It seems like all people have to talk about is how much he ruined everything, but If he was really that bad…how come I have good memories at all?” When there’s no answer the spectral figure sighs, running a paw through Fundy’s fur absentmindedly, a slow, steady brush, a gesture that brings them both immediately back to a simpler time – a time when the two of them could sit in the forests surrounding Lmanburg, before they were destroyed, looking out over their home, just a father and his son. Ghostbur wasn’t sure when Fundy fell asleep, he just knew that the next time he looked down, he saw his – Alivebur’s – son, laying against his chest, eyes closed and breathing steadily. A smile crosses faintly across his face as he gazes down at the sleeping fox, brushing through his fur again gently “My little champion…you’ve been so brave, and so strong…” He shifts, looking down at his faintly see-through hands and then at the fox still resting against him, rummaging about in his pocket for something he’d stolen from Philza; a single golden Idol, emerald eyes set into it’s face that seemed to be looking back at him. It felt cold to the touch, even for him, as he tossed it from hand to hand slowly, thinking. It seemed, to him, that as much as everyone liked Ghostbur… …People Needed Alivebur. People needed Wilbur. Tommy needed a brother. Philza needed a son, L’manburg needed a president, and Fundy…Fundy needed a dad.

As he slept, Fundy dreamed. He dreamed of years back, wandering through the forest with Wilbur, walking around L’manburg together, that warm, friendly voice calling him ‘His little champion’ as he stands, side by side in uniform with his father. He dreams of the revolution, of fighting together – of growing up and into the clothes that he wore today; before those dreams turn sour, and he can hear the laughing bleating in his ears from the long-dead tyrant, snapping awake with a gasp. A soft bleat fills his ears as he wakes up, glancing up to see the fluffy blue wool of friend surrounding him, being happily used as a makeshift pillow as they munch casually on some grass. Ghostbur is nowhere to be seen, the sun shining down faintly as the fox rests in the grass underneath the tree.

In his lap rests a damp, well-worn, entirely solid black beanie, slowly drying in the warmth of the midday sun.

#mcyt #fundy #dreamsmp #dream smp #wilbursoot #wilbur soot #philza minecraft #friend sheep #tubbo #tommyinnit #technoblade #ghostbur #dream smp fanfiction #dream smp fic #angst

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

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To give without knowing (5/ ?)

word count: ~5k content warnings: mention of blood, sensory overload from potions, alcohol, brief mention of the possibility of drowning Read on AO3 previous / next

The noise reached Geralt before the inn was even in sight. Cheering. Clanking of mugs and the scratching of cutlery on plates. Shouting. And above all singing. Jaskier’s singing.

A small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips even as his head was hammering from all the noise. With every step he took towards the inn it got louder, pressing down on him. Still he forced himself to go on.

By the sounds of it, Jaskier wasn’t exactly pacing their room anxiously in wait of Geralt’s return, but Geralt at least hoped that Jaskier would be happy to see him return from the hunt successfully.

Or maybe it was just Geralt who couldn’t wait to see Jaskier again.

The hunt itself hadn’t been harder or more dangerous than any other, but it had left Geralt feeling drained and exhausted. Any lonely. Always lonely.

Geralt was well aware that he had been the one to insist that Jaskier should stay back at the village and he didn’t regret that decision, but trudging back on his own while the world was too loud and too sharp around him and black blood was splattered on him, he had enough time to think. About how when he brought the young woman he had saved back to her lover, she had been embraced and her lover had pressed kisses into her hair.

No one would ever be there to greet Geralt like this.

And that was alright. He didn’t need hugs and kisses. He had Jaskier. Even if his friend wasn’t truly waiting for him. The thought of his presence was enough to make Geralt’s heart skip a beat and his feet carry him back to him faster.

He knew he shouldn’t hurry like this. He should at least wait until the blood had dried enough to get the worst of it off and for the blackness of his eyes to recede.

As it was, all he did was pull the hood of his cloak deeper into his face and slump his shoulders as if that could make him look less menacing.

It was a valiant effort doomed to fail.

As soon as he pushed the door of the inn open, eyes turned to him and the cheering quieted down to hushed whispers. Geralt should have been thankful for the lack of audible assault as his head was already bursting from the noise, but all he could think of as more and more smiles dropped and voices died out was that there was one voice still going, strong and unafraid and beautiful. Jaskier’s voice.

He was still singing, uncaring of the way his audience didn’t pay any attention to him anymore, as it should have. He didn’t waver, his voice didn’t take on a bitter note as Geralt took away what should have been his.

Geralt had wanted to keep his hood up and his head down and get through this room as fast as possible. It was too crowded. The smell of alcohol, sweat and food was too much. Everything was. If he stayed in here any longer, he would snap, burst, collapse. Every second worsened that pressure in his head. He should leave. He couldn’t risk these people witness him losing control and becoming a snarling and cowering mess when he couldn’t handle the sensations any longer.

But he couldn’t resist, couldn’t leave without at least looking up at Jaskier.

Black eyes met blue ones.

Without meaning to, Geralt froze to the spot. Jaskier’s eyes were always blue, always warm and always breath-taking. But now, as Cat made Geralt’s eyes more hideous than ever, Jaskier’s eyes looked brighter, bluer, more beautiful.

For a heartbeat Jaskier held his gaze, before his eyes left Geralt’s face to rake over his body, taking in every part of him without faltering in his song describing Geralt’s supposed heroics. A shiver ran down Geralt’s spine and goosebumps erupted on his arms.

Then Jaskier’s eyes found his again, a question in them as Jaskier cocked his head to the side.

Geralt understood and he gave a nod so small that no one but Jaskier would have noticed.

Yes, that simple gesture said, I am alright. You needn’t worry.

Jaskier’s eyes crinkled at the corners and his voice became brighter somehow.

Something unfurled in Geralt’s chest. He wanted nothing more than to stay and watch Jaskier. Like this, with Jaskier singing despite the lack of applause and appreciative eyes Geralt could almost let himself believe that Jaskier was singing only for him.

But that wasn’t true. Jaskier thrived at the attention and praise of others and as long as Geralt was in the room with him he wouldn’t get that, not to the extent that he deserved, even though over the course of his song more and more eyes turned back to Jaskier, giving Geralt a chance to slip away.

Tearing his eyes away from Jaskier, he made his way to the back of the taproom where stairs were leading up. Once he made it to his and Jaskier’s room, he shut the door and leaned against it heavily. His head dropped back until it touched the cool wood. It wasn’t enough to shut the world out. It wasn’t enough to ground himself against the onslaught of sensations still coming at him.

He could still hear the sounds from downstairs. He closed his eyes and listened as Jaskier changed from his jaunty tune to a more subdued song, slow and soft and soothing. No cheers and banging on tables accompanied the music.

A shallow breath left Geralt and he forced his muscles to relax. It took him longer than it should to gather the strength to push himself off the door, take off his armour and start washing the blood away.

When a soft knock on the door announced Jaskier’s return, Geralt’s eyes had almost gone back to their normal colour. Not that the unnatural yellow was much better than the black.

“Can I come in?” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt’s pulse spiked up and his throat was too tight to reply. After swallowing thickly, he opened the door for Jaskier. Despite how often Jaskier had already seen him like this, despite the lack of fear he had shown down in the taproom, Geralt still felt a spike of fear shoot through him any time Jaskier bore witness to just how little human was left in Geralt.

Yet as Jaskier let out a relieved breath and slipped into the room as if Geralt wasn’t a threat, the fear subsided as it always did.

Geralt didn’t argue when Jaskier took the cloth he had used to watch himself away from him and started to gently dap at the scratches Geralt had gotten from the fight. Jaskier worked quietly and in concentration – a stark contrast to his usual lack of focus and need to make himself seen.

His barely-there touches were just enough to ground Geralt. Anything more than that would have made the headache flare back to life, and yet Geralt couldn’t help but wish for more, for the touches to linger, for them to be given as a sign of affection instead of just a necessity.

But he was lucky to receive even this much from Jaskier. He shouldn’t ask for more. So he didn’t.

When the pulsing pressure against his temples finally subsided and the colours and noises around him lost their sharp edge, Geralt was the first to speak, giving a vague comment about how Jaskier’s earlier performance had appeared successful.

Jaskier’s face lit up and Geralt felt a pang through his chest when he pulled away.

“It was! It’s been so long since I had an audience so appreciative.” His mouth quirked into a smirk. “Try telling me again that those fae gifts don’t bring luck. I had a wonderful audience, you barely got hurt and by the looks of that bag of coins you have there, the alderman wasn’t too stingy either.”

Geralt hummed in agreement. It really had been a good day. Better still, since he was back with Jaskier.

“Why don’t we celebrate this streak of luck?” Jaskier asked with shining eyes. “It’s been too long since we just took some time for ourselves without worrying about monsters or coin.”

Geralt’s stomach swooped and he was all but ready to jump at the opportunity to watch Jaskier have fun, laugh and maybe lean against Geralt as he joked. But even the thought of going back down to where people would be staring at him unabashedly and shoot him dirty looks was enough to give him pause.

Geralt’s hesitation must have shown on his face for Jaskier’s brows knitted together in contemplation. “Ah, I see,” he said quietly.

Geralt swallowed harshly. “No, it’s fine. I want to.”

Though his insides twisted uncomfortably, he made to grab for the coin bag. Jaskier’s hand on his arm halted him.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jaskier pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought. “How about we go somewhere else? Somewhere a little nicer and quieter? I have found this beautiful spot earlier that I wanted to show you.”

A wave of relief washed over Geralt and he nodded, letting Jaskier pull him along.

Jaskier had been right, the place was nice. Just outside the village was a lake, surrounded by a handful of trees, giving them shade from the hot summer sun.

They sat in silence and watched as the dying light of day reflected in the still waters. At least Jaskier did. Geralt wasn’t able to stop himself from glancing at his friend, the way his hair took on an almost reddish note as the sun disappeared behind the horizon and his cheeks glowed almost golden.

He was beautiful. Far too beautiful for someone like Geralt.

As if sensing Geralt’s melancholy, Jaskier produced the bottle of wine he had bought from the innkeeper as they had made their way outside.

Geralt raised an eyebrow when he saw just how expensive the bottle was but he didn’t make a comment and Jaskier didn’t offer up an explanation for why he had spent so much money on this either.

After not even an hour of drinking, Jaskier’s cheeks were turning a pretty shade of red and his lopsided smile didn’t seem to want to leave his face anytime soon.

Geralt had taken to holding onto the bottle so that Jaskier wouldn’t drink it all in one go. That didn’t stop Jaskier from trying to sneakily steal the bottle back. ‘Sneaky’, in this case, meaning that Jaskier leaned over Geralt with all the subtlety of a gossip hunter watching a drama unfold, practically falling into his lap.

Geralt froze, unable to push Jaskier off of him as he should have and fearing that Jaskier’s mood would turn sour if he realised just how close he was to Geralt. The shock was enough for Geralt to slacken his hold on the bottle.

With a triumphant grin, Jaskier snatched the bottle out of his grip, their fingers brushing together.

He took a long swig and when he sat the bottle back down, a few droplets of the red wine glistened on his upper lip.

Geralt couldn’t look away. He was lucky that Jaskier showed no sign of being bothered. Had he been sober, he probably would have squirmed at the intensity of Geralt’s attention. As it was, he almost seemed to preen under it, as if Geralt wasn’t a witcher but a handsome man whose attention was something desirable.

Whether it was the summer heat or the alcohol, it didn’t take long before Jaskier shrugged off his doublet and flung it too the side. It wasn’t the first time that Geralt saw Jaskier in only his undershirt – hell, he had seen him wear far less than that many times – but Geralt felt heat rise in his face nonetheless. His mouth went dry when Jaskier stood up on wobbly legs and stretched his arms high over his head. His shirt rode up a little, revealing a stripe of smooth skin.

Geralt’s fingers twitched and his jaw clenched. Abruptly, he turned away. It wasn’t right to look at Jaskier like this. Not ever, but especially not now when Jaskier was on the verge of being drunk.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said with mirth in his voice. “I am going to do something very stupid and very fun.”

Geralt’s eyes darted between Jaskier’s. Without meaning to he leaned closer. Did he imagine Jaskier doing the same?

He must have, for a second later, Jaskier gave him a wink and a grin and with a “Stop me if you can!” he dashed towards the lake.

At least he tried. Jaskier wasn’t steady on his feet anymore and the fact that he kicked off his shoes and tried to shimmy out of his breeches as he ran towards the water didn’t help either. More than once he stumbled, barely managing to catch himself before he would fall.

Geralt’s hackles rose. In his mind he already saw Jaskier slipping and hitting his head on one of the rocks lying on the ground or worse - falling into the lake and being unable to keep himself afloat, inebriated and disoriented as he was.

A small cry of surprise as Jaskier once again lost his balance made Geralt jump to his feet. He was at Jaskier’s side in a matter of seconds, just as he was tripping and about to hit the ground.

Without thinking, Geralt reached out and grabbed him around the waist, pulling him back up to stand on his feet.

“Careful,” Geralt said in a low voice, too aware of how Jaskier pressed himself close against Geralt in an effort to stay upright. Geralt was suddenly very grateful for the fact that Jaskier was still wearing his undershirt, even though the thin fabric did little to separate them.

A breeze rippled the water and Jaskier shivered in his arms despite the still hot evening air.

“Maybe you should put the rest of your clothes back on,” he said.

“Maybe you should lose your clothes,” Jaskier shot back.

Geralt’s breath hitched.

“What?” His voice cracked on the word.

“For swimming.” Jaskier beamed up at him. Too close. This brilliant smile was too close. Their faces only inches apart.

Geralt’s heart pounded against his chest. “We’re not going swimming,” Geralt said, though his voice was anything but stern. “You can barely stand on your own.”

Jaskier huffed. “Then you just have to make sure I don’t drown.”

Geralt let out a sigh. “Jaskier…”

But Jaskier’s eyes were wide and pleading and his hands had somehow found their way to Geralt’s chest, clutching his shirt. He must have been able to feel his heart beneath the thin fabric.

Geralt’s resolve broke. “Fine,” he relented and slowly pulled away from Jaskier, only leaving a hand on his arm to make sure he wouldn’t fall over.

Having to suddenly stand on his own again made Jaskier’s face twist into a disappointed frown that was quickly washed away when he waded into the water until it reached his waist.

Once Geralt was sure Jaskier was safe to walk on his own, he stayed where he was at the edge of the lake where he could keep an eye on Jaskier.

“Come on in!” Jaskier shouted to him when he finally realised that Geralt wasn’t at his heels anymore.

Geralt shook his head and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes, a twinkle of mischief in them.

“Alright then,” Jaskier said and took what was probably supposed to be a menacing step towards Geralt.

Within a heartbeat, Jaskier’s mirth was wiped off his face and was replaced by shock. Time slowed as Jaskier slipped, falling backwards. He had just enough time to call out “Gera-“ before he disappeared under water with a splash.

A grin twitched on Geralt’s lips, ready to say “I told you so” as soon as Jaskier appeared on the surface again. The water was shallow, he should come up any second now.

He didn’t.

Geralt’s grin froze. “Jaskier?”

No reply.

The seconds dragged on and suddenly each one felt like an eternity. “Jaskier!”

Panic spiked up in Geralt. Without hesitating a moment longer, Geralt tried to rush to where Jaskier had gone under, but the water made it impossible to move quickly.

Jaskier is a singer, he knows how to hold his breath, he told himself.

Yes, a poisonous voice in his head replied, but he is drunk and it’s dark and who knows what lurks in these waters? You knew this was dangerous and you didn’t stop him from going in the water. If anything happens to him, if he gets hurt or drowns, it will be your fault.

Frantically he scanned the water for any shadows that could be his friend.

Without warning, something burst forth from the water just before Geralt with a loud cry.

Geralt tensed, ready to defend himself, when wet arms wrapped themselves around him, trying to drag him under. Geralt lifted his hands to push the thing off, when he heard a giggle next to his ear.

Jaskier.

A relieved breath escaped Geralt when he realised whose hair it was that tickled his cheek. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around Jaskier, needing to hold him close, to feel that he was alright. That Geralt wasn’t the reason why he was hurt.

It took Geralt a moment to realise just what he was doing. He wanted to let go, to take a step back, but Jaskier tightened his arms around his neck, refusing to be let go.

“See?” Jaskier said and Geralt could hear the grin in his voice. “Now you’re already wet. Now you can come swim with me.”

A frown darkened Geralt’s face. “Don’t do that again.”

“Why?” Jaskier said, no less cheerful. “It worked, didn’t it? You came after me.”

An involuntary shudder ran through Geralt and without meaning to, he tightened his hold on Jaskier. “I thought you were drowning. Jaskier, I thought I was about to lose you.”

Saying it out loud was different than just thinking it. It was so much worse. He wouldn’t have been able to say it if Jaskier had been himself right now, but drunk as he was, Geralt could have the hope that he would forget all about this come the morning.

Still, Jaskier must have picked up on the slight tremor in Geralt’s voice, for he pulled back again, just enough to search Geralt’s face.

“But I didn’t. You came to save me. You always do.” A small smile danced across Jaskier’s lips. “Always my hero.”

The words twisted something in Geralt’s chest. “I am no hero.”

Especially not Jaskier’s, though in this moment he wanted nothing more than for that to be true.

“Don’t say things like that.” Jaskier’s voice was small and his brows drew together, looking strangely broken.

Geralt’s throat grew tight. All Jaskier had wanted was to have fun. A nice, relaxing evening as the perfect ending to a good day. And Geralt was ruining it. He couldn’t ruin this for him. He had to make this right.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he was bracing himself.

“I doubt you’ll be calling me a hero in a second,” he forced his voice to take on a playful note.

“Why?” Jaskier asked, narrowing his eyes. “What happens in a seco-“

He was cut off by his own outraged cry when Geralt bent down low to scoop Jaskier up only to throw him back in the water.

When Jaskier came back up again, spluttering in indignation but with the twinkle of joy returning to his eyes, Geralt felt a low rumble rise up in his chest that broke free in a barking laugh.

At the unexpected sound, Jaskier’s indignation made way for something softer. He wiped the wet hair out of his eyes as if he wanted to see Geralt better. The look he gave Geralt was almost one of awe and wonder, his mouth opened into a silent ‘o’, before his lips stretched into a grin and he joined in with the laughter.

The next time that Jaskier jumped towards Geralt and pulled on his arm, Geralt willingly let himself be pulled under. It was worth it if it meant hearing Jaskier’s laugh again.

When Jaskier finally tired and they trudged back to their spot beneath the trees, Geralt was uncomfortably aware of the wet shirt sticking to his skin. Even worse, he couldn't stop thinking about the way Jaskier's shirt clung to his chest. The white fabric had turned see-through with the wetness and Geralt had to close his eyes to keep himself from looking.

It did nothing to distract him from Jaskier’s presence. If anything, being unable to see him sharpened Geralt's other senses, zoning in on any other part of Jaskier. He could hear Jaskier absentmindedly ripping out blades of grass. He could smell the alcohol and lake-water on Jaskier that by all accounts should have been anything other than pleasant but somehow made a wave of calm and content wash over Geralt. Jaskier wasn't touching him anymore, but he was sitting so close to him that Geralt's skin felt like it was set on fire. The lingering laughter quieted down as the night had grew darker around them. While Geralt remained silent, just taking in the for once peaceful moment, Jaskier began to hum; not one of his usual drinking songs but a softer one. Geralt wasn’t even sure if Jaskier was aware of his own singing or if he was too drunk to realise what he was doing. What he was doing to Geralt. Geralt had heard Jaskier sing so often and yet there was something strikingly different in the way he sounded now. His voice carried something that made Geralt want to live in this moment forever. Just sitting here beneath the stars far away from anything and anyone else, with just Jaskier by his side and his quiet song drifting through the air. But it couldn't last. As more stars blinked into existence above them, Jaskier's song got interrupted more and more often by his yawns and come the morning they would have to head out again, the carefreeness of this moment forgotten and replaced by the promise of danger and angry shouts.

"Jaskier?" Geralt asked into the dark. "Hm?" Jaskier said and Geralt could hear the tired smile in his voice. "We should go back. You need to sleep." Jaskier sighed, but didn't protest when Geralt stood up and pulled him to his feet as well. It was a testament to how much Jaskier truly needed his sleep that he leaned as heavily against Geralt as he did while Geralt made sure he wouldn't trip in the dark. When the grass gave way to the uneven cobblestones of the village’s streets, Jaskier pressed himself even closer to Geralt so he wouldn't stumble. It was so very tempting to just pick up Jaskier as Geralt had done mere hours before and carry him back to the inn. But what had happened in the lake had been a spur of the moment decision. It had only been to get Jaskier out if the gloomy mood Geralt had caused. Jaskier had wanted to have a good time and he had been willing to allow Geralt to be the person to make him laugh. It would be too much to hope that Jaskier would welcome Geralt's touch now that the silly mood had disappeared.

So Geralt was prepared for the moment that Jaskier would come to his senses and pull away again. He wasn't prepared for the way his heart would drop when Jaskier actually did it. Geralt forced himself not to tense up again. It wouldn't be fair to Jaskier. He shouldn't feel pressured to keep touching Geralt for any reason. Jaskier stumbled a couple of steps away from Geralt. He bent down and Geralt was wholly prepared to steady Jaskier while he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the street. What Geralt didn't expect was for Jaskier to suddenly start making weird noises. Were he a generous man he would say it sounded almost like meowing. "What on earth are you doing?" Geralt asked dumbfounded. "Shhh," Jaskier hissed without taking his eyes off of the other end of the street. "You'll chase it away." Geralt followed Jaskier's eyes and landed on a small shadow walking curiously towards them. A cat. Looking as focussed as Geralt had rarely ever seen him, Jaskier creeped forwards until the cat was close enough to sniff at his fingers. Jaskier let out a delighted little squeal when the cat snuggled against his legs and pressed its head against his hand. Geralt crossed his arms and watched in amusement as Jaskier began talking in a high-pitched voice to the cat. "Geralt," Jaskier whispered so as not to spook the cat. "Come here. Her fur is so soft!" Geralt shook his head, refusing to close the distance between himself and the cat. A warm fuzzy feeling spread through his chest as he watched Jaskier continue to pet the cat. Geralt would be damned before he got any closer and chased the cat away or accidentally agitated it enough for it to scratch Jaskier. Jaskier's face twisted into a frown. "Why not? You don't like cats?" he asked almost in accusation. "Got scratched by one as a child? I'd have thought that a big strong witcher like you wouldn't be scared of a little paw with claws." Geralt's lips twitched at Jaskier's teasing tone. "Never got close enough to get scratched. Cats don't like witchers. They run away." Jaskier's amused smile turned into a look of disproportionate pity. "Are you telling me you never got to pet a cat either?" Geralt shrugged. "Not since becoming a witcher. Don't really remember if I ever did before." "But that's so unfair!" Jaskier's eyes widened. "You deserve to pet a cat. Everyone does. They are just so pretty. Cats have the prettiest eyes. When the pupils go all round that's the most adorable thing." Jaskier's voice softened and his voice took on a dreamy note. "And they are such a lovely shade of yellow. Or gold. Like the sun. Or like dandelions." Geralt suppressed a snort. It wasn't Jaskier's fault that he didn't realise the cat still begging for his attention had green eyes. After all it was dark and Jaskier was more than a little drunk. For a long moment Jaskier just looked at Geralt as if he had forgotten what he had wanted to say, before finally sighing, "I just really like those eyes, Geralt. And the hair looks so soft and I just want to bury my fingers in it. And maybe braid it." This time Geralt couldn't stop himself from snorting. "Jaskier, you are already petting the cat. And I think its fur is a bit too short for braiding. It might scratch you if you tried." Jaskier let out a longsuffering sigh and gave Geralt a look so pitiful as if the weight of the world was baring down on him. "I know. 's why I don't do it. Wouldn't want me to. But I really want to." Not knowing what to say to that, Geralt just grunted. Suddenly Jaskier perked up again. "We need to get back to our room!" he announced with unexpected urgency. "If you can't pet the cat then you can cuddle with Friend instead." Geralt blinked at him, his heart refusing to beat a normal rhythm. "What?" Jaskier didn't give any explanation, just jumped to his feet, grabbed Geralt's hand and dragged him in the direction of the inn - or rather, he stumbled next to Geralt while Geralt led him to their destination. Geralt knew that Jaskier couldn't possibly mean what Geralt so desperately wanted him to mean, but that knowledge didn't stop the irrational disappointment that clawed into his chest when Jaskier let go of his hand as soon as they reached the inn and made no move to take it again. Once in their room, Jaskier began frantically searching through his bags before he finally let out a triumphant shout. "Ah-ha! There he is! Friend!" He turned around with a blinding smile and presented to Geralt what he had been looking for. It was the wooden sheep. The bitter disappointment from before was replaced by a wave of fondness for Jaskier that made his heart feel as if it would beat out of his chest.

“You called it Friend?”

“Of course,” Jaskier beamed, “Because that’s what he is.”

When Geralt still made no move to take the sheep, Jaskier wiggled it in his hand, as if tempting a cat to come play. "Take it," he insisted, brimming with excitement. "It's a sheep! All fluffy and cuddly and petting it makes me happy. I want you to be happy." Geralt did nothing to fight the warm smile, abandoning the thought of pointing out that the wooden sheep very much wasn't fluffy. Carefully, Geralt reached out and took the sheep from Jaskier. Jaskier's face lit up as if Geralt had just given him the best gift despite being the one who had been given something. As Geralt ran his fingers over the smooth wood he couldn't help but think about ways he could actually make this sheep fluffy for Jaskier. Maybe the next time they came across a shepherd Geralt could take some of the wool and attach it to the wooden sheep? But for now Jaskier seemed to be more than happy with Geralt's gifts just as they were. When Jaskier let himself fall onto the bed, a pleased expression on his face and snuggling into the pillow, he whispered, "If I'm going to get another gift I would really like for it to be a cat." His words got muffled by the blanket he pulled up to his face. "So you can have a little cat-friend too." Geralt hummed in agreement and joined Jaskier on the bed, though what he really wanted to say was that he didn't need a cat-friend as long as he had Jaskier as his friend. But he couldn't say such things. Especially not while they were sharing a bed and Jaskier kept looking at him with his sleepy blue eyes. Despite Jaskier's earlier yawns and the way he didn't seem to be able to keep his eyes open for longer than a couple of seconds, Jaskier didn't immediately drift off to sleep. Instead he kept studying Geralt's face and began playing with the ends of Geralt's hair that lay on the pillow between them. Geralt didn't have the heart to tell him off for tying a myriad of tiny knots into his hair. He could almost pretend they were braids. -- Not a week later Jaskier found a wooden figure in form of a cat curled into itself. It was impossible to tell if Jaskier remembered what he had said about cats or anything else that had happened that night, but there was no doubt that Jaskier already loved the figure just as much as he did the other ones. Immediately he handed it to Geralt, insisting that he should feel the satisfying smoothness of the wood. More to distract himself from the tight feeling in his chest than out of actual curiosity, Geralt asked for the cat's name. "I don't know. It has to be something nice," Jaskier said. "Something beautiful." He studied the cat in contemplation and uncharacteristically silence. Geralt's heart skipped a beat when Jaskier finally looked up at him with an achingly soft expression and said, "Golden Eyes."

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tmae3114 · 3 years

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IT MAY HAVE GONE MIDNIGHT MY TIME BUT IT’S STILL HERO APPRECIATION DAY IN SOME TIMEZONE AND THEREFORE YOU GET THIS FIC I HAVE FINALLY FINISHED AFTER WORKING ON IT FOR A WHILE ON THE BEST DAY FOR POSTING IT

The position of this in the Book 3 timeline is ~nebulous~ but it’s sometime after the hero sees Warlic again for the first and before Warlic and Alexander started working together

trust in me (and I’ll trust you too)

For a moment, the words refuse to make sense. He knows what everything she just said means individually but those words put together in that order don’t make a coherent concept. Only for a moment. All too soon, clarity crashes on him like icy water down his spine.

“…you’re here to invite me to a party?”

Or: a hero and a mage have a conversation, trauma sucks, and actual age differences mean nothing in the face of Big Sister Instincts™

[AO3]

There is, for some yet-to-be-determined reason, an adventurer asleep on his couch.

Warlic pauses mid-step to contemplate this fact for a few moments, then realises that the cup of tea he forgot in the kitchen is going to keep going cold if he doesn’t return to hurrying to fetch it.

One severe disappointment in the form of a stone cold cup of tea and the necessary subsequent brewing of a replacement later, there continues to be an adventurer asleep on his couch. In full armour, no less. Even after all these years, he is no closer to understanding how that can possibly be comfortable, for all it never seems to bother her.

He sips his tea contemplatively, then clears his throat pointedly.

That prompts a stirring. Ro blinks up at him, looking for all the world like there is no reason at all to question her napping on his couch. She yawns widely, her jaw audibly popping, and stretches languidly in a very catlike way.

Then, in a movement that is all seal, she twists and flops sideways off of the couch.

“Hi, Warlic,” she greets from the floor, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hello, Ro,” he replies, taking another sip of his tea. “I assume that Cysero let you in?”

“Mmhmm.”

There is no elaboration on that. She seems perfectly content to simply lie on the floor and wait for him to say or do something else.

He drinks more of his tea.

She tilts her head slightly.

His sigh is fonder than he’d care to admit.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you,” he says, arching his visible eyebrow “But are you here for a reason?”

She clicks her tongue and twists in a way that is probably supposed to help her get upright but more strongly resembles a seal in the banana pose than anything else.

“I needed a nap and your tower is always so nice and quiet,” she says, voice cheerful and dry.

In the distance, something – hopefully on Cysero’s side of the tower – explodes.

Ro giggle-snorts as she leverages herself upright using the arm of the couch she rolled off of.

“Aye, awright, point taken!” she calls in the general direction of the explosion.

“A social visit, then?” Warlic prompts, hiding his smile behind the rim of his teacup. “You usually give advance warning for those.”

“Ehhh,” Ro replies, making a wobbly see-saw motion with one hand, halfway sitting on the arm of the couch now “Social with a purpose?”

“Do tell.”

“Artix is wanting to dae a thing,” she says, twirling one hand in a circle as though to encompass the incredibly vague concept of ‘a thing’ “Away out at the keep? Hanging out and having a meal and stuff, ‘cept he doesnae know who’ll be up for it. I-” here, she makes an overly dramatic gesture to herself, the fingers of one hand splayed over her heart “-volunteered tae come see if you lot-” a wide sweeping gesture, clearly meant to encompass the tower and its inhabitants “-were free and when, seeing as I’m popping ‘round t’see Cysero aw the time anyways,”

“…you’re here to invite me to a party?”

“I mean…” Ro leans back, one arm braced against the back, one ankle loosely slung over the other, casual and so, so at ease “Less a party and more just dinner wi’ friends but aye, thereabouts.”

Are you mad?

The words stick in his throat. His stomach twists painfully. Just as he vaguely begins to hope that it isn’t showing outwardly, that he’ll be able to excuse himself quickly and without a fuss, his tea betrays him by sloshing loudly over the side of the cup.

Ro is by his side in an instant, one hand whisking the cup away from him and the other winding around his back to support him by the opposite elbow, gently but firmly steering him to the couch. He is vaguely aware of a quiet narrative litany – “Woah, ‘kay, c’mere, let’s just-” – accompanying these actions, then he blinks and is sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white and chest tight. He blinks again, once, twice, staring down at his hands, then up to look at the adventurer sitting at his side. The way that she meets and holds eye contact with him for a few moments more than gives away the worry lurking underneath the calm on her face. His cup of tea is no longer in her hands. A quick glance reveals it to be set down on a coaster on a side table.

“So,” Ro says, pulling his attention back to her “That was a reaction.”

The noise he makes in response to that is somewhere between a snort and a gasp.

“Do you realise,” he asks, voice trembling despite his best efforts “how dangerous what you suggested is?”

She leans a bit closer and rests one of her hands over his clasped ones. The cool metal of her gauntlet is almost grounding.

“It’s not,” she says. Just like the way she guided him to sit, her voice is both gentle and firm. Kind but unyielding. It’s the voice she uses for Heroics.

“It is, how can you not-”

“Ah, of course, silly me,” she interrupts, voice now completely flat. “How could I not have foreseen the incredible danger inherent in you leaving this tower for a few hours to spend some time with your friends. You’re right, that’s an absolutely mental idea. Whatever was I thinking.”

His breath shudders. A distant part of him notes that she seems to have switched from the casual mix of Common and her native tongue she favours in the company of friends to the – as she puts it, with air quotes, rolled eyes, and disdain – “more proper” Greenguardian dialect of Common that she uses for everything from strangers to snotty nobles; the one she uses to ensure she’ll be understood, for better or for worse. She almost certainly doesn’t realise that she’s done it. That distant part of him aches.

He takes another hitching breath.

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

She sighs and shifts to face him more fully, tucking one leg up underneath herself as she sits sideways, and moving her other hand so that both of hers are covering both of his. It helps stop the shaking, a little bit.

“You’re scared. I get it. You’ve told me it wasn’t safe for you to leave before and I believe you. But it’s been years now, Warlic, and if it’s safe for me to come here, why isn’t it safe for you to leave, just for a little bit?”

Because it’s different. Because he could lose control at any moment but maybe here it could be contained. Because it’s his fault, all of it, Alex and Jaania and the Rose and-

Because that monster was a part of him, is inside of him still, and what if I-

Because-

“-I’m dangerous.”

Ah.

Oops.

The look that she gives him somehow manages to be drier than the Sandsea and utterly sympathetic at the same time. He has a feeling that he knows what she’s going to say next, can practically already hear it – So am I. We’re all dangerous, it comes with the territory.

He can see it in her face, begins preparing his counterargument.

“You’re not a threat, Warlic.”

Crystallised disbelief is, apparently, a noise and his vocal cords are capable of making it.

“You’re not.” She squeezes his hands. “You’re in control. You’re not Wargoth-” He flinches at the name, the one he’s only heard in his own thoughts for some time now “-and you’re in control. You are exactly as dangerous as you choose to be and not a whit more and I think I know you well enough to say that that amount is minimal.”

“You didn’t see,” he replies, quietly, staring past her head to trace the grain of the wooden beams in the wall behind her with his eyes “What it was like in the early days. What I was like when I was only just recovering.”

It’s a statement, not an accusation. They both know she would have been there, given the remotest choice. They both know she couldn’t be there. They both know why and who is to blame for it.

She flinches anyways.

It’s the Wargoth in him, Warlic thinks, that makes him be so cruel to a friend who is only trying to help.

Ro breaths in, holds it for a few seconds, then breathes out. She flexes her fingers where they rest across his clasped hands. The motion draws his focus back from the wall just in time to see something in her eyes go firm.

“Right,” she says, with the air of a decision made. “Palms up, in your lap.”

Before he can respond to that non-sequitur, she has swiftly, methodically, somehow still gently, pried his interlocking fingers apart and arranged his hands so that they are resting in his lap, one arm to a leg, palms up. He twitches his fingers a little, wincing at the stiffness in his knuckles after clasping them so tightly for so long.

“Now, close your eyes.”

“Ro, I-”

“Wheesht and dae it, Warlic.”

He closes his eyes.

There are several long moments filled with the sound of rummaging and rustling. She grumbles under her breath a couple of times – at one point, he hears a distinct “why do I even have that?” – and then makes a distinctly satisfied rumble that would be much more suited to her seal vocal cords than her human ones.

A beat after that, something heavy and so very soft is settled into his arms.

“’kay, you can open your eyes now.”

He doesn’t want to. His heart is pounding so wildly he half wonders if it’s visible from the outside. A part of him is desperately hoping that she’s just handed him a blanket, some sentimental symbol of comfort she hopes to share, maybe even something with childhood importance. Something, anything, like that.

The rest of him knows better.

Definitely not a blanket.

The noise he makes isn’t so much a vocalisation of her name as it is a plaintive cry made of vaguely similar sounds. His eyes snap to her in panic and-

-she’s smiling. He can tell not just by the way the outer corners of her eyes have tilted up but by the way he can just barely see her teeth because her mask is pooled around her neck and she’s smiling and she looks absolutely, utterly at ease and-

-and her sealskin is in his hands.

“I trust you,” she says, as thought that isn’t a completely redundant thing to say, as though she hasn’t just made herself impossibly vulnerable, hasn’t just- “I trust you, Warlic. Even if you can’t trust yourself right now, can you trust me? Trust my faith in you?”

The sealskin in his lap is thick and soft and warm. He’s bunched his hands in it, pulled his arms in a bit to hold it closer, without even realising he was doing so and he can’t quite convince himself to let go. He’s never seen it close enough to realise just how much the white-on-blue markings look like clouds before.

His heart pounds and his mind races. There are a million and one things that a mage of his strength and knowledge could do with a selkie’s coat and almost none of them are good. I trust you she says but how can she be anything but terrified in this moment, this moment where she has all but put herself into the worst horror stories of her people, how could she just hand this to him-

Wargoth enslaved people. He’d stolen them from themselves, reached in to grab the fire in their souls and twisted to chain them to his will, to turn them into puppets in his hands-

-and his friend has just unhesitatingly handed him the power to do it again. To do it to her.

“Warlic, hey, Warlic, look at me.”

Her hand is on his shoulder now and he turns to look, a million repetitions of the same question on his tongue – how can you…- and then she stands up.

She stands up and takes one step backwards.

A second.

A third.

She stops there, three paces away, smiling all the while.

“I trust you,” she repeats for the third time.

As his vision first blurs, then swims, Warlic finds himself thinking it’s a good thing that selkies live in the sea, it would be incredibly rude of me to give her coat water stains after a gesture like that. He takes one breath, then two, and then lets go.

Warlic bawls like a baby.

Ro returns to the couch, sitting close enough that their legs are pressed together, and starts rubbing circles on his back, between his shoulder blades.

It should feel ridiculous, with how much younger than him she is. He remembers when she had to look up just to look him in the face while he tried to convince her to take a nap, assuring her that the world wouldn’t end when she wasn’t looking if she took some time to rest. She’s grown a lot since then, he knows, but the number of years is such a drop in the ocean of those he’s lived that it feels like she must have barely aged at all. And yet, somehow, the rhythm of her comforting him as though he’s the child in the room doesn’t feel out of place at all. It just feels…

…safe.

Inevitably, he runs out of tears to cry. Ro wordlessly passes him a tissue to blow his nose, then another to wipe his eyes. He has no idea where she got them from, as there aren’t any nearby. He can’t remember the last time he cried like that. It feels… good, in a way, to have let it out.

When his breathing settles into a more sedate pace, Ro pats him on the shoulder.

“It’s okay to be scared, Warlic,” she says, voice quiet “You know that I know what it’s like to be scared of yourself. I get it. Just… don’t go letting your fear control you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out “Yeah, okay.”

She shuffles aside a bit, giving him some space, but makes no movement to take her coat back. Not even an aborted grasp towards it, though he can see a line of tension beginning to form in her shoulders that she is clearly fighting.

…oh.

Oh. Of course. Trust. The whole point is trust.

He gathers her coat up in his arms, allowing himself just a moment to appreciate all that just being allowed to touch it would represent, let alone having the entire thing dropped in his lap, and passes it over to her.

“Thanks,” she says as she takes it from him, as though this is in any way a casual exchange. She slings it up and over her shoulders, settling it against her neck where the fur will rest against the few uncovered parts of her skin.

He nods, not entirely trusting his voice.

They sit in silence for a few moments and then she tilts her head to the side.

“So,” she says, drawing the vowel out, deliberately light-hearted, testing the waters “Artix’s thing?”

He thinks it over for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. Considers all of his reasons for saying no; considers the possibilities for saying yes. Thinks about keeping himself locked away where it’s safe; thinks about spending time with people again.

He takes a deep breath in, feels his lungs expand. He thinks about a time when, despite everything, he had trusted himself. Even if you can’t trust yourself right now, can you trust me? He breathes out.

He knows his answer.

“No,” he says, letting the syllable hang in the air for just a moment before turning to face Ro with a small smile “But tell him… maybe next time.”

#dragonfable #dragonfable fanfic #Hero Bhaltair #Warlic #hero appreciation day #it's important to me that you know that less than a minute before this fic begins #Warlic fully and entirely did the 'AGH MY /TEA!"/ thing #and yes I did put in some blink-and-you'll-miss-it language angst in there #bc that one book in the Libraseum is like 'some of these nursery rhymes were phonetically transcribed from lesser known dialects'#and then one of the parodies is A /SCOTS/ NURSERY RHYME #so as far as I'm concerned this particular issue Already Exists In Canon And I Have Proof

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