#╳ THE GREATEST STORM OF ALL IS THE MONSTER TUCKED INSIDE

[spinchip]

I Hope We Both Die

Summary: Zane sneaks out of his room and goes down to the dungeons. He talks to Vex one last time before they leave.

Warnings: Ask to tag Pairing: Gen, One-sided Friendship. Wordcount: 2100

They stay in the Never Realm two days after Zane shatters the scroll of forbidden spinjitzu across the throne room floor, releasing his iron grip on the people beneath him. There are loose ends to tie up, decisions to be made, judgements to pass in the days to come. The nights are overwhelmed by celebration, feasting and fire and colors, traditional clothing and dancing and singing and drinking until too drunk to stand- songs are written on the spot about the occasion, The Fall of the Frozen King, sung with the bellies of men in rejoice. The land exploded in revelry, euphoria and jubilation as messenger hawks swept the country- the king is dead! Their message cheered, and we are free!

They burned effigies of his silhouette late into the night, bonfires made of wood and glory charring as fire and warmth are welcomed back into the land. The bloody fear of a country cauterizing and clean.

Zane spent that night in political meetings, shackled to a chair, as his friends tried to convince the nobles not to slaughter him.

He doesn't say a word in his own defense, nothing but facts- the cave, the amnesia, Vexs manipulation, nothing more. He stares ahead, eyes unfocused, and tries not to dwell on the sick look on everyone's faces as he describes the brutality against him, how Vex broke him and scattered the pieces. The hand the cuff is strapped around is unfamiliar, and he can't stop staring at it. He’d seen his reflection once since he’d awoken, a passing glance in a mirror as he’d been escorted by two guards, and the man looking back wasn’t him. This wasn’t his body, he hadn't done those things, he couldn’t have.

But he did. The static in his mind shrieked and howled, overhwelming and loud.

Grimfax asks him to stop, and Zane looks down at his hand that’s not his hand and the ice that’s spiralings from his fingertips and confesses I don’t know how. His voice is quiet and scared and he’s been broken all in pieces and the pieces are put back all in the wrong order. Grimfax asks him never to return, and it takes Zane too long to register that he's being allowed to live. He is put under constant supervision and released to his friends, guards trailing his every move, and while statues of him burn he sits in a bedroom surrounded by his friends with his head in his hands. He doesn't talk, he doesn't cry, he just sits while they flounder around him. He feel sick and wrong and nothing they say can soothe him.

Day turns to night and he lays in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, and when the sun rises he doesn’t move. No one has come to get him, Vex’s voice doesn’t seep through his door to prepare him for his day, there’s no morning report he must attend to. Why get up at all? Cole and Lloyd try to coax him out of bed, try to get him to eat. He can’t stomach it, only moving from his bed to sit listlessly in the fancy sitting room with his friends, silent and hurt and lost. Night comes again, the men outside his room peek open the door every hour to check he’s still there.

But he is a ninja, to his very core, they couldn't trap him if they tried.

Shadows cling to his shoulders because he asks it of them, sneaking down the halls without a sound. The guards are lax and relaxed, they scan their halls with tired eyes, they yawn and chat and joke, and it's all exploitable weakness. He slips by them easily, it’s no challenge, disgusted by their actions. His guards had been serious, and the fools that thought they could speak into his bedchamber with knives or vials of poison were caught long before they could get close. If Zane willed it, he could slip into the king's room now and reinstate his rule, all it would take is one blade.

His stomach churns and he feels sick immediately.

I made them scared, he reminds himself, they can relax now that I’m dead. My era of pain is over, I won’t harm anyone. The thoughts don’t help him, and he feels unmoored and unsure, disconnected from reality and his body.

The stairs he takes one at a time, carefully. He’d been down here only a handful of times, maybe less, when prisoners were too sickly or injured to be moved to the throne room, when their execution was too important to entrust to another. It was warmer now, a linger smell of blood as the ice trapping it had melted. There’s only one prisoner here, now.

The wood door seems almost innocent. There’s no guard down here, maybe a rotating patrol that would be in at some point, but for now Zane can walk right up to the cell and peek inside.

Vex isn’t asleep, sitting up in bed as staring watchfully at the door as he listens to Zanes approach. He blinks at the sight of him, owlish and shocked.

“My Emperor.��� He says dumbly. They’ve stripped of his armor and status, plain clothes hung unfamiliar and strange off his frame. The bed is quaint, nicer than anything they’d provided before, with a thick blanket to keep out the chill. A lamp sits on the floor, lit by a flickering fire. It’s the only light in the room other than Zanes eyes.

“Vex.” He says, surprised when his voice drops an octave on instinct, deeper and more menacing.

The man surges from his bed to the little window between them, "My Emperor." He repeats, devoted and reverent and slimy, "You’ve come to release me. Now is our chance, they are drunk from their celebration, they have underestimated our strength! We can reclaim your throne!”

Vex rambles and his voice is like honey, a soothing balm on the frayed and raw edges of Zanes mind. Familiar and comforting and constant. The storm in his head calms, a rush of relief to the all consuming shame and disgust, the sick unreality he’d been stuck in slipping away with each of his advisors words, and Zane lets his head thunk to rest against the bars. His eyes close while Vex fills the silence with promises of power and retribution, drawing the tension out of his shoulders sentence by sentence. Specific words are lost, his voice running together and fuzzy and tranquil in a way that settles the static threatening his eyes. Zane had tuned out, but his eyes snap open when Vex’s voice trails too close.

"It can be like it was before." he vows, power hungry and opportunist, only a slab of wood away.

Zane studies him for a long moment and Vex doesn't flinch under his eyes, confident in Zanes loyalty. Why else would he come, if not to free him? if not to ask him to help him take back his throne? "they asked me what they should do with you." He says instead of freezing out the lock and letting him go, his voice reverting back to normal, “After they allowed me to live, after I told them all you’d done to me, they asked me what punishment I would pursue.”

Vex draws back, taking a step deeper into his prison.

"They asked me if they should execute you."

Frost crawls up the bars where he clutches them between his fingers, and Vex tracks them with wide eyes, “Execute..?” he breathes, shaking his head, “Is it evil to speak? You'd condemn a man for his words? I held no weapon!” Vex argues instantly, scrambling away from him as the implications for his late-night visit sink in. there was no one here to protect him.

“I was your blade.” he tracks Vex’s movement with his eyes, staying still as a statue as his element overtakes the cell.

“And what a blade you were,” He sneers, back pressed against a cold stone in fear, “How you reveled in bloodshed, I didn't ask you for that. My hands are clean. Who is the beast among us, truly?” he throws, and it hurts to hear more than Zane expects.

He stays silent, years of one-sided conversations engrained in his code so deeply he doesn’t know how to respond.

“And now you've come here to execute me. Your final act as my emperor. What's another stain upon your soul?” Vex grabs at the lamp, holding it close to ward of the encroaching chill even if the cold hadn’t bothered him in years, “And how poetic, that am I destroyed by the monster I created.”

That stings, white hot and painful in his chest, “I am not a monster.” He says, and cant hide the hint of desperation in his voice. His friends had promised him he wasn’t. He cracks the ice forming around his fingers, wrenching his hands from the bars and tucking them beneath his armpits to chase away the frost, “I told them to spare you.”

Vex doesn’t shiver, staring with dark eyes across the space between them, “That doesn’t sound like the ruler I know.” He says, stunned.

Zane feel something in him crack. He grins and it’s all teeth, raw and unkind, “The ice emperor is dead.” He informs him sharply, clenching around himself and hunching his shoulders, looking Vex directly in the eyes. “You are the last of his regime, and it will die with you, whenever that may be. The formling Chief and the King will speak tomorrow to pass your judgement.”

“Why are you here?” Vex flings in response, body tense, “Why have you come?”

Zane has an answer, it crowds behind his teeth and no matter how hard he tries he can’t swallow it, “Because I love you.” the confession tastes like blood, “You were all I had. I trusted you, my greatest friend.”

Vex spits, “If that were true, you’d unlock that door.”

“You deserve this.”

“I hope you die.” Vex tells him, venom in his words that burns across Zane's mind.

He slams into the bars, ice cracking out violently from the wood and stone, and Vex yelps, “I am already dead.” he snarls, anger threatening to sweep away his rational thought. Vex flinches, unused to the ire of the Ice Emperor, frost nipping at his toes.

Silence draws, and Zane pulls away from the bars again. The frost recedes, “I’m leaving tomorrow. I am going home, and this will be the last time we see each other.”

Vex doesn’t say a word, glaring at him between the bars. Heartbeats pass in the quiet, his internal clock ticking before Vex breaks, “What do you want? A goodbye?” he asks hotly, “I never cared about you. You were means to an end.”

Zane doesn’t want a goodbye, not really. He wants Vex to tell him what to do. He wants direction. He doesn’t know how to decide for himself anymore. Years and years on that throne, whispers from Vex’s silver tongue, attack Vex would advise and Zane would jump to it. He did nothing but listen to the whims of his general, he obeyed without question while believing all the while he was hearing a friend. He wants those years back. He wants to recognize himself in the mirror, to know the man looking back, to… to…

He wants to let him go. He wants to listen to Vex’s voice and allow it to wash out the pain, the confusion, the shame. He wants to forget all of it. He wants to believe Vex is his friend, he wants to believe he wouldn’t hurt him.

But he did.

And now all he wants is to kill him.

“Goodbye.” He says, instead of skewering him to the wall. It’s closure, maybe.

He takes the stairs back to the main level two at a time, and when he sneaks back into his room he stagger in, exhausted. He slips beneath the covers half a second before the guards check back in on him, feigning sleep, and when he opens his eyes again he has to turn away from the sunlight cutting across his face- it’s morning. He’d slept through the night. They’ll be gone before the Formling Chief makes it to the capital, he won’t know how Vex’s story ends. He finds, surprised, that it doesn’t really matter.

He’s going home today.

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 7: Brawling

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Maeve nodded, and Rowan let the girl stalk into the waiting hallway, following close behind. Both of them were positively seething, radiating heat and tension and fury. Now that the inescapable force of Maeve’s presence had been removed, there was no damper on either of their tempers, no check on the threat of violence that steadily spread between them like a pit of lava.

Rowan would count himself very lucky if they made it to her rooms in silence, if the princess managed to keep her mouth shut. Any word exchanged between the two of them would serve as a match being thrown, inevitably causing the noxious gas swathed around them to spark into a fiery explosion of rage and violence.

Rowan told himself he could keep himself in check, could retain his tight hold on his anger. It wouldn’t be a good idea to give in while still under Maeve’s nose, and so soon after the two females had struck their bargain and made their tentative peace. They were so close, only a few more turns, a few more steps –

But then the girl spoke, sparks igniting. “You must be very important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty.”

Lightening crackled through his veins, icing over his limbs. There was a great roaring in his head as the primal part of him rared to meet the challenge the girl was setting him, to fight his opponent until she was defeated, or destroyed.

He responded without thinking, focusing on keeping the leash he held on his anger from snapping. “Given your history, she didn’t trust anyone but her best to keep you in line.”

The words were barely more than a growl. Rowan couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken to someone with so much heat, so much vitriol. Not even Fenrys’ taunts could pull him out of his icy shell so easily.

The princess’ eyes lit up – he was giving her exactly what she wanted. Rowan lashed down even harder on his fury as she retaliated, “Playing warrior in the woods doesn’t seem like the greatest indicator of talent.”

He clenched his jaw tight, speaking through his teeth. “I fought on killing fields long before you, your parents, or your grand-uncle were even born.”

Rowan nearly snarled in satisfaction, seeing the girl bristle in indignation. “Who’s to fight here except birds and beasts?”

He had to choke down a laugh. The child had no idea, none whatsoever. If not for her arrogance and conceit, he may have sympathized with the girl’s obvious ignorance. As it was, it only served to increase his contempt.

“The world is a far bigger and more dangerous place than you can imagine, girl. Consider yourself blessed to receive any training – to have the chance to prove yourself.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling.”

A soft laugh escaped through Rowan’s clenched teeth. Two could play at that game. “Just wait, Aelin.”

The barb hit home – she dropped all pretense of playfulness, her voice now filled with pure aggression. “Don’t call me that.”

Rowan’s eyes sparked. “It’s your name. I’m not going to call you anything different.”

She stepped in front of him, and he flashed his teeth at her. Rowan could smell the scent of her power as it writhed around her, filling the corridor. He choked on it.

“No one here can know who I am. Do you understand?”

He pressed down hard, pushing his advantage. “My aunt has given me a harder task than she realizes, I think.” She flinched slightly as his claiming, his dig at her demi- status. She did not belong, and Maeve was his, not hers.

The she responded, loathing coating her voice with its slimy fingers as she bathed in its addictive touch. “Fae like you make me understand the King of Adarlan’s actions a bit more, I think.”

Before he could reconsider, Rowan punched the girl in the face. He had aimed for her nose, but she had managed to roll slightly to the side, catching the blow on her chin. She hit the opposite wall hard, her head connecting with the bricks. Blood leaked from her mouth.

But the spark in the girl’s eyes didn’t fade. She wanted this fight, wanted Rowan to beat her into a pulp. Why, he didn’t know. Probably to get him in trouble with Maeve – a ploy to alter the bargain they’d struck in her favor.

So before Rowan could strike her again, he halted, preventing himself from fracturing her jaw and instead snarling in her face, low and vicious.

She just purred, “Do it.”

Rowan only barely maintained control, knowing that this would do nothing to teach the girl respect or humility. It wouldn’t make her yield, or break, or hurt. He’d have to find another way to penetrate her armor.

“Why should I give you what you want?”

“You’re just as useless as the rest of your brethren.”

He just laughed again, lowering his fist. “If you’re that desperate to eat stone, go ahead: I’ll let you try to land the next punch.”

She didn’t hesitate, swinging wildly, no control, no discipline. He moved quickly and easily aside, then hooked his foot around hers, sending her careening into the wall once more.

Rowan stepped back and crossed his arms while the girl spat blood, swearing. He smirked, sending her hurtling towards him again, so overwhelmed with fury that she moved with no plan, no strategy.

Rowan grinned viciously as he efficiently countered, sending her crashing into a darkened brazier behind him and landing on the hard stone floor, her teeth ringing. The monster in his chest purred its satisfaction – the struggle providing an outlet for his fury, allowing it to ebb from his limbs.

“Like I said, you have a lot to learn. About everything.”

“Go fuck yourself.” She snarled past her already swollen lip.

Rowan sauntered down the hall, leaving her lying there in a heap. “Next time you say anything like that,” he said without looking over his shoulder, “I’ll have you chopping wood for a month.”

Rowan paused momentarily, listening to her drag herself off the stones. Then they made their way down the hall, and he dumped her in a small, cold room that was tucked away in a corner of the fortress, which would be hers for the foreseeable future.

It was little better than a prison cell, and would be achingly cold at night. There was no fireplace, only a small bed, a chamber pot, and a washbasin filled with a layer of water currently coated in ice. Perfect for the spoiled brat.

“Give me your weapons.” Rowan picked up a bucket and tossed its contents into the hall, holding it out towards the girl.

“Why? And no.”

“Give me your weapons.”

She just looked back at him, eyes blank. “Tell me why.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Then we’re going to have another brawl.”

Rowan raised his brow. You call that a brawl?

But still, the girl’s face was leaking blood like a dripping faucet, and he would already have to answer to Maeve for the punch he’d thrown. And, now that he’d struck out, he’d lifted some of the burden of his fury and what remained was far easier to ignore.

So instead of giving the girl what she wanted, he answered, “Starting at dawn, you’ll earn your keep by helping in the kitchen. Unless you plan to murder everyone in the fortress, there is no need for you to be armed. Or to be armed while we train. So I’ll keep your daggers until you’ve earned them back.”

Her mouth twisted into a frown. “The kitchen?”

Rowan bared his teeth in a wicked grin. “Everyone pulls their weight here. Princesses included. No one’s above some hard labor, least of all you.”

Her frown deepened into something deeper, and darker, her teeth clacking together with an audible snap. “So my training includes being a scullery maid?”

“Part of it.” And I’m going to savor every damn second of your misery.

She pursed her lips. “For an old bastard, you certainly haven’t bothered to learn manners at any point in your long existence.”

“Why should I waste flattery on a child who’s already in love with herself?”

“We’re related, you know.”

“We’ve as much blood in common as I do with the fortress pig-boy.” He shoved the bucket in her face, exhausted by this trying game of wills.

Her nostrils flared, but finally she acquiesced, and began to disarm herself. Rowan carefully counted the weapons she pulled from beneath her clothing, running them against the mental tally he’d generated.

When she finished, he tucked the bucket into his side and strode from the room without a farewell, calling over his shoulder, “Be ready at dawn.”

The door slammed shut, but he could still hear the girl say, “Bastard. Old stinking bastard,” before he stormed down the hall and back up the spiral staircase.

···

Rowan had never stayed the night at Mistward, though he had passed through it countless times. So while he had never slept in the room he was heading towards, he knew that it was the one he would be given.

He opened the wooden door and slid quietly inside, utterly spent. The room was small and shabby, a large four-poster bed occupying much of the space. Worn rugs were thrown over much of the floor, an attempt to soften their cold stone chill. A small but acceptable fireplace was set into one wall, with a worn wooden worktable placed in front of it.

Rowan placed the bucket of weapons on the ground next to the table, where his saddlebags were already waiting. He turned to the fireplace, and set to work constructing a meagre fire, knowing that as night came on, it would get harder and harder to keep the mists’ cold chill from freezing his bones.

Just as he got the fire lit however, Rowan felt that familiar tug deep in his chest, pulling him out of his room, back up the stairs, and over to the small office where Maeve still sat, holding court.

This time once he approached, Rowan knelt, bowing his head before the Queen of the Fae.

She didn’t waste any time with formalities. “I see you and the Heir of Terrasen have become quite close over your travels.” Rowan didn’t respond, keeping his eyes low. Waiting to see how she would react.

Maeve regarded him carefully, evaluating. “I’d just struck a bargain with the girl, a formal agreement between Doranelle and Terrasen – a historic moment. Even accounting for the princess’ tenuous relationship with her throne.”

Rowan frowned. He was completely empty, the girl’s fire having robbed him of all remaining strength, and was far, far too exhausted to continue to play this game.

“And then the moment she leaves my sight, you hit her.”

Rowan’s fingers twitched. “My apologies, majesty.”

Maeve smelled an easy victory. “Does your remorse undo the potential damage you have done to this bargain, and to the future relationship of Doranelle to the nation of Terrasen?”

“No my queen.”

“Then I would say that you have a debt owed, Rowan Whitethorn.”

Rowan finally raised his eyes to look up at her, his face carefully blank. Maeve’s eyes were narrowed, her brow set and her mouth wry. She seemed to be coming to some kind of decision, to be weighing different strategies against each other.

Her presence was lighter than it had been earlier; her dark power was still there, but it was no longer oppressive in its weight. Now that the princess was gone, Maeve’s performance had slipped ever so slightly, become more comfortable, easier.

She was no longer actively malicious, and yet still Maeve was a force to be reckoned with.

“I do not know if this is fortunate, or unfortunate, Prince Rowan, but I believe that there is no punishment that I could bestow upon you that would be more effective than that which I already have.” Maeve’s grin twisted into something dark and inescapable – a cage.

Rowan’s jaw twitched in response, but he was far too drained for Maeve’s harsh words to cut him the way she intended them too. He'd already accepted his fate, any more fury expended on its behalf would just be an unnecessary excess. So instead of snarling, or protesting, or asking why it had to be him to train the girl, and not someone with far more experience or ability, he just said quietly, “Yes my queen.”

Her lips tightened, “I must admit, while I had formed very few expectations regarding the heir of Terrasen, I certainly had not expected for the two of you to detest each other so entirely.”

Rowan remained silent, still watching his queen’s face intently.

She watched him right back, seeing past his icy armor and down into his very essence. Maeve knew him better than any still living, knew him better than he knew himself. There was nothing he would hide from her, nothing he would deny her – even if such a thing would have been possible.

Yes, Rowan had known who this female was when he had tied his life to her, had known her many faults, known of the darkness that nestled deep in her soul. But she was all Rowan had, the only person he had left.

Maeve looked right through him, divining whatever knowledge she sought. Then she leaned back, and turned to look out the window, ruminating. A whisper of words passed her lips, “It seems I did my work too well.”

But before Rowan could begin to question, she turned the full weight of her gaze back onto him, saying, “Regardless of your feelings for each other, I expect adequate results.”

Rowan nodded brusquely.

“The girl will likely prove difficult. She has received almost no training whatsoever. Her mother…was difficult. She never believed the girl needed to receive proper training in order to achieve the necessary control. The princess was only taught to suppress.”

Maeve scoffed. “The woman knew that the only way the girl could be taught was through me. And after her disobedience in marrying that Terrasen prince, she feared me too much to allow her daughter within my clutches.” She smiled wickedly. “But it didn’t work, and the girl ended up here anyways. As was inevitable.”

Rowan just nodded.

Maeve spoke more to herself than to him. “The journey may have been more winding than I initially supposed, but now here she is. And the next stage can begin.”

Maeve paused for a moment, and then spoke directly to Rowan, her voice hard and commanding. “I want you to unleash her for me Rowan.”

He nodded grimly.

“That child has no idea what agreement she just made. Yes, when she comes to me, I will give her the answers she seeks, but she will not get a chance to do anything with them. You will train her for me Rowan, reforge her. Make her into a weapon.”

Maeve stood, her violet skirts billowing around her, obviously dismissing him. Rowan stood, beginning to leave, but then Maeve spoke again, a dark finality coating the words.

“I need you to break her.”

Rowan bowed low, and strode from the room.

···

Rowan sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the writing depths of the flames before him.

The smell of ash and burning wood permeated the space. Rowan wondered dully if he would ever be able to dissociate the scent from the princess of Terrasen, or if for centuries to come Rowan would be forced to think of the insufferable girl whenever he smelled flames.

And now he would be forced to spend the coming weeks and months and years in her delightful company, training her.

He had only rarely trained individuals – normally he was placed in command of large groups of soldiers, to lead them in battle and ready them for war. Occasionally, he shared the duty with one or more of his fellow blood-sworn. But most often he was alone, at the head of a legion that could number in the thousands.

Within that very small group of individuals, he had only trained a handful in magic. And never had he taught one with even a drop of power such as this princess had.

Normally, when a demi-Fae sought to enter Doranelle they were trained for a number of years in combat, and if they had it, in magic. Until they were given some kind of test to evaluate their abilities, and were either let in or turned away. Only a very, very select few were allowed to enter, and once they were, even they were not greeted with open arms.

In Doranelle, the demi-Fae were second class citizens, relegated to the tasks that full-blooded Fae regarded with contempt and distaste. Particularly those who weren’t gifted with magic. Lorcan, the most powerful demi-Fae male living, was the exception, not the rule.

However, this girl was unlike all the others, even Lorcan. Her training, and her life afterwards, would be unlike any he had heard of. Even Rowan’s own training those centuries past would not compare to what this girl required, despite the similarities in the strength of their power. He had very little relevant experience to draw from.

Rowan had given the girl kitchen duty, meaning that he had mornings to himself. Maeve hadn’t given him any other tasks to fulfill at Mistward, meaning that he now had the unexpected benefit of a limited freedom, and time. Time away from Maeve and her conniving court, in an outpost where he so outranked the occupants that he had no one to bother him, no one who would seek him out. Where he could do what he wished.

If it weren’t for the princess sleeping in the bowels of the fortress below him, Rowan may have been anticipating this unexpected freedom with gladness, or at least a measure of relief. It was rare that any of Maeve’s warriors were given such time.

And yet Rowan was sure that the Heir of Terrasen would find a way to ruin it for him, just as Maeve had promised. This was far from a gift.

Rowan wanted the coming months over and done with. Wanted the princess gone and out of his life. But Maeve had ordered him to train her, to break her and unleash her power, and so he would do so. But he didn’t have to ensure that the princess followed through with her side of the bargain. If she abandoned it of her own volition, Rowan would be free. Free to return to Doranelle and face Maeve’s wrath empty-handed. It might even be worth it.

In the meantime, Rowan would have to figure out some kind of plan, a test for the princess to take. A way for him to evaluate the girl’s magic and her control. For that was the real talent in working with magic – not your ability to manipulate it, but your skill in conforming your power to your will.

Stubbornness was equally helpful to creativity and ingenuity when working with magic. And while the princess was perhaps the most stubborn person he had ever encountered, she hadn’t demonstrated one scrap of self-control in the week that he had known her. Rowan’s stomach sank.

Perhaps he would have her face some kind of threat…a foe within reach of the fortress.

He sighed. He could think on it further some other time, when his head wasn’t pounding with exhaustion. Rowan still had weeks before that day dawned. Weeks he would spend almost entirely in the company of that spoiled, useless, insufferable child. Trying to teach her. To get her to listen.

Through the exhaustion, Rowan felt the familiar stirrings of a well-worn irritation, deep in his gut. He frowned as he turned on his side, falling into an uneasy sleep.

···

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[kewltie]

"Get out of my way, extras," Katsuki yells, pushing through a throng of busybody who all decided at that moment to move as sluggishly as possible like they got nothing to do but stand in his way. "Fucking move it already!"

"Sorry, sorry, he hadn’t has his lunch yet," Eijirou says behind him to the people Katsuki had offended.

Which is not an uncommon thing around him; he'd rightfully pissed off more than a few people in this lifetime. What is uncommon is Katsuki storming his way through a police station in the afternoon with adrenaline and anticipation hot on his tail since he'd received that message from Captain Omari.

Zero, I believe we just had a major breakthrough with the Nine case. I suggest you come to the station this instance.

Nine, that fucking ratface bastard has been thorn in Katsuki side for so long now that there’s not a day he doesn’t think about grinding his face in the dust. Ruthless and cunning, Nine had managed to keep a tight rein of terror in Katsuki's city.

He'd went head to head against Nine in countless battles before, came out on top more than half it, but had been denied his rightful victory every fucking time Nine had clawed his way out and escaped Katsuki's grip. More than just beyond frustrating, it is his greatest humiliation.

Katsuki has been on this chase for three years now, right after his agency had took over the main patrol routes of the city, but Nine remains elusive as ever and for all Katsuki’s accomplishment and accolades he'd achieved so far – owning his own agency in just only five years after his debut, unseating the previous number one hero, and a growing list of villains he'd taken down and thrown in Tartarus. Nine's entire existence is an embarrassing mar on his more than stellar record.

Now, he finally get a chance to put Nine away for good and keep it that way, with no hope of that slimy bastard wiggling his way out of it this time around, because Katsuki is going to fucking destroy him.

Katsuki's legs eventually carry him right outside of a secure interrogation room, where two armed officers are station by the door.  "Ground Zero," one of them says, dipping his head in deference, "the captain is waiting for you in there."

He makes a grunt of acknowledgement. Just as he about to open the door with Eijirou close behind him, the officer on the left puts his hand out to block them from coming in.

"Sorry, sir, but the captain requested to only see Zero-san at the moment," he says.

Katsuki's eyes narrow. "What the fuck. He's my partner."

"S-sorry," the man says again, wilting under the force of Katsuki's glare, "but it’s captain's order."

Eijirou, who is less of an asshole than him and therefore marginally better at handling other people, just pats Katsuki's on the shoulder and shrugs. "Don't worry, just go on ahead without me. I'm sure, Captain Omari has a good reason for it."

Katsuki makes a face and lets out a resigned sigh. Nine is such a troublesome little shit that it became an inter-agencies mission to hunt him down with Katsuki leading the charge, bullying other agencies in the district to work with him because Nine is a public menace and UA had beaten him black and blue the lone wolf mentally out of him. Captain Omari had been supporting him from the side, doing menial investigations and interviews that Katsuki is too busy for.

They work closely together enough now that if the old man thinks this is serious enough to warrant secrecy, even though he trusts Eijirou with his life, then fuck Katsuki is going to respect it. "Fine," he grits out, giving Eijirou a nod, "you stay out here then. Wait for me."

Ejirou gives him a thumb up. "You got it, bro."

Katsuki rolls his eyes and turns to the officer, blocking him from entering currently. "Can I fucking go in now?" he demands.

"Uh, y-yes, of course, sir," the officer squeaks out, stepping aside so Katsuki can come through. Katsuki’s terrifying reputation precedes him once more. Good.

He opens the door with no resistance and walks into an even smaller room as the door shuts behind him. It's empty of occupant and a compact space with a large blackened glass mirror taking over one half of the wall, separating this room from another room where there's another door tucked to a corner.

There's no sound coming through from the other side, but he knows Omari is there and whatever lead he might have caught is there also. He thinks maybe it’s another witness to Nine’s crime or one of Nine’s associates finally coming in to turn against Nine for leniency later. The former is more likely than the latter, because nobody connected with Nine was stupid or insane enough to betrayed him; those fucking cowards.

Katsuki clenches and unclenches his hand, knowing that Omari wouldn't hail him here like this if he didn't expect something good to come out of it. He trusts Omari.

He walks over to the door, twists the knob open, pushes his way through and steps inside to a—nursery? There are kids on the floor, three bowed head shading away on pages of a coloring book and there's another one sitting nearby, watching them closely with a cool detachment.

Their quiet giggles and murmurs that had filled the room earlier stops abruptly at the sound of his entrance, and he's staring right into the eyes of youthful curiosity in some and heavy skepticism and wariness in others. These children make him feels stripped raw.

One, two, three, and four, he counts off in his head, from what look to be the oldest sitting in a chair against the wall with her hands carefully place on her lap and the youngest sandwiching between his other siblings, because they're clearly blood related with three of the four sharing the same eerie white hair and stormy grey eyes.

Only the youngest, no. 4, Katsuki quietly dubs in his head, sticks out like a sore thumb with a head full of  green curl and an even greener set of eyes that avoided his gaze.

"It's Ground Zero!" the little girl, no. 3, on the floor says with a delighted gasp, reaching over no. 4 to shake no. 2’s shoulder excitedly.

No. 2, a sour looking boy, grunts in annoyance and roll away from her touch. "I can see that, Akira. I'm not blind."

No. 4 huddles closer to no. 3 as though he can hide from Katsuki's scrutiny, while no. 1 doesn't even react to his presence, continuing to watch over her younger siblings with careful consideration.

Someone clears their throat and it's definitely none of the kids because Omari says, "Ah, there you are, Bakugou."

Katsuki jerks his head up to meet Omari's amused gaze. He'd been so preoccupied by these kids, who shouldn’t be here in the first place, that he didn’t even take notice of anybody else in the room and eve forgot the reason why he's here.

"Sorry," he grumbles. "I just—who the fuck are these brats?! And where the hell are their parents?!"

"Language," No. 1 snaps out, speaking up for the first time. There’s an arrogance lilt to her voice as her eyes narrow at him, finally deeming him important enough to be acknowledge. "Please watch your mouth around my younger siblings, Zero-san."

Katsuki glares at that tiny ball of superiority, who doesn't even flinch under the heat of his fury. She's cool as fucking ice and he has a lot of things he want to say about that, but wisely keeps his mouth shut because he's not getting into an argument with a fucking fetus.

Omari stifles a laugh at the hilarious theater unfolding before him, because it's not everyday Ground Zero get scolded by a child, and clears his throat again. "Sorry that I called you in such a hurry, but," he rises from his seat and steps back, "this is extremely important. I would like you to meet someone," he says, gesturing his hand out toward the other person, who'd been sitting quietly across the table from him.

Katsuki's eyes widen as he looks past Omari and into the face he hadn't seen in more than ten years. "Hello, Kacchan," Midoriya Izuku says. It’s same green curls, green eyes, and freckles dusting across his cheeks, but he’s older and surer of himself, looking particularly comfortable in his seat.

"W-what, Deku?!" Katsuki stumbles out, half in hysteric and disbelief. "I-I thought you fucking died! What the fuck are you doing here?!"

"Well, I see you have met my children," Izuku says instead, glancing over at the brats lovingly with a soft smile. "And they're the sole reason I'm here today."

The last time, Katsuki had seen Midoriya Izuku was when he was watching him get cart off into a car by the social services three days after Aunt Inko had died of a car accident; he was only thirteen. Quirkless, omega, and recently orphaned – Izuku was truly one of the world’s the unluckiest bastards.

Katsuki's mother had wanted to take Izuku in, but a young omega and alpha living under the same roof was ill advised and Katsuki would have fought it every single step. The social service simply wouldn't have it, and so Izuku became a ward of the state. Katsuki didn't see him again after that. Until now that is.

After more than ten years, he'd only assumed the worst.

Omegas, especially one that young, who had taken in by the state would eventually get fostered –  auctioned - off to eligible bachelor alphas as soon as they turn sixteen to be mated, leaving them with little to no choice but to comply.

Afterward, they tend to disappeared off the map.

Sometimes that means they're dead, other times they're alive but enslaved. Katsuki doesn't know which the better outcome is because they're both shit either way. His mother had tried to look for Izuku afterward and even Katsuki made his own attempt because he realized what a shit he was, but years had passed by and still nothing, no sign of a Midoriya Izuku at all. Eventually, Katsuki had to write Izuku off completely.

Now, he's standing in a secured room at a police station and Midoriya Izuku is not only alive, but whole and healthy. The only thing he can think of is: "These horrid little monsters are your kids?!"

No. 3's head perks up and she scowls at him. "Hey, hey, that's not nice!"

No. 2's eyes narrow, raising his fist up and looking at Katsuki's thoughtfully. "Should I kick him?" he offers.

No. 1 frowns, lips thinning out in unimpressed line. "Kouki, do not do that," she scolds at her brother. "We don't lower ourselves to his baser level."

No. 4 leans close to no. 3’s ear and whispers, not quite quiet enough, to his sister, "are we monster, Akira-nee?"

"Yea," she curls her fingers like they are claws at him and a low growl rumbles from her throat, "and I'mma eat you, Hikaru!" Her fingers attacks his side relentlessly.

No. 4 tries to fend off her attack with a fit of loud giggles and flailing hands, hiding behind no. 2 ,who only scowls before raising his fists up to defend no. 4 from no. 3, which quickly descends into a tickle fight. No. 1 looks upon her younger siblings and sighs deeply like they pained her.

"Yes," Izuku says, watching the tickle fight unfolding before them with barely contained amusement and fondness, "they're my most precious children." There's an entire world in those few words; a fierce love that could weather any storm. He turns toward no. 1 and gestures toward her. "Over there is my eldest daughter and pride, Yuko."

Yuko rises to her feet and lowers her head just slightly enough to show respect, but her cold gaze locking on him says another otherwise. "Hello," she greets, and a heavy beat, then, "Kacchan."

Katsuki's left eye twitch, but he holds his tongue as Izuku fails to hide his smile.

"My twins," Izuku continues, waving to the tangled limbs on the floor, "the sullen Kouki and fierce Akira, who are pulling at each other's hair."

"Papaaaaaaa," Akira whines, kicking Kouki in the side to get him off of her as Kouki grunts in pain, "Kouki is embarrassing me in front of Kacchan!"

Kouki releases his sister with a shove and scowls, which is all he seems to be able to do. "Kacchan," he sneers, "can eat my—"

"Kouki!" Yuko snaps, grey eyes flashing with heat.

Kouki stares up at Yuko for a beat, and then ducks his head dejectedly. "Sorry, Yuko-nii. Sorry, Papa."

"As you can see they’re my lovely twins," Izuku says, smiling proudly down at his children like his kids didn't tried to kill each other in front of him and there are witnesses to it. "And lastly my youngest and treasure, Hikaru."

Hikaru scrambles up from the floor and hurries to Izuku, climbing into his lap. He buries his face into Izuku's shoulder, hands fisting around Izuku's shirt tightly like he's trying to hide himself from the world, but slowly he raises his head away from Izuku to quietly and shyly says, "Hi, Kacchan."

Ok, Katsuki’s heart quickens just slightly there but the fact that he’s also adopting his older siblings' choice of name for Katsuki is—annoying. These kids have no fucking boundaries at all.

Katsuki scrubs his face, feeling a headache coming on. "Yea, thanks for introduction and all, I guess, but I still don't understand what the fu—" Yuko shoots him another quelling glare and Katsuki grimaces as he corrects himself, because this kid is not letting up, "is going on."

Omari, who had been letting Izuku lead the conversation so far, pips up finally, "I told you in the message earlier that I need you here." His expression straightens out and there’s a heavy solemnness to it. “It’s Nine. Izuku-san is here for Nine.”

With just that name alone the entire room freezes as though a forbidding cloud have descended upon them.

Yuko's shoulders tighten just minutely enough that if Katsuki didn't pay close attention he wouldn't have notice. The twins get up from the floor to stand behind their older sister, holding to each other in a united front like they're going to war. Izuku squeezes his arms around Hikaru, who ducks his head under his chin and tries to pretend nobody else exist in the room.

Katsuki frowns at the sudden change in the family's friendly atmosphere earlier. "What does that have to do with Deku and the kids?" he demands, even though there's a nagging feeling in his head that he’ll hate whatever words to come out of their mouth next.

"He's my husband," Izuku admits quietly, and it’s strained like the words had to dragged out of him, "and the sire of my children."

Yea, he fucking hates it. Katsuki feels like someone had just ripped the rug under him. "You married the bastard?!" he demands, storming up to Izuku. "Do you even know what kind of person he is?! He’s a murdering psychopath whose kill counts are in the triple digits!"

"Get away from my Papa," he hears Kouki yells off in the distance, but fuck Katsuki couldn't care less right now as Yuko scolds, "Kouki! Kouki, enough! Stop it."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the two sisters struggling to hold Kouki back from jumping Katsuki. For such a small body, there’s a lot of rage in him. Something that Katsuki is keenly familiar with.

"Kouki, please," Izuku says gently. And that's all it take for Kouki to completely exhausts his fighting spirit. "Sorry," he says, looking at Katsuki apologetically, "my kids are just protective." He looks down at the table separating them, hand carefully stroking Hikaru's back.

Katsuki casts a quick glance at Omari, who quietly shakes his head and keeps his mouth zip, clearly wanting Izuku to dictate the pace of the conversation. There's a story here, he knows, and Izuku and his kids are at the very center of it and Katsuki doesn't like it one bit. "Deku," he says awkwardly, like blubbering fool, "just take your time. I'll wait."

He finds himself in the uncomfortable position of having to comfort a distressed civilian and his wayward kids, which is not something Katsuki is used to. It should have been Eijirou rather, who always been better at this than him, but somehow that's not good enough.

"And it is because I know who my husband is that's why I'm here before you," Izuku reveals, voice steady and firm with each word. "When I'd married him, I was sixteen and had no other choice, but now my children are older and I will do anything to secure their future so that they have the choice that I didn't." He lifts his gaze and meets Katsuki's own, eyes bright and fierce with all the power of a parental love behind it; it’s a force to be reckon with. "I will not let my children become a monster like their sire. They will not be a villain of their own story," he declares to the entire room.

Katsuki cast a quick glance at Omari, a silence exchange passes between them, and Omari gives a short nod before Katsuki’s focus falls back on Izuku. "It would take us a few hours and a bit of work, but we can arrange to take you and your kids away right now," he offers. His mind is already racing with the logistic of it. It'll be rush job, but he knows they can do it. They will do it. Izuku won't accept anything less for his family and neither will Katsuki, this is something they can both agreed upon. "We can protect your family from Nine. Just tell us what you know of him and his operation and we'll take it from here," he presses.

Nine is still a main priority of him and his team even though he’s now terribly aware that the monster he had been dreaming of putting away for life has a spouse and kid, but even then Nine had ruined the idea of a family too with his taint. You have to be a certain kind of rotten bastard to invoke enough fear and anger in your family to have them turned on you.

Izuku smiles, but it’s too wide and crooked. "Thank you,” he shakes his head, “but no."

Katsuki blinks, then reels back in shock and annoyance. Does he even know what he’s rejecting?! "What do you mean no? Didn't you come here specifically for our help?!"

"You can't help me," Izuku says, slowly but firmly. "Nine has been given free ranged of this city for years, Kacchan, and you and your people couldn't even do anything to stop him. You didn't even know my family existed until now, because you had nothing on him. The only one who can help me right now is myself and I will be the one to put him down for good."

Katsuki flinches, instinctively the young hotheaded alpha in him rumbles unpleasantly. "What can you even do?!" He sneers. "You're what—a househusband? Last a check you're quirkless and an omega, what can you even do that we can't? Leave this to the pros, we'll take care of it."

Izuku winces, a flash of hurt runs across his face as his eyes lower to the table and his hand balls into a fist at the back of Hikaru, who cries out a soft, concern, "Papa?"

"Bakugou," Katsuki hears the infliction of a scold in Omari's voice, but he doesn't care. Izuku's earlier words had sting harder than he like to admit. He always know how to get under Katsuki’s skin even after all these years. Something never changes.

"Fuck you!" he hears a young, angry voice from the side then a flash of movement before he gets a face full of spite in Kouki. "You don't know what sort of hell we'd suffered in that house, so don't you ever talk that way to my Papa. He's more of a hero than any of you people!" His small fists clenched at his side, body bristling in defense and ready for a fight with him.

Katsuki casts a hasty, furtive glance at the other two who remains silence, but their silence is deafening with the way a wrought of disappointment and hurt runs across Akira's face. While Kouki's anger is all fire and brimstone, Yuko's contempt runs much deeper and colder in it placidly, enough to chills him to the bones. The fact that she didn't rebuke Kouki right away for his language tells Katsuki that there's a storm brewing behind those her cold grey eyes and he's the culprit for it.

Katsuki is a rightful asshole. He knows this, his friends like to remind him often enough, but he isn't a malicious one. Not anymore anyway. Being around Izuku though brought back that angry and dumb boy who only knows how to lash out and hurt others for the damage he'd perceived they committed against him.

That isn't him though. He isn’t that boy anymore.

He really thought he truly outgrown it, but confronted with the living memory of all his insecurities, he had regressed once more. Midoriya Izuku always got the better of him. Quirkless and omega be damned, because Izuku always broke Katsuki’s carefully laid boundaries and expectations.

That truth made him furious back then. Now it leaves him empty.

Katsuki takes several steps back from them, scrubs his face furiously, and exhales. A long, deep exhale and shoves out all his crumbling self doubts and fucked ups down, because this isn't about him. Not, not about him at all. "Sorry," he murmurs, embarrassed, then he remembers the face of those kids and sighs. "Sorry," he says again, louder and stronger this time around. "That's inexcusable. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way."

Omari looks so shock by his sudden apology that he nearly chokes on air. Izuku also seems surprised by his outburst by the slight hang of his lips, but it softens out into a small, shy smile that makes him appear much younger than he really is. Almost like the boy Katsuki used to know.

"No. 2 is right, I know shit so I shouldn't have assumed," Katsuki presses on, cheeks flushing at his own admission.

"No. 2? Did he mean Kouki?" Akira not whispers to her sister, because nobody in this fucking family knows how to do it properly.

Yuko hisses a, "be quiet, Akira," in return.

"Thank you," Izuku acknowledges with a curve of his lips, because he always been kinder and better than Katsuki in that regard. "I accept your apology, Kacchan."

Kouki only glares at him as he settles next to Izuku, arms folded and hovering close by as some sort of silent sentinel, but really he just look like a miniature protector. Kinda useless but an A for effort, Katsuki guesses.

"I understand where your doubt and hesitation is coming from, so I came prepared to prove my point," Izuku continues, jerking his head toward the two girls. "Yuko, would you please?"

"Yes, Papa," Yuko says, pulling back to rummage through her small purse, and takes out a pencil case from the bag.

Katsuki's brows furrow as Yuko approaches him with the fuzzy panda shape pencil case. He glances at Omari who also adopts a look of total confusion on his face too.

"Hand, please. This is for you, Kacchan," Yuko says coolly, depositing it onto his open palm. "Open it and look inside."

A tiny bit miffed at having to take order by a damn fetus, but he finds himself obeying anyway and unzips the bag to find four USB flash drives tucked inside and nothing else. He jerks his head up, eyes widen as Izuku gives him a knowing and purposeful smile that is full of bite. Izuku hasn't said anything yet, but Katsuki's heart is already racing with the hints of what to come.

"Those four flash drives contain all the information I've collected over ten years about my husband and his crime wave. They hold everything about his associates, sources, and businesses," Izuku explains. "Pictures, documentations, and weekly logs of what he had been up to for the past years. I had painstakingly gathered them together and put it all in those flash drives as evidence. And this is just four of the ten I made so far. The rest is to guarantee my children safety." He places his hands on the table and stares at Omari and Katsuki with a pointed look. "As you can see it's not that I need you, but it is you who need me," he finishes. "Like I said before, there is nothing I won't do for my children, so do I have your attention now?"

It has been over ten years since they had last seen each other — Katsuki had went on and seized the number one ranking as the top hero in the country, and Izuku had all disappeared from Katsuki’s life . Only to reappear before him as the spouse of one of the most dangerous villains in the world. And he even got four kids in tow now.

What utter bullshit.

If someone told him that this is their future — standing on opposing side, he, a hero, trying to put down a villain and Izuku, a quirkless omega, who effectively engineered his own husband downfall. It's absurd. Laughable even.  But here they both are, staring each other down like the clash of titans; an unstoppable force colliding with an unmovable object. Katsuki had fought more formidable foe than this married, quirkless omega in front of him, and yet, he shakes his head and sighs; a curious foreign feeling stirs within.

It's not awful and that's the thing, the rage and despair doesn't kick in even though he realizes who had come out of this battle of wills victorious. "Fine. Fucking fine. You win, Deku," he says with wry twist of his lips. "We'll do as you say and follow your lead."

A true smile spreads across Izuku's face that isn't hinder by any passing secrets and machination. It was one he reserved solely for his children. "Thank you, Kacchan," he says, tilting his head toward Katsuki. "I came to you because I knew I can trust you, but I didn't expect you to have grown this much too. It's a nice surprised," he admits, blush staining his cheeks as he looks away, unwilling to meet Katsuki's startled gaze.

"I—I, yea, uh, you too," Katsuki stumbles out like a total idiot as Omari sucks in a deep breath next to him, clearly amused by their entire exchange.

But he's the only one because Kouki's face crunches up like he'd ate something bitter, Yuko just glares at him with the force enough to level a city, and Akira's eyes widen as she glances back and forth between a blushing Izuku and Katsuki's foot in his mouth act.

"Ohmygod," Akira says horrified, a palm flying to her mouth.  

"Be quiet," Yuko hisses at her.

But it's not them, who is the final nail in the coffin for Katsuki and Izuku. Hikaru pushes himself away from Izuku's hold, enough to get look at him and frowns. "Papa, why is your face so red?" says Hikaru, brows furrowing worriedly. "Are—are you sick?"

"N—no, I'm fine," Izuku immediately denies, hands flying toward his face to cover himself from Hikaru's curious inquiry, but Hikaru is relentless.

"Then why are you hiding?" he demands, reaching for Izuku to pry the fingers away. And it's a battle between father and son.

Katsuki finds himself watching Deku—Izuku—who had easily flipped their power game around and put himself on top of them like it was nothing, now he's currently fighting off his son's curious attention and failing.

It's. All. Just. So. Fucking. Cute. Fuck him. He's going crazy now. Losing his fucking mind the longer he spend in here.

Kouki reaches over and snatches Hikaru's hand in his grip. "Stop," he orders, low and pointed. "You're bothering Papa."

Hikaru's head dips and he says quietly, "Sorry, Kouki-nii." And Kouki releases Hikaru's hand.

Izuku lets out a breath of relief. "Thank you, Kouki."

God, kill him now. Adorable. This family is going to be the death of him. Every one of them.  

He groans, rubbing his face as thought that will cure whatever fucking illness that had taken hold of him. He can hear Omari trying to smother a chuckle beside him.

Katsuki straightens up and clears his throat. "So shall we do next?"

Izuku places Hikaru on the floor, who quickly clambers toward Kouki to hold his older brother’s hand in his. "I'll head home with the kids for now and we go on as though nothing had changed as I gathered the last of my flash drives and the incriminating information for you," he tells them.

A brow shoots up to Katsuki's hairline. "Just like that? You're fine with coming back to him after all that shit?" Isn’t he scare of what Nine could do to them if he accidently slipped off somehow? Katsuki had seen all of Nine’s former associates choosing to be thrown in Tartarus rather than give up Nine, because of how much terror he had instill in all of them.

Izuku gives an amused snort. "I have been living with him since I was sixteen, young and helpless, and no power to fight back. I can handle him just fine."

Izuku may say it all nonchalantly, but there's strange flicker of his face that causes all his children tense up. It makes Katsuki want to reach out and grabs Izuku and his children so he can stuffed them away in a safe house so Nine can't touch any of them. Fucking slimy bastard.

Just because Izuku thinks he's okay doesn't make it so. Sometimes abuse doesn’t leave any physical imprints behind, but it grips the heart and poisoned everything else, leaving the victim just as damaged and broken in the same way.

But Izuku is no victim. He's a survivor. This is the most obvious thing he'd understood today.

"Okay, but if you need anything, you can contact me anytime," Katsuki says, holding his hands still at his side so he doesn't do anything stupid like reach out toward Izuku without his permission. "I'm here if you need me."

"Oh," Izuku breathes, a pink tint rises to his cheeks once more and Katsuki wonders how many times he can be the cause of it? And then proceeds to want to punch himself in the face for that train of thought. "I—I see, thank you for that offer. I wouldn't want to impose."

"No!" Katsuki says vehemently, feeling like he's losing his fucking mind here because he can't stop running his stupid mouth. "I don't fucking care. Impose away. It doesn't matter how small it is, just let me help you. You don't have to take on everything yourself."

Izuku's lips part, but no words come out as he stares at Katsuki with an inexplicable expression across his face, making Katsuki's edgy under the scrutiny like he’s picking Katsuki’s apart to see what make him tick.

Silence descends upon them.

Omari coughs into his hand, clearing the strange air between them. "If that will be all?

Izuku drags his gaze away from Katsuki enough to nods his head. "Yes, I'll contact you as soon as I finished my preparation," he says, rising to his feet.

Yea, the quicker they get the mission done with and throw Nine in prison, the sooner Izuku and his children can be free. And be out of Katsuki’s life and thought.

The only problem is the fucking waiting around, and he's not used to being still and holding out for others to take action first, but he's not leading this mission. It's all Izuku's. They're just following him along and aiding him, when Izuku is the one in control of everything.

It's a sore situation he finds himself in, but as Izuku steps away from the table to reveal his hand carefully resting over the tiny bump of his stomach. And Katsuki is not fucking dumb, okay? He knows what he's seeing. "Wait, you're pregnant?!" Katsuki demands, voice going scratchy high with disbelief.

Izuku pauses, glances down at his stomach as though he’d forgotten about it. "Ah, yes that's right." His face brightens as he rubs his slightly bulging belly. "I told you before, I would do anything to secure my children's future. No children of mine will be raised as monster. "

The children huddle around Izuku protectively, a united front against the world. This kind of bond goes beyond just blood. Forged in the fire of the hell they must have endure under Nine's fearful reign over their household.

He may not know their full story, but it's there. He can see it all over their face in the frigid glare of Yuko, the aggressive stance of Kouki, and the tightness of Akira's shoulders. But even among all that horror, there is hope still: "Hello, baby sister," Hikaru says softly to Izuku's belly, touching it fondly.

“Hey, it could be boy!” Akira protests.

“Girl,” Kouki says with a frown. “I want a little sister.”

“Don’t assume things,” Yuko lectures her siblings. “We don’t know yet!”

Izuku laughs, seemingly delighted by his children fighting over their newest sibling.

Katsuki is a pro-hero, fighting and protecting is part of his job, his duty; it's who he is, but looking at the family in front of him he has never been more seized by this wretched feeling to be better, to do better to earn their—trust and faith. Fuck, he just wants to be enough to deserve them. To be able to protect them against all the wrongs that had been dealt against them.

He wants them.

[secret-engima]

Hi! You know who I am and what I bring, so... Nox and Ardyn having serious arguements; what's do you reckon it would be like and how others think of it?

YOU. HOW DARE. (grumbles) fine. Lemme see how long it takes me to make everyone cry.

-There are very few things that Ardyn and Nox have serious arguments about. That doesn’t mean they don’t fight (they do, nigh constantly unless one or both need moral support instead) but the things that make them have serious fights are things they intentionally try to avoid. Those things can basically be boiled down to:

1. Nox not taking his health/self-preservation seriously

2. Ardyn not taking his health/self-preservation seriously

3. The Past (not just their personal past, but the past that lies between them as the Accursed and the Chosen King, the 114th of Somnus’s line and the Betrayed Healer King, and no matter how hard they try sometimes, after bad nights or hard days, it weighs them down).

-Both of them are aware of their own buttons and take pains to avoid them, which is why a serious, slow-burn argument literally never happens between them. If tension starts to slowly rise between them, one of them will notice before it gets too bad and call a time out for them both to cool off.

-No. When these two fight, really fight, it’s sudden and devastating. Like flash floods and lightning strikes. Little to no warning, sudden escalation that looking back on it either can fully explain. From the outside it’s a little more visible, the sudden tensing of shoulders, the way Ardyn’s teasing because suddenly layered in venom without him even seeming aware, the way Nox’s insults turn genuine and become pointed, stabbing into old wounds that normally he would never touch. For the two of them, there is no real memory of when or how their words escalate from the norm to trying to verbally rip each other apart.

-No matter what the topic is about or who “started” it (and really there is almost no way to tell who starts the escalation in these things), it always ends the same way: one of them crosses a line. Spirals out of control so far and so fast they reach out and verbally gut the other with something that only they know about. Ardyn might reference the Train Incident with Prompto, or him not being there when his father died, or, worst of all and only in his blackest of moods, Nox’s failure to save Luna (no one is ever mentioned by name, but the references of trains, ignorance, protecting loved ones... Nox always knows what Ardyn is talking about and it always cuts too deep). Nox, on the other hand, drags up Ardyn’s own temper, needles him over his old manipulations and his lies or, in his worst, most poisonous moments, references Ardyn’s lover Aera (again, no specifics or names, just oblique references, random phrases that only the two of them understand).

-(It is ironic, in a way that makes both of them hurt, that their greatest weaknesses are the Oracles they loved and lost. This one pain they share on an intimate level yet somehow can’t always stop themselves from weaponizing against the other).

-After that Final Line is crossed, the silence that falls around them both is a weight of its own. Anyone unfortunate enough to witness it can feel the hurt emotions, the regret for words that cannot be taken back and the anger that keeps apologies from being aired. From the inside of the argument it feels like a tornado just whipped through, tearing apart their emotions and leaving them both stunned and hurt and confused on how it went that bad so fast or even what the argument was originally about. From the outside, it feels like witnessing a horrible car crash, the silence that follows being the harsh ringing in the ears after metal stops screaming.

-One or both of them always leaves the room after that. If the other stays, they tuck into themselves, refusing to interact with anyone, drifting to some window or corner where they can brood and seethe.

-The silence will stay for at least a week. Maybe more. Less because they are being stubborn and more because they have little to no sense of time on a good day, and they are Not Having A Good Day right now. They won’t stay in the same room, won’t talk, won’t even look at each other.

-Ardyn will sometimes leave the Citadel altogether, disappear into the wilds for however long it takes him until he either no longer looks at Nox and sees Somnus standing over Aera’s corpse calling her a “foolish woman” (if Nox is the one who crossed the line) or no longer feels like there’s a monster trying to crawl out of his skin and finish the job he did hurting his nephew (if he’s the one who went too far).

-Nox, since he cannot exactly leave the Citadel without an escort unless he wants to panic his dad, will go mute entirely. He won’t talk to anyone, will barely eat or drink and often can’t hold it down as he stews-stews-stews. If Ardyn is the one who crossed the lines (particularly the Luna line), Nox might go out into the garden and scream wordless pain into the rain (and it will always rain when he goes to the garden, his magic calling down Ramuh’s storms even as the Fulgarian tempers away the lightning and thunder that want to come to the grieving Chosen’s call). If Nox was the one to go too far, eventually someone will find him in one of two places. One of those places is the Hall of Arts.

-The other is the Throne Room.

-For Regis, there is nothing quiet as terrifying as the day he walked into his Throne Room without warning or knowledge of Nox’s presence and walked straight into a grieving magic field so thick and powerful it took him ten seconds of frantic blinking to see Nox standing by the throne, touching one armrest with shaking fingers rather than sitting on the throne looking too-old-too-tired in a pool of his own blood with a sword through his heart (he never asks what that vision was, but he does order an extra close watch kept on Nox for the next month, just in case it was a look at his eldest child’s inner thoughts).

-Eventually, whoever wandered off will drift back in, fall into the other’s orbit without a word. They’ll stare at each other for a while, not apologizing, not speaking. Then either Ardyn will plop his dreaded hat onto Nox’s head, or Nox will slide forward and hug his Uncle with shaking hands and they will know that all is forgiven. Their regular snarking and arguments resume like nothing has happened. To an outsider, it looks unhealthy. Surely they need to talk about what happened, to understand each other to prevent if from happening again?

-They don’t though. They had an entire afterlife and time-traveling journey to hash out their issues and scream their grief and sob their apologies. What arguments that flare between them, the hurts they air, are nothing that they have not already bared their souls about and apologized for a hundred thousand times before. They know where they went wrong, they know that they are both sorry. They don’t need to say it again, just like they don’t need to bother pretending that the wounds ripped open in the latest fight ever really stopped bleeding in the first place. They know that the other will never intentionally hurt them anymore, so flash-fire fights like these are just ... slip-ups. Steam blowing before they can turn it against someone who doesn’t understand what they do and might not survive the fallout should it turn physical.

-That’s why they so rarely fight. They’ve both done enough hating and hurting for lifetimes. After everything they’ve been through, there is very, very little worth fighting over in their minds. And certainly nothing worth the inevitable fallout.

[smirkingsolo]

Orpheus: A Reylo Story (Chapter 3: Call Out My Name)

The World Between Worlds Reylo Fix it fic you’ve been craving since TROS ripped out your still beating heart and crushed it to death.

Canon-compliant, universe-plausible, multi-chapter

Beginning can be found here or over on my AO3 (Rinnagirl) at https://archiveofourown.org/works/21984730/chapters/52460923

Your comments, likes, reblogs, kudos, etc. mean the absolute world to me!

Previous Chapter

Chapter 3: Call Out My Name

Ben is crashing through the swamplands, the earth beneath rising to meet his boots just as his steps press down against it. The feeling spurs him on. He feels as he had the moment he landed on Exegol. His senses are too consumed with the urgency of reaching her to be bothered by the way the landscape fights to impede him.

Leia follows behind him and he knows she must be struggling to keep up with his eager pace. Ben looks back for a moment to his mother and she smiles, nodding. Go. I’m right behind you..

And he barrels on into the underbrush.

I’m coming.

The humidity is a hot, wet slap in the face, rushing at her as soon as the door of the Falcon lowers. Rey is no stranger to heat. She’s Jakku desert raised for kriff’s sake. But this heat is heavy, almost oppressively moist. The water in the air is violent for such a peaceful place, so intent it seems to be on suffocating her to death.

She pulls the ties from her buns, braiding her hair back more securely and twisting it into a bun at the nape of her neck. She removes her outermost robe, leaving her in a wrapped tunic, fashioned after her old desert wear. She stares at the Skywalker lightsabers and they stare back. A battle of wits, a dare to ignite them though she knows where that would lead. She tucks Leia’s into her belt and Luke’s into a hidden compartment on the Falcon. She grabs her pack, slings her staff across her shoulders, and sets off to face the wild.

She searches the Force for a direction, a hint of anything unusual, reaching out as Luke taught her. She senses a pull and she allows it to catch her in its tide, drawing her out into the swamp.

After roughly thirty minutes of scaling, wading, sweating, Rey can sense that she is drawing near to what calls her. It is unknown, unfamiliar, but it feels kind, helpful, and that is what she needs right now.

She pushes aside a wide-fanned fern and her eyes catch a small hut, tucked away like a secret. Her attention nearly skimmed over it. The fog of the swamp drapes across it like a shroud. It is a relic of a time she barely overlapped with and she wonders, momentarily, if it is even there at all.

The closer she gets, the more certain she is. This used to be Master Yoda’s home. It is long since abandoned, preserved like a fly in amber, held back from crumbling by a cage of tree roots. She creeps across a log to the bank, hesitating only a moment before dropping to her knees and crawling through the front door. There is a familiar anticipative feeling. A curious wonder, like encountering a new ship for the first time to scour for scrap.

She picks through the leavings inside the hut, reemerging into the damp of the swamp after a few moments. Strange places hold strange dangers and she thinks it best to scout the surrounding area before the sun sets. The fog already swirls thick around her. The eerie faded glow of light filtered through too many layers of mist and vine is all she has to go on. It’s not much and even that will disappear come nightfall. Overhead calls the rumble of a fast-approaching storm.

----

Ben’s arms sweep in front of him, carving a path through the plant life as easily as if his saber were in his hand. He smacks aside some large plant, stumbling into the open of a clearing. There is murky pond at his feet that he knows he should not disturb. On the far side of the pond is a dwelling of some sort, a pile of vine choked rocks with windows. He recognizes it from a distant memory that is not his own, a bedtime story on a cold night. He knows who one dwelled here.Besides, he muses, no one else would be crazy enough to live in a place like this.

He jumps when a figure crawls out of the doorway, someone wearing the mist of the swamp like a garment, and he reconsiders his previous sentiment.

The figure straightens up, the fog shifts, and suddenly Ben cannot breathe.

I found you.

He calls out her name, it bursts from his lips a shouted prayer, but the croaking of frogs is the only answer he hears. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t startle. In fact, she doesn’t seem to hear him at all.

The pit in his stomach opens up again. He runs to her, stumbling gracelessly across a precarious log to the bank where she stands.

His stride shortens, pace slowing as his worst fears crawl up his spine, whispering the truth he doesn’t want to face in his ear.

He steps around in front of her, but her eyes don’t focus, they still chase an imaginary horizon beyond the vines. One cautious hand reaches towards her shoulder, changing direction half-way. Instead he stretches his long fingers to brush against her face. But there is nothing but air. Where the warmth of her cheek should be is only cold. His hand passes through her as if she is the ghost, rather than him.

She cannot see you. To her, you are mist.

She steps forward, passing through him like a shadow, and he can’t stop himself from sinking to his knees. His chin quivers, mouth working as he struggles to choke back the quiet sob bubbling in the back of his throat.

Logically he’d expected it. He’d known that she wouldn’t be able to see, hear, or feel him any more than the scavengers he and Leia encountered in the village on Jakku. But some irrational part of him had clung to hope, and when he’d felt her in the Force, her signature so pure and clear and loud, calling out to him...he had run to her, ready to take her in his arms and hold her to him as he had on Exegol.

He can see his mother picking through the brush on the other side of the pond, just now catching up to him. Her eyes hold the same quiet spark of hope that his held moments before. Her face falls. Her eyes dart between the retreating form of Rey and her son’s empty expression.

He lets his head fall against his chest. Thunder rumbles softly above, a misty rain now coming down. There’s a drip from the tip of his nose. A raindrop or a tear.

----

The rain is falling steadily by the time she returns. She lights a small fire in the long abandoned firepit, the old ashes and damp wood fill the hut with smoke. She strips off her outermost layer of clothing, hanging her tunic near the fire to dry alongside her boots. Down to her upper bindings and her light leggings, she frees her hair from the braided bun and steps barefoot out into the rain. She tilts her head back for a moment letting the rain cool her skin and wash away the grime of her scouting trek. A peaceful smile settles on her face as she stretches her arms out, squelching her toes in the mud of the bank. There was something Rey loved about the rain.  The storm had drained much of the unpleasant humidity from the swamp air, leaving it fresh and fragrant, smelling of wet earth and life. Jakku was never like this.

Striding back towards the hut, Rey settles at the edge of the doorway, just far enough back to shield her from the brunt of the storm. She assumes her meditation pose, legs folded, eyes closed, lungs full of the sweet scent of the rain. With deep breaths she synchronizes the beat of her heart to the steady rhythm of the rainfall. Behind her the fire crackles and she can feel the warmth of it drape over her back, evaporating the rain from her skin. Be with me. Be with me. Be with me.

---

Leia watches her son from behind a thick root cluster. She thinks it best to give him space after the look she saw on his face, though it pains her to do so.  

Sitting on a large rock at the edge of the pond, his eyes have remained fixated on Rey from the moment she returned from scouting. There is a wistful longing about him as he stares at her and Leia can’t help but wonder what Rey had said to him during the times they connected through their Force bond. Ben hadn’t said much about it beyond the technicalities when she’d inquired how he’d come to know Rey so well. She sensed that there was something deeply private, something intimate about their bond that neither would be eager to share with others.

Rey emerge from the hut, layers stripped away so the rain can kiss her skin. Her arms stretch towards the sky, calling it to her open palms. Her head is tilted back, eyes closed, lips painted with a smile of peaceful bliss. But Leia’s eyes are on her son, studying his face as he takes Rey in. His lips are parted in wonder, pupils blown wide like he’s trying to take in all the stars in the galaxy at once. Ben is fascinated by her, watching her like one who’s lived underground his whole life witnessing the colors of sunrise for the first time. Something in his expression seeps in and warms her very bones, an incredible, reverent longing that Leia recognizes, remembers. Han Solo used to look at her with eyes like that. Yes, she knows that look and for the first time she understands wholly why he wishes to live again. It isn’t about redemption, it isn’t about living more years; it’s about her. Rey. His equal, his frustration, the hidden-most wish of his soul.

She can’t help but wonder how Rey feels about him. Their relationship is complicated, that much is obvious, even to the casual observer. Rey hated him once, hated him for killing Han, just as Ben hated himself. She thought him a monster until, suddenly, she didn’t. Rey left for Ahch-To certain that Kylo Ren was her greatest enemy, yet she returned changed. Leia could no longer sense anger when Rey spoke of Kylo Ren. Instead there was an incredible sorrow, a deep, personal hurt, as if she’d had to say goodbye to a friend. She could sense Rey’s care for him then, and she dearly hoped now that it was of the same ken as his.

Ben settle himself in front of Rey, mirroring her meditation pose, rain pouring down on him as he sits just beyond the reach of the roof. He doesn’t seem to mind. Unlike Rey his eyes remain open. They hold her face like gentle fingertips. There is a softness in his expression that makes Leia smile.

Leia turns to her brother as he reappears beside her, face washed in the pale blue of his Force spirit aura. She knows they can both feel her son’s emotions bleeding through the Force, radiating from him like ripples in a pond.

“Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Nothing crazy about it, Leia, he’s your son. Han’s son. If I didn’t know any better I might even call it predictable. You know Han would have died for you and that self-sacrificing Solo streak lives on in Ben now. As for her, she reminds me so much of you, Leia. It’s almost scary. I admit I feared the worst when I saw them, hands touching in that hut on Ahch-To.” He sounds almost ashamed, “I thought he might be using her. But it seems now that I couldn’t have been more wrong. I feel like I’m watching Han fall in love with you again.”

“Don’t say that.” Her voice is quiet and she struggles with her next words in a most un-Leialike way. “Han and I...we burned each other up. Burned each other out. At the price of our own child. We were so selfish. I want them to be different, Luke. But all he’s ever seen is a love like Han and mine, temperamental and ruinous. Luke, I don’t want him to think that’s all there is. You know how much Han and I loved one another and I don’t know that my son ever got to see that part of us.”

Luke’s voice is steady and sure. “Look at them, Leia. They will be just different enough. I know it.”

She nods and looking at them, at the way Ben leans forward, memorizing every line and freckle of Rey’s face as she sits unaware. She knows he’s right.

“I wish I could have been better for him. As good for him, as she has been.”

“I know, Leia. And I wish I could make it up to him but—”

A sudden rush of excitement, of urgency, grips her and she interrupts.

“Luke, you have to tell Rey. Appear to her, tell her Ben is here! Explain that he is trying to get back to her, explain that her life force isn’t her own and then mayb—”

“I can’t, Leia.” And he sounds even guiltier than before.

“You can’t? What do you mean you can’t? She has to know and while we may not be able to appear to her because we are in the World Between Worlds, you—”

“Leia.” He puts a hand up to stop her words and she knocks it away with a huff. “Father and I, we chose to appear to you and Ben, but I realize now that we are in the World Between Worlds with you. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but the World Between Worlds is a dimension of its own, one running parallel to the living world. Because we chose to appear to you in your dimension, we can only manifest here now.”

Leia is stunned.

“Luke...”

“Well you needed me so I—”

“How could you be so stupid?” He has the decency to look abashed. “Luke, you and father, how could you think that it was a good plan for both of you to come trap yourselves with us?!” She throws her arms up in the air. The Skywalker men all really do operate off of one braincell.

He cuts in as she begins to pace, her anger rising. “Leia, I didn’t know it would work like this! Besides, I’m sure it will be fine. After all, Obi-Wan and Master Yoda could appear and offer Rey guidance if necessary—”

Leia whirls around, she looks truly exasperated, eyes alight with something that makes Luke, an untouchable ghost, step back.

“Oh good. Obi-Wan who told you that Anakin Skywalker was dead, killed by Vader, when he was Vader all along and then had the audacity to call it a matter of “viewpoint!” And of course Master Yoda is wise but master of clarity and straightforwardness, he is not.”

Luke doesn’t want to laugh, knows he absolutely should not, given the circumstances, but Leia’s impression of Master Yoda is masterful to say the least, and a little exhale of a laugh escapes.

Her eyes narrow immediately and she moves to smack his arm, her hand passing straight through him, but the sentiment is there.

“Leia, I’m sure it will be okay. Like I said, he’s your son. There has to be some of your good sense in him. He will find a way, I know it. Ben has everything he needs, he just doesn’t know it yet. Most importantly, he has a reason to fight, to hope, and because of that he will not give up. I believe that persistence is something he inherited from his mother.”

It’s flattery, but she knows he is sincere.

------

Rey can feel the Force thrumming between the trees, in the rain, under the ground. The presence of it is stronger than she has experienced nearly in any other place. The weight of it is similar to how it was in the cave on Ahch-To. Something is focusing it, concentrating it. But it remains nothing more than energy. No visions, no spirits, nothing remarkable appears to her. Including him.

She can’t help but feel the creep of disappointment. He’s there, in the pit of her stomach where he always is, but she knows it’s just the memory of him. Yet, something else inside her feels different. Tendrils inside her reach outwards, feeling around, searching for something. And for a moment it is so strong that her meditative concentration breaks, eyes flying open, darting down to her tingling palms.

An odd sensation overtakes her, and for a moment she is a stranger in her own body. Removed, other. The tendrils stretch forward, towards what she cannot say, but she knows when they find it. Another feeling washes over her, her senses warm, sensitive with energy, collide with the something. It’s like seeing her own bed, putting on the clothes she brought from Jakku, hugging her friends, fixing a droid, flying the Falcon, twirling her staff...a feeling of familiarity and belonging. She feels empty, yet right, like something in her has found its rightful place, but is leaving her behind to do so. This reunion is happening outside her. She is an observer, not a participant and this belonging is not hers to claim. Suddenly, her mind is flooded with images of sabers and crystals and a thin flicker of understanding lights inside her. And then she hears it.

“Rey.”

----

Ben knows she can feel him, can feel something near her. Her concentration is ebbing in and out as the minutes pass. Yet, the longer he spends with her, the more whole he feels. At first he is sure it is just her presence that bears with it such a feeling, as it always had when they connected through their Force bond.

But this is different. There had been an emptiness in him after he healed Rey, transferring his life force to her body. He realizes now that the void inside him is reaching out to her, sensing the presence of his life force inside, longing to reunite with it.

The longer he is in the presence of his soul, the less empty and more solid her feels and he wonders. What if...maybe...

He concentrates on reaching out towards his own energy, drawing it closer to him. He can feel it coming nearer, and with a feeling like breaking the surface of water from below something connects. Caught up in the sensation of it, his mouth opens to react before he can catch up. Her name tumbles from his lips and she jerks in surprise, eyes snapping up in his direction, scanning, desperate, searching. He reaches for her hand, willing it to make contact before the connection slides away. But it passes through, just as before. Both of them chase the feeling to the edge as it disappears, fading back into the sea of Force energy around them.

But she heard him. She knows he is out there now. He can feel it, a surety that huddles in the marrow of his bones and refuses to be contradicted.

---

Rey stares into the darkness of the swamp, a crash of thunder echoes, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of the little hut. She jumps, every fiber of her senses on edge, still searching for the source of the voice.

It’s him. She can feel it. She knows his voice, knows the way he says her name, knows him.

Suddenly, a blue glow flares to life near the pond outside. She nearly knocks her head on the low ceiling as she hastens out the door, heart leaping to her throat in her excitement.

“Ben?!”

“Young Solo, I am not,” comes a new voice, nasal and gnarled, words tangling like the roots of the swamp trees.

[midwinter-fox]

Learning

This is gonna be mostly backstory with some fluff. c: Sorry I haven’t posted in a while, but now I have three entire chapters to edit and post at once. 

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

The rain outside started out as a faint drizzle, but before even half of an hour passed, the heavens opened and drenched the world with a heavy downpour. Howling wind blew through the herb garden and thunder rolled in the distance, but the world may as well have been empty to Dettlaff. Leonore was pressed tightly to him, her rosy scent filling his senses as he closed his eyes and simply took her in. Her hands and arms were doing all they could to soothe him and the pain in his heart even now, hours after he spilled his tragic tale and revealed to her everything in the deepest depths of his heart. The fear and apprehension had melted away, bringing calm and quiet in their wake. This was perfect, he mused briefly, but only because the storm's song served to further lull him into a sense of security in the small woman's arms.

He had no idea when he began to drift off, nor when they laid together on the bed, tea forgotten on the nightstand. It could've been days from then for all he knew, but for the first time in centuries, he knew a true peace. A low, rumbling purr from within him intermingled with the thunder outside, but he didn't wake until the flash of lightning shone through his heavy eyelids from his window. It was then that he woke and began to move, but a dainty hand gripped his shirt, pulling him out of his drowsy reverie. His eyes, though still filled with sleep, peered down at the human woman through heavy lids, and he could feel himself begin to smile.

She was not a graceful sleeper. There was a fairly damp spot on his shirt where her mouth pressed against his chest, no doubt from drool. Her snores were only barely audible beneath the thunder and rain, but he could hear them clearly. When he brushed his clawed fingers through her brunette locks, they tangled a bit, but he tenderly worked them apart while she slept, blissfully unaware of his silent appraisal.

Though he was awake now, he couldn't bring himself to rouse her from her slumber. It didn't feel right. Instead, he looked over to his nightstand and determined he was just barely close enough to open the drawer and slip his hand inside. He withdrew a sketchbook and a piece of charcoal, determined to capture this moment since he at the very least had both of his hands free. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he shifted so he could better use his hands to draw. How long they stayed like this, he had no clue, but he was able to finish several small pieces on a single page before she began to stir from sleep. His hands stilled as she hummed and stretched against him, her cushy body still pressed tightly to his lean one, but she eventually settled back against him with what could best be described as a happy sigh. Her eyelids were fluttering open, but now that she had stopped moving, his hands resumed. After her eyes finished opening and adjusting, she remained still and quiet, perfectly content to watch him as he drew.

The first few images were small studies of her face while she slept, the Nazairi rose still somehow tucked behind her ear though it looked a little worse for wear. At one point she traced her fingertip along the outlines of her expression on the page, and he paused to allow her to do so despite the charcoal smudging slightly when she accidentally touched it. When he resumed, it was to begin a small doodle, this time of the slightly misshapen rose in closer detail. Though his hand worked, his eyes weren't entirely focused on the sketches. He watched her watching him, taking note of all of the small features that warmed his heart. The kind eyes, round cheeks, circular face and the faintest freckles that dusted across her small nose. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine a chubby, freckle-faced little girl with mousey brown hair and cute cheeks. She was cute now, but seeing such innocent, almost childlike features in her made him inwardly chuckle to himself. It came out as a lazy smile and push of air from his nostrils, but she recognized it as the faintest of laughs. Her head turned so she could rest her chin on his chest, those hazel eyes digging into his blue ones with an unmistakable fondness as she spoke, voice a bit rough from sleep.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing of importance, liefje. I simply imagine you were an adorable child."

He wouldn't know. It was just a fleeting thought through a sleep-adled mind, but the term of endearment was a slip of the tongue that she ignored, though her eyes turned up in a joyful smile.

"Oh yes, I was teased about having fat cheeks in my youth. My own family would often compare me to a chipmunk."

"Oh?" Now there was an amusing thought. The mirth in his gaze was clear, as was hers.

"Mhm. And I perfected quite the pitiful pout thanks to them. I use it to this day to get what I want."

"So you were a petulant youth."

"You've no idea. What about you? I can't really imagine you as a child, but I can only hope that your hair was just as curly."

"Hmhmm, moreso. It was a constant mess, impossible to tame."

The bright grin she shared with him made his heart flutter, even as he recounted memories from centuries passed. Mirrors never revealed to him their secrets, but he remembered days when he would have difficulty pushing his mop of black locks from his face with once tiny hands.

"You must've been tall even as a child."

"No. I was, though briefly, a runt."

"Impossible."

"It is true. My siblings dwarfed me."

"You've siblings? Are they as roguishly handsome as you?"

"Ehm.. Not in the same sense as you are thinking. I was raised amongst katakan."

The memory wasn't entirely fond, but it was what led to him having such innate influence over lesser vampires; in a sense, he was raised as one, his true parents lost to him in infancy. Despite this, he loved the family in which he was raised, dearly so. Where his brothers and sisters were to this day, he wasn't entirely sure, but he hoped beyond hope that they were well.

"I'm not familiar with what katakan are."

"They look to be large bats covered in soft, thick fur."

"Ah, was it akin to being raised by wolves?"

"No. They have the appearance of beasts, but they are capable of human thoughts and interactions. Some can even take on more human forms, though most prefer not to."

"I'd like to see some. They sound adorable."

For a moment, he paused to contemplate showing her the katakan of his pack, but he pushed the thought from his mind. It was too dangerous, he decided. No harm would befall her so long as he was with her, but it wasn't a risk he took lightly. Not a hair on her head would come to harm so long as he was alive and able to protect her.

"They can be frightening," he decided to tell her, hoping to deter her from being too curious. It was the truth, but in his mind, they were far from being mindless monsters that attacked without discrimination. "They are large and imposing. I would advise against encountering one alone."

"What if I'm with you..?"

He hummed in thought, allowing himself to entertain it fleetingly.

"It.. is possible. There are many in my pack, but I will not risk the potential for you coming into harm's way."

"Then tell me about them. I want to know everything."

That she would press him for details in an attempt to educate herself on his kind was heartwarming and meant more to him than she knew. As such, he would tell her everything she wanted to know. He recounted physical aspects of different varieties as well as details about individuals. There were many, but he cared deeply for all of them. Before long, he was giving her the names by which they called themselves, most in an ancient tongue known only to his ilk, and though there was much that he divulged, she nodded and listened intently. It was a topic on which he could speak for days, but he stopped after realizing he'd been talking nonstop for the better part of ten minutes.

"I apologize," he sighed after recalling a particularly fond memory - one that described the juveniles in his pack and how he took to playing and cavorting with them every chance he got. "I.. I did not mean to ramble for so long."

"Please, don't stop. I love hearing all about them. You speak of this pack like they're your own family."

That's because they were. There was nothing he wouldn't do for them, just as they would do the same for him. It was why he hated himself after the results of the attack on Beauclair. So many were killed because of him, and it was something for which he internally punished himself every chance he got. It would never happen again, and he took the greatest of care to ensure their happiness and that they thrived outside the influence of mortals. Right now, they kept to the Brokilon Forest. The dryads permitted them to keep to the woods so long as he himself stayed clear of their territory, but in return, he also took to deterring foolish travelers from venturing into the dense forest both to protect his kin and to gain the guardians' favor. It was a silent arrangement, but he assumed it was a favored one for the fact that he had yet to receive a well-aimed arrow through his head.

"I would like to hear more about you," Dettlaff responded, hoping to encourage her to talk more so he could allow his racing heart to settle. He always got worked up when on the topic of his kin, both in excitement and pride. For now though, he truly wanted to learn more about her. It was rare that he ever took a genuine interest in another, especially a human, though he was always content to politely listen regardless of the conversation. This woman, however, made him want to listen and absorb as much as he could about her. Her genuine interest in him and his kind was returned with equal enthusiasm, though it was tempered to look like a mild but kind intrigue.

"What would you like to know?"

"Hmm.." He had to think for a bit, but settled on starting from the beginning just as he had for her. "What of your family? Any siblings?"

"Ugh, yes. Two sisters from a different father, and who knows how many from a different mother. I had a broken home."

"Oh. I am sorry." Mentally, he berated himself for having brought up a sore subject for her, but how could he have known? A hand on his cheek brought him out of his own head, the gentle caress of her fingers reassuring him.

"Don't apologize. It wasn't horrible. I saw plenty of my sisters, but I have a Nilfgaardian brother somewhere out in the world that I've never met. I'll be the first to admit that my family was pretty awful, but I have some good memories of them at the very least. I don't really know what happened to most of them. Some of my sisters I simply stopped speaking with. My grandmother raised me mostly while my mother took to drugs and my father to drink, so I try to stay in touch with my grandmother, but my parents I couldn't care less about."

Though her memories weren't as fond, he still listened closely to each word, hanging on them so to speak.

"Have you spoken with her of late..?"

"Yes, but as she grows older, she's been getting a bit senile. She thinks the children of her village are out to get her, so she's become a cranky old crone, but she holds a sweet spot for her favorite granddaughter."

The cheeky grin she gave him made him chuckle. There was something subtly yet inherently mischievous in her that came forth at times. He was certain that though she was a young woman, she still held on to many childish qualities.

"Something tells me you were rambunctious as a youth," he commented and watched as she shrugged.

"Actually, I was pretty quiet. I didn't come out of my shell until I reached my sixteenth summer, and even then I was reserved. I'm only outgoing now because I.. Well, frankly, I got tired of being lonely."

"Lonely..?"

"Yeah.. I didn't have friends growing up. I was always a bit too odd for the other kids. Not even my own sisters wanted much to do with me, and most of the time the children my age avoided me."

"I have a hard time believing that." Of course, he didn't think she was lying to him, simply that she was such a joy to be around now that it was difficult to comprehend how she could have been otherwise.

"Believe it. I haven't always been this amazing." Leonore's brazen boast made him roll his eyes, but the grin on her face and bubbly giggle made it clear she was jesting.

"I will not disagree with your claims, though modesty is considered the color of virtue, liefje."

"Oh please, your fancy proverbs won't sway me. I know I'm fantastic." Again she laughed, and he found himself chuckling with her until she spoke again. "By the way, what is a 'liefje'? This is the second or third time you've said it."

A look of passing confusion crossed his expression before he realized that he really had been calling her that. It wasn't necessarily serious, but it wasn't originally intentional. Rather, it suited her in his mind, for she had become very dear to him.

"It.. hm, it has a number of equivalents in the common tongue."

"Is it Nazairi?"

"It is."

"Well, what does it mean?"

"Literally?"

"Sure."

He paused for a moment, then suddenly found himself a bit tongue-tied. If he was to be literal, he was calling her a lover, though it was simply a term of affection similar to how one called someone 'honey' or 'dear.' It was fairly intimate, he realized, and he had to tame the sudden burst of butterflies in his stomach. The effect she had on him continued to astound. He cleared his throat lightly before he elaborated.

"It is.. It means 'lover.'"

The soft confession made her smile.

"And here I thought you said you couldn't return my feelings."

"It is used in a similar sense to calling someone 'darling.' I.. I am very fond of you, Leonore. Your love for me is gratifying, but I do not wish to toy with your heart."

"What do you mean..?" Her smile faltered slightly, making his own heart wrench at the fraction of a change.

"It is a term of endearment. Nothing more."

Silence fell between them, and though she looked like she may be hurt, she schooled her expression and brought back a genuine smile.

"That's alright. I already told you that I won't hold it against you if you don't return my feelings," she admitted, though he had already seen the pain in her eyes no matter how minute it was. Dettlaff had become increasingly more receptive to every emotion in her stare. "Besides, I was teasing you anyway. I daresay I'll have to find a suitable pet name for you in return though."

Her attempt at being lighthearted brought him some relief.

"What would you call me?"

"A number of things, admittedly some of which are less than appropriate." When she gave him a wink, he furrowed his brows in confusion.

"Why is that?" Why would she call him something inappropriate when his own term of affection was fitting?

"Because I find myself irrevocably attracted to you, of course. But I can't go around calling you a stud in polite company, can I?"

Oh.

Oh.

Heat rose in the vampire's face, and he had to avert his gaze. She had effectively managed to leave him flustered, though a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at her flattery. It was very rare that he ever felt like that, and while it was foreign to him, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. This was, however, the first time Leonore made her sexual attraction to him known, and he wasn't sure what to do with this knowledge. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't attracted to her too, though he wouldn't admit as much outright.

Sensing his unease, Leonore snorted and laughed before placing a light, platonic kiss to his cheek.

"You're adorable when you blush, you know that?"

Now she was teasing him, which only served to make him go even redder.

"I could say the same for you," he ground out through his embarrassment, though he was suddenly very aware of how they lounged together on his bed now. He laid on his back with his head and shoulders elevated by pillows, but she was still flush against him, her every curve pressed to his side. Her face was close to his, though for the majority of their conversation, she had rested her chin on his chest, looking at him when he spoke so as to give him her undivided attention. No doubt she could hear how his heart skipped a beat when she teased him so. Looking for an escape, he picked up the sketchbook that had gone forgotten, laid beside him in favor of paying attention to her when she talked. Now though, he wished to change the subject. It was a success, though barely.

"You know, that lady at the pawnshop was right when she said you're incredibly talented," noted Leonore when he opened the book to flip through the pages. He stopped at the one he'd most recently used, her charcoal face sleeping beside the margin.

"Thank you. I've spent years perfecting my art."

"It shows. Your drawings look like the works of a master."

Was she trying to tease him again? It almost seemed like it, but her words were genuine.

"It is the result of much practice and study." He was humble, though he did feel a swell of pride at her praise. When she sat up to better look at his sketches, he allowed her to take the book from his hands and flip through it herself. He sat up too and watched as she marveled at what he considered to be nothing more than messy doodles.

"These are amazing, Dettlaff. Have you ever painted anything like this?"

"I have."

"May I see??" She seemed suddenly very excited, but he shook his head, much to her dismay.

"I have none of my works. All of what I've painted were left in Beauclair or sold." He was reminded of a time when he allowed Rhena to convince him to accept commissions, though he only did so both because she suggested it and because the money it brought meant she had less need to put her life on the line as a mercenary and bandit. After she went missing, he hadn't picked up a palette since. Though the memory brought with it a fresh wave of pain, he dismissed it in favor of watching Leonore peruse his charcoal artwork.

"Do you have any paints with you at least?"

"No. After losing Rhena, I have abandoned the practice." The deep frown in response to his admission was concerning.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I did, yes. It was a pleasant distraction."

"Well then you shouldn't let her memory ruin it for you. I for one would be absolutely ecstatic to see one of your paintings. I know you try to avoid anything associated with her at all costs, but it pains me to see such a wonderful hobby ruined for you like that."

"Ah, you misunderstand." It wasn't that he disliked painting now, he simply hadn't the inspiration any more. When Syanna died, so did his muse in a sense. "I simply lack inspiration and materials. The shops in town lack the appropriate supplies for me to continue the practice as well."

"Oh, okay. Well, I'll keep an eye out when I make my deliveries. If I see anything you could use, would you mind if I brought it to your attention?"

"Not at all." In reality, he probably wouldn't bother trying to purchase more materials. He had been particular when choosing his paints, sometimes even going so far as to make his own when there were none that were satisfactory for purchase. Still, her sentiment was nice, so he would humor her if it made her happy.

"Then I'll be sure to do so," she said with a smile up at him.

---

As Dettlaff and the mortal woman continued to converse, the storm proceeded to rage outside. It grew dark quickly, but he lit a lamp when it became too dark for her to see. Still, they continued to talk in the candlelight, but neither of them paid any mind to time nor the world around them. Eventually, Leonore yawned then looked outside his bedroom window at the rain that pelted the glass.

"You know, I should probably be heading home by now. I have more work to do tomorrow, and I fear I've only been keeping you up as well."

"Nonsense." His response was immediate, making her look at him with a cocked brow. "You will stay here until the storm passes. I cannot bear the thought of you braving the weather only to fall ill or find yourself hurt."

While his consideration for her was sweet, she didn't want to impose.

"I'll be alright, Dettlaff. My home isn't too far from here anyway, so I should be able to make it back quickly. I'll be wet, but otherwise I'll be fine."

"No." It was something by which he was going to stand firmly. There was no way he could let her leave when the weather was so foul. "Please, liefje. You may sleep here."

"Here?" she asked. "As in with you?"

"Is this an issue?" It wasn't unusual for him to share a sleeping space amongst his pack, and they often would huddle together for warmth on nights like these. It didn't occur to him that it could be misconstrued, even after she frowned at him.

"Are.. Are you certain..? I feel like that's a bit sudden, don't you?"

"Sleeping..?" The utter confusion in his eyes told her that she was horribly mistaken and he was far more naïve than she thought he would be, so after a moment she shook her head and fixed him with a smile.

"Never mind. I thought perhaps you had something else in mind."

"What else could I have meant?" He thought he'd made it very clear.

"Nothing. It's nothing, truly. If you'd like for me to sleep here with you, I suppose I won't decline. You don't seem like you'd be too keen on letting me leave anyway."

"No, I am not."

"So be it," she said with an air of finality. He was pleased she would see things his way. "Though, I don't suppose you and Regis would have a nightgown laying about..? I'd rather not sleep in the clothes I'll need to wear tomorrow, but I suppose I will if I have to."

"I apologize, but I do not think so." Still, he thought about it for a moment, and after looking her over briefly, he stood and went to a dresser that sat in the corner of his room.

The clothes inside were mostly dark colors or black, mainly because they simply suited him, and the lack of garish colors made it easier for him to remain unnoticed. He removed a shirt, one he wore fairly often, but it would do. It was long, as was his preference for he was a tall man, but on her it would probably fit like a dress. As such, he handed it to her and watched as she then stood and held it up to her short frame by the shoulders.

Comically enough, the bottom hem would reach her knees.

"Well, it'll work. Are you sure you won't mind?" she asked, giving him one last chance to change his mind.

"Not at all."

"Very well. I'm going to get dressed then."

They stood and stared at each other, neither one of them moving before Dettlaff realized she wanted for him to leave so she could have some privacy.

"Ah, right. I apologize." When he made for the door though, she stopped him.

"You don't have to actually leave, but uhm.. Could you at least turn around..?"

"Of course." With that, he did as she wished.

"You can change too if you like. I won't look."

She too turned her back to him then started to disrobe. In all honesty, he didn't care if she saw him undressing or not. He never really felt the need to hide his body save for around people he did not know. However, he didn't wish to make Leonore uncomfortable.

When he discarded his own clothing, he dug through his drawers to find the sole pair of undergarments he owned. They were a bit ill-fitting, loosely hanging from his hips despite being drawn by a tie in the front, but they would suffice. The only reason why he owned them was, in fact, for when he was forced to wash the rest of his clothes outside yet had nothing left to wear. As comfortable as he was with his body, he didn't care to show off everything to strangers whilst doing his laundry.

Inwardly, he was suddenly starting to become almost self-conscious. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't be feeling this way, but he was almost completely nude in the presence of a woman whom he desired. Realistically, there was nothing for him to feel insecure about. He was toned, well-built from spending so much of his time hunting and being generally active. Wrestling with the larger of his kin made him strong, even for a vampire. His biceps were decently thick, though not ill-proportioned compared to the rest of his body. He almost prided himself on his fitness, though that came with being a leader of a horde of creatures - the majority of which made him look quite small. Even the garkains had trouble besting him in competitions of brute strength, though one wouldn't know it by looking at him. If he wanted to, he could lift a fully grown bear single-handedly with relative ease. 

Despite all of this, when he looked down at himself and the dark hair that covered his chest and trailed down his abdomen, his mind wondered if she would still find him as attractive now as when he still wore clothing. The only reasonable explanation for his pointless and outright ridiculous concern was solely for the fact that he wanted, more than anything, for her to desire him too, though he would never admit it to himself let alone aloud. Once finished inwardly kicking himself for such stupid insecurities, he waited patiently for Leonore to let him know when he was free to turn back around.

"Alright," she said after a few more moments of rustling fabric. "I do have to say though, you're thinner than you appear under that frock of yours."

He turned to see what she meant and almost had to immediately look away. It was very clear she was buxom, but he didn't realize just how much so when she wore loose and billowy skirts and blouses. While his shirt was indeed long on her, it hugged the curves of her plush hips, waist, and breasts. The top few buttons were undone to allow for more comfort, leaving little to the imagination. Regardless of this, she looked, without a doubt, wonderful. Something in him growled possessively, but he swallowed thickly to push down the growing need to lay waste to the offending garment.

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all.

No, he reminded himself that the storm outside was too harsh to allow for her go home on her own, and now that she wore his clothing, he would be damned if she would wear anything else for the remainder of the night.

"Dettlaff..?" Her inquisitive voice shook him from his thoughts, and he found he'd been staring at her intensely. "Is it too much..?"

"No." It's perfect. "You look fine."

Why she cared about how she looked was beyond him. After all, they were going to bed - her appearance didn't matter. Satisfied with his answer, she turned to douse the candle on the nightstand. Her blue rose was laid delicately beside the now cold mugs of tea that they'd completely forgotten. He made a mental note to apologize to Regis later for wasting it. For now, he watched as she put out the light and crawled underneath his covers then followed suit. His heart was rejoicing at having her so close, especially with his shirt adorning her body. His linens would probably smell like her after the night too, which wouldn't be altogether unpleasant.

While he laid on his back, she laid on her side and curled up, her cold feet pressed to his warm leg and her back against him. It wouldn't do, not for him. The room was chilly, and he didn't want for her to be uncomfortable. When he turned to curl his body around hers, he waited to see if she would protest. On the contrary, she welcomed the gesture and pressed back against him in response. As such, he wrapped his arms around her and cuddled her close to his chest. It wasn't long before she fell asleep, leaving him to lay and revel in her soft body until sleep finally claimed him too.

[mnemememory]

we whisper together

For as long as Molly can remember, when he wakes up, Yasha is gone.

(or; growing into new bones is hard)

Empty, empty, empty –

“I know, I know.”

Empty, empty, empty –

“You need to, uh, eat. You’re very weak at the moment.”

Empty, empty, empty –

For as long as Molly can remember, when he wakes up, Yasha is gone.

Not always. Not even close. Most of the time, she’s just within reach, close enough to touch. He puts his arms around her shoulders and kisses her forehead and basks in her silent presence, content. It’s so easy to get lost in his head, but not with Yasha around. When she’s there, the world is still a thing, and he exists in it.

The circus is a life. It’s not easy, or hard, or much of anything in the beginning. Molly doesn’t know anything else, of course, but it’s a life, and he’s content with it. With the roving, with the people. Especially with the people. Molly has been very lucky with his people.

And with Yasha. Molly has been very, very lucky with Yasha.

Keep an eye on our girl, Gustav says, three flagons in. She’s touch, but she needs watching. I’m sure you’ll do fine.

It’s funny. Sometimes, Molly can’t even remember which of them came first. It’s always been Molly-and-Yasha (though sometimes it’s just Molly and Yasha), when the night comes down and fire lights up the sky. Welcome, Gustav shouts to the expectant crowd, To the Fletching and Moondrop Travelling Carnival of Curiosities!

Every time, it’s a little like coming home.

The firs time Yasha leaves, it’s in the middle of the night.

This is routine, supposedly, because she doesn’t even gather her things. There’s a storm on the way, frigid breeze pulling unkindly against the canvas tents. Molly has just spent the last few hours roping things securely to the ground, and doesn’t much care for going outside.

Yasha pushes past him on his way inside, shivering and a little miserable. His clothing is a mess of soaked fabric and dripping ink, and he weighs at least twice as much as he should. Molly is ready to curl up in a corner and pass out.

“You really shouldn’t go outside right now,” Molly says.

Yasha glances at him, and there’s something wrong about her face. She looks almost feverish, her eyes very bright. After a short pause, she steps out and vanishes into the night.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gustav says the next day, when Molly begins to realise with a sinking heart that Yasha has not come back. “It happens, every now and again. She’ll find us eventually.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Molly frets, running a hand across the hilt of his blade. “What if she can’t?”

“She’ll find us,” Gustav says, grin wide enough to catch Molly off guard. “No matter how far we go, she always manages it, somehow.”

Molly remains unconvinced.

(Three nail-biting days later, in a different town, Yasha comes back with a black eye and bruises tattooing down her collarbone. Molly greets her with a smile and very carefully doesn’t ask where she went).

The seventh time Yasha leaves, Molly sneaks a bread roll into her pockets. For luck.

When Molly is ten, he doesn’t exist. When he twelve, he doesn’t exist. Up until two years ago, Mollymauk Tealeaf did not exist.

His blood burns anyway.

“Yasha,” Molly says. The circus is dead, carved into neat little slivers by a demon fucking toad. Molly finds himself on shaky ground, watching the night waste into something that resembles morning. The moon is fat and high above their sheltered heads, stars pinpricks of light. The windows are open, and from that Molly can see, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. “I think we’ll have to be very careful.”

The rest of their merry little band of compatriots are up and asleep, tucked daintily into beds. Molly should be up there, but he needs a drink. For all the newness and shininess of their travelling band of idiots, his world is gone (again, again), and he needs a drink. As always, Yasha is a delightful drinking companion.

“You will have to be careful,” Yasha says, not looking up from her flagon of ale. “I’m, uh.”

“You’re leaving soon,” Molly says. There’s a sinking in the pit of his stomach, but not much of one. Things break. There’s always been something in Molly that knows this. Dying can’t bleed away the lessons of his forebearer, though it has certainly purged everything else.

(They hadn’t known what to say, at the first flinch, the first sneer.

Demon child, someone spat, making the sign for evil and moving away too fast for Bo to grab.

But Molly had said, I know, and they left it at that).

Yasha nods.

“No matter,” Molly says, slinging a comfortable arm around Yasha’s elbow. He craves the contact, lets himself linger a little before retracting the hand. Yasha doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ll find my own way.”

“I’ll find you,” Yasha says. “When I, well. When I finish.”

“I believe you,” Molly says, and it isn’t even a lie.

Empty, empty, empty –

“Sit down. Stop – pacing. You’re about to collapse.”

Empty, empty, empty –

“Yes, I know.”

Empty, empty, empty –

Yasha leaves again.

And again.

And again.

Molly loses track. He doesn’t lose the ache, the hollowness the boils in the bottom of his gut, but he loses the edge. Every scrape along her knuckles is a badge; he makes her soak them. Every slice along her forearm is a trophy; he sews her skin back together.

“Take more antiseptic,” Molly says, instead of, “Where did you go? What did you do?” It’s a good system. “These are going to get infected, one day. I know people say that girls are into scars, but I don’t think –”

Yasha ducks her head and blushes right the way to the tips of her ears.

“I think that’s – that’s irrelevant,” she says.

Molly leans forward, tugging a little less gently at the thread. “No, no,” he says. “I think I’m making an excellent point. Just because you think it’ll make girls like you better doesn’t mean you should continue with this nonsense. You have a vast array of attractive qualities, my dear.”

“I’m going to punch you,” Yasha says, hiding her face behind her curtain of hair. Molly watches her, delighted.

“If you’re really that desperate to get laid,” he says. “I’m sure I can find someone in town – you’re a very lovely woman, Yasha, and –”

Yasha grabs the closest thing to her person – which happens to be a medium-to-large piece of timber – and throws it in Molly’s general direction. He narrowly avoids a concussion and several loose teeth only by the quickness of his reflexes.

“Noted, noted,” Molly says with a small laugh, tying up his stitching with a flourish. “I’ll let you find your own dates.”

(She comes back. Yasha doesn’t always leave well – doesn’t tell anyone beforehand or pack her things into their proper travel arrangements. But she always comes back).

Molly gathers himself in the way he sees other people, in the way he watches and listens and talks. He comes from the dirt, after all, so from here there’s nowhere to go but up.

And these people, his chosen – by fortune, if not entirely by choice – well. They are very good at performing.

Welcome, he says, flinging his hands to a packed crowd. To the greatest night of your lives!

Hey, he says, crouching in front of someone lost and sad and scared. His fingers automatically thumb across his deck of cards. Let me help you.

My name is Mollymauk Tealeaf, he says, and if it doesn’t site quite right on his tongue the first time around, that’s fine. He’ll make it work.

Yasha leaves. She comes back.

I don’t remember, is what he says.

It’s the truth. As much of the truth as he can rip out of his chest, in any case. The suffocation of it sits, vice-like. He clawed himself from the brink, and the knowledge of it never goes away. He wakes up, and he can’t breathe. He stands, still and silent, and he can’t breathe. So many things, in so many places, Molly finds himself unable to breathe.

Yasha finds him, because they have somehow become inseparable. Joined at the hip, the others joke. Yuli gives him the stink-eye, and Mora just laughs at her sister. Gustav sings their praises to anyone who will listen – My fortune teller and his bodyguard, he boasts. Toya is small and still, when she isn’t singing. Kylre exists.

Yasha finds him, like she finds everything. Molly wonders about that, when his lungs work and his tongue works and his smile stretches bright and thin. He’ll ask, one day: How do you always come back?

(How do you keep yourself together, our there, on your own?)

But in the moment, Molly is sitting very quiet and very calm in the corner of the tent, throat raw and teeth jagged. Blood wells under his sharpened fingertips, puncturing the skin of his forearm. Little flecks of ice break from his wrist and fall to the ground. His arm is free of ink, at the moment, though it won’t be for much longer.

“Hey,” Yasha says, kneeling in front of him. She holds out her hand, but she doesn’t do anything else.

“Hey,” Molly says. He leans heavily back against the support pole, muscles tense enough to burst.

“Toya said she saw you come in here,” Yasha says. “You didn’t show up. To pitch the main tent.”

“And – and let me guess. Ornna was –”

Molly doubles over, clutching his bloody arm to his chest. The half-frozen sludge smears across his shirt. His lungs rebel.

Yasha sits down in front of him and helps him time his breathing.

Empty, empty, empty –

Molly would like to think of himself as a good person.

He hadn’t been lying, when he said that. Couldn’t have been lying, even if he’d wanted to. Are you a good person? What kind of question is that?

He’d like to think of himself as a good person.

He’s not.

Looking at the blood on the ground, at the clear signs of a fight, at the scabbed-over trees – Molly knows, right down to the demonic blood boiling through his veins, that he is a terrible person. The kind people see when they look at him – bruise-purple skin, red eyes, sharp teeth. He’s a mother’s worst nightmare clad in decency and civility, and every step he takes further away from their campsite is stripping that away. He is every inch the monster people say he is.

I’ll find you. When I finish.

Molly is going to burn down the entire fucking world until he gets his best friend back.

[buckyscrystalqueen]

Snow Storm: Part 6

Pairings: John Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, angst, kidnapping, assault. 

Word Count: 3,928

Aesthetics by @ravenangel33 (top) & @sorenmarie87 (bottom)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It only took a week to have Dean enrolled in the third grade and Sam enrolled in Pre-K and for the whole next month, between renovations to the bar turned diner, John’s job, school shopping and making sure Dean was up to speed on school work, the two of you had your hands full.  Before you knew it, it was the night before the first day and you could tell that both boys were nervous as you tucked them in.

“Is it gunna be hard?” Sam asked from the bottom bunk as you pulled the blankets over Dean’s feet on the top bunk.

“It won’t be hard, darlin’. They’re gunna tell you how to do everything. That’s what school is and you are the smartest little guy in the world.”

“All these kids are gunna know each other already.” Dean said, a look of worry in his eyes and you kissed his forehead and smiled at him.

“Yep and you’re gunna be the cool new kid. Everyone is going to want to be friends with you. Who wouldn’t; you’re the greatest 8 year old in the world!” He smiled as he settled under the blankets on the top bunk. You brushed his hair off his forehead before squatting down to look at the littlest Winchester.

“Am I a cool kid?” He asked innocently and you tilted your head to look in his beautiful hazel eyes.

“Yea, sweetheart, you’re as cool as your brother is. Everyone is gunna love both of you as much as I do.” You kissed his forehead as you pulled the blankets up to his chin with a smile. “Sweet dreams, you two. I’ll see you bright and early.” You walked out of the room to a soft chorus of good nights as you shut off the light and closed the door most of the way. You followed the sound of the TV playing softly in the living room with a smile on your face and you sighed as you rolled over the back of the couch and laid your head on John’s lap.

“They excited?” He asked as he took off his glasses and looked down at you from a lore book he was reading and you nodded.

“Dean is worried that the kids won’t like him because they have known each other for years and Sam is worried it’s gunna be too hard. I can’t get enough of how damn cute they are. They are almost as cute as their daddy.” He grinned as he closed the book around his finger to boop you on the nose.

“God, I love you (Y/N).” You grinned as you reached up and cupped his cheek in your hand.

“I love you too, John.” He bent down to kiss you awkwardly in the position you were laying in and he chuckled softly.

“You headed down stairs, I’m guessing.” You shook your head.

“Nope; I hired a manager for a reason. So I am staying right here so you can teach me about…” You reached out and flipped open the book he was holding and your face scrunched. “Chuh… what the fuck does that say?!” You looked up at John who laughed as he pulled the book toward himself and picked up his glasses.

“Chupacabra… It’s like the beast version of a vamp.” You rolled your eyes and shook your head as you settled onto his thigh.

“Alright then, teach away Mister Winchester.”

------------ 

You woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of light footsteps and soft crying in your bedroom.

“(Y/N)?” Sam whispered and you opened your eyes to look at his tear stained face.

“Oh baby, what is it?” You said softly so you didn’t wake up John.

“I had a nightmare!” He sobbed. You scooted across the bed and picked Sam up, bringing him under the covers with you.

“What happened sweetheart; big scary monsters again?” He shook his head against your shoulder as his tears fell against your throat.

“The kids laughed at me because I don’t have a mommy.” Your heart lurched from your chest and shattered into a million pieces as you held the little boy tighter in your arms.

“Sam, no one is going to make fun of you because you don’t have a mommy, baby. Besides, you have the world’s best daddy and none of the other kids can say that.” You felt John scoot across the bed behind you, pressing tightly to your back. You reached behind you to grab his hand when you felt his tears falling on your shoulder blades. 

“But I’m still different.” He pulled back and looked at you, his green tinted hazel eyes searching your face. “Can’t you be my mommy?” You squeezed John’s hand at the same time he squeezed yours and you couldn’t stop the tears that fell from your eyes when you felt the gentle brush of his short beard brushing up and down on your back. With a smile, you nodded at the little boy in front of you.

“Yea, Sammy. I can be your mommy.” He smiled back at you and laid his head back down on your shoulder and wrapped his arms around your neck.

“I love you, mommy.” He said, his words slightly muffled against your skin and you kissed his head as you pulled John’s arm around both of you.

“I love you too, baby.”

----------------------- 

“So I hear you’re the one who blacklisted Mary Winchester.” Elton said as he sat on the couch in your living room while you got ready to pick up the boys from school. You shrugged as you pulled on your winter jacket to protect you from the mid-September extreme cold front.

“Hell yea, I had her black listed. But that was like a year ago, why bring it up now?” He shrugged as he looked down at his water glass. 

“Heard she was back in town.” You froze as you looked across the room.

“What?! You have been here for 4 hours and you are just now telling me that that bitch is in town knowing that John is away on a hunt?” You dashed down the hall to your room and grabbed your phone and your bag off your dresser.

“I didn’t think about it until just now!” You motioned for him to leave as you snatched your keys off the hook by the door.

“You’re an idiot, Elton. Swear to God, your momma must have dropped you on your head as a child.” You locked the door behind you before following him down stairs. “I’ll call you later, E. I gotta go pick up my boys.” You didn’t wait for a response as you got in the car and headed in to town, your fingers drumming against the steering wheel as a pit formed in your stomach. Sam’s pre-school was first and when you got out of the car he came running up to you with a huge smile on his face.

“Mommy! Guess what?” He said, as he jumped. You caught him just in time with a small grunt and a laugh.

“What?” You walked him inside to grab his jacket and backpack and to sign him out.

“I matched all my numbers!” He cheered as you stepped inside and smiled at him.

“Way to go Sammy!” You said as you held up your hand for a high five. “Go get your jacket and your book bag so we can go get your brother.” He nodded as you set him on the floor and he darted over to his designated hook to grab his things.

“Ms. (Y/N)?” Sam’s teacher said as you signed Sam out and you looked up at her with a smile. “Um… A woman was here today. She said she was a friend of yours. She tried to take Sam to lunch but we wouldn’t allow her to since you and John don’t have her on the list.” You felt your stomach drop as you shook your head.

“Why didn’t you call me?” You asked trying to keep your voice level as you glared daggers at the woman before you.

“She told us not to bother calling you that she would clear it up with you when she got to the diner.” 

“Sam, we have to go.” You called out to your son as you handed the teacher back her clip board. You looked at her and forced a smile on your face. “Thank you for not letting her take my son, but next time, please call me. If you will excuse me.” You bent down and picked Sam up off the floor and power walked out of the building.

“What’s wrong, mama?” Sam asked as you pulled open the car door and put him into his booster seat. You shook your head as you buckled him in and smiled.

“Nothing sweetheart, just missing your daddy.” You closed the door and started praying that Dean’s school wouldn’t be stupid enough to let someone strange sign him out. However, by the look on his teachers face in the car line, you were very wrong.

“Hello, Miss (Y/L/N), didn’t your friend tell you she was picking up Dean for you?”

“What is with you people?!” You jumped out of the car and stormed around the front to square off with Dean’s teacher. “John and I specifically wrote that NO ONE is to pick up Dean from school except for the two of us. Let me guess; her name was Mary, Sandra, or Sandy, ‘bout this tall, blonde hair?” The woman nodded her head nervously and you shook your head as you stormed back around your car and pointed at her. “Congratulations. You just got my son kidnapped.”

----------------------- 

“Every hunter, Bobby; I need every single hunter in the continental US that does not have an active case looking for this woman. I want my son home!” You screamed as you stood in the boy’s room, looking at Sam crying on Dean’s bed. You heard the call waiting beep and you looked at your screen. “Shit, Bobby, it’s John. I have to go.” You hung up the phone without even saying good bye and flipped over to the other call. “Where the fuck have you been?” You screamed. “I have been calling you for two hours!”

“Whoa! Easy baby, I was clearing a nest. What the hell are you yelling for?” The dam that had been holding back your sobs finally broke and you slid down the boy’s bedroom door frame.

“Mary has Dean; took him right out of school.” You felt a little hand on your arm and you picked it up, letting Sam crawl into your lap. He straddled your hips and immediately laid his head on your chest, his body shaking with his heartbreaking sobs.

“Where’s Sam?” John asked roughly and you hugged the boy close to you.

“He’s with me. Thankfully, his school had the common sense to not let her take him but neither school called me. I’ve already called the police but since we don’t know what she was driving, they are all but useless. I have calls out to every hunter in a 100 mile radius and Bobby, and Ellen and Bill have been called as well.”

“OK. I’m on my way home.” You heard the phone disconnect and you put it down on the floor next to you. 

“Mommy, I want Dean!” Sam sobbed. You nodded as you pulled him impossibly closer to you.

“I know baby. I want him home too.” 

As you clung to your youngest, you started to pray to anything and anyone who was listening, to bring your oldest back to you safe, but with every passing second and every teardrop that landed on your skin, you felt more and more hopeless. After a few hours, Sam had cried himself to sleep. You grabbed your phone, stood up and grabbed Dean’s pillow for him and carried him to your room; not wanting to let him out of your sight for even a moment. You laid him down on Dean’s pillow, hoping that would bring the innocent child some sort of comfort and you turned on the TV. 

While the TV played show after show you didn’t pay any attention too, you began to blame yourself with a barrage of ‘if onlys’. If only I had let Dean stay home schooled. If only I had let Mary see her sons. If only I had put Dean in a private school. If only I had never owned a hunter’s bar. If only I had never met John in the first place. Irrational thought after irrational thought flooded through your brain, strangling and torturing any sort of sanity you had until you wanted to scream at the top of your lungs. You wanted to go out and search for your precious little angel, to drive day and night until he was back home where he belonged. 

Time seemed to stand still as you leaned against your headboard and waited. Seconds felt like weeks; hours felt like years. You didn’t even notice the sun had risen until Sam wordlessly tried to climb in your lap. You turned on some cartoons that went unnoticed while you continued to wait.

“(Y/N)!” John voice startled you out of your daze sometime mid-afternoon and Sam leapt out of your lap. “Sam!” 

“Here.” You croaked out as Sam jumped off the bed with tears flowing to get to his dad. You stopped in the doorway, your broken heart breaking even more when you saw your boyfriend’s tear stained face. “Baby, I’m sorry!” You sobbed as he picked up his son, closing the distance to you quickly as you stood shaking in your room. 

“Hey. This isn’t your fault. I don’t blame you for this.” He soothed as he held you close.

“They didn’t call! I… was just here and… John, I’m so sorry!” He kissed the top of your head before taking a step back to look at you.

“Honey, breathe. It’s not your fault. Let’s sit down and you can tell me everything and we can go from there, ok?” You nodded and turned toward the bed and as you were about to sit down, the diner phone rang. You dashed out into the living room and grabbed it off the holder.

“Peaches, this is (Y/N).”

“Hey (Y/N), it’s Bobby.” You sighed as you walked back into the bedroom.

“Hey Bobby, you got John too. What’s up.” You put the phone on speaker and sat down on the bed facing John.

“Do you two know an Elton Myers?” He asked and your eyebrows furrowed.

“Yea, we know him. He was just here yesterday for a couple hours for lunch, why?” Bobby cleared his throat.

“Did you know he is dating Mary?” You stomach clenched in disgust and joy as you looked up at John.

“I know where Dean is.”

“Bobby, we gotta go.” John shouted as the two of you jumped off the bed and ran to the door.

“There is a salt and burn ‘bout an hour away from here. He said he was staying in the motel right up the road.” You told John as you ran out of your apartment toward your garage.

“You think he would still be there?” You nodded as you opened the garage.

“That man is dumber than a sack of rocks. He’ll be there.” You slid into the front seat of John’s Impala and took Sam out of John’s arms as he climbed in. Tires squealed as he pulled out of the garage frantically trying to get to his son. “Do you at least clear the damn nest?” You asked for something to say and he smirked over at you.

“No, I drove to Mexico for a hooker.” You rolled your eyes as you braced yourself against the dash.

“She better than me?” You joked as he whipped around the curves dangerously.

“She’s not my angel.” The last few minutes of the trip felt like they took hours rather than minutes and you prayed desperately for your theory to be right. As the sign for the motel came into view, you took Sam off your lap.

“Listen to me, baby. You stay in this car, no matter what. If someone other than me or daddy or Dean comes near you, you scream as loud as you can. You kick and scratch and fight back and you don’t stop, do you hear me?” Sam nodded at you and you smiled at him as John pulled into the parking lot. 

You ripped the door open before the car even stopped moving and started searching for Elton’s truck. As your eyes scanned, your heart froze when you didn’t see it. A slight tapping caught your attention but you couldn’t pinpoint its location. You signaled to John to kill the engine and he parking lot was plunged into silence. The tapping to your right got louder.

“Fuck… John!” You stumbled slightly as you ran when your eyes fell on Dean’s tear soaked face. He had ropes around his wrists and you could see a bruise forming on his cheek. “Shoot the window out!”

“Dean, back up!” You watched the boy slip back behind the curtain and you ducked slightly as the sound of the gunshot echoed across the mountain. As the glass shattered to the pavement, you leapt through the empty frame into the room.

“(Y/N)!” Dean cried out. You ducked just in time to avoid Mary’s fist colliding with your face and as her arm followed through, she once again closed her eyes. You smiled victoriously, leaned back and kicked her in the side of her ribcage as hard as you could; sending her flying back on to the bed.

“The fuck did I say the first time?” You asked as you stalked toward her. “You better be lucky my son is in this room because I would kill you on the spot if he wasn’t.”

“(Y/N), you good?” John asked as he picked Dean up off the floor and you turned to look at him. 

“I’m fine. Just call the cops.” Mary turned and glared at you.

“He’s not your son.” She spat through grit teeth and you shook your head.

“Sorry to burst your bubble bitch. He may not call me mom but he is definitely more my son then he will ever be yours.” You stood there in the grungy motel room next to Mary and waited for the police to show, silently daring her to get off the bed. Not trusting himself to not kill his ex-wife, John waited by the car with the boys for not only the police but for Elton as well. 

After 20 minutes of listening to Mary bitch about her side hurting, the cops showed up. They stormed into the room, guns drawn and you silently stood in place with your hands in the air. Even though you knew it was coming, you still jumped slightly when you were thrown into handcuffs as well. As the cop carted you out of the hotel room, you went silently and willingly, not wanting to give them anymore reasons to charge you. You forced yourself to hold your head up high as you were escorted to the car but you couldn’t stop the tears as you looked at the crying faces of your boyfriend and your sons.

“We aren’t pressing charges on her!” An older man’s voice rang out as you were being put into the back of a squad car. You and the officer both paused. You heaved a sigh of relief when you saw Joe, the owner of the motel, one of your regular customers and a really good friend walking over and pointing to you. “I won’t be pressing charges for the window.” The cop shook his head.

“I’m sorry. She still has to go in for battery.”

“It was self-defense!” John shouted out and you couldn’t help yourself but to look toward him. The move pulled you out of the car a little more and the cop, who also happened to be a regular, let it go.

“Was it self-defense?” He asked as he looked down at you and you nodded.

“That woman tried to hit my mom in the face so my mom kicked her away.” Dean answered for you and you forced yourself completely out of the car to look at him. Your heart pooled in your chest as you looked at Dean with tears in your eyes and he nodded at you.  The officer sighed behind you and undid your handcuffs.

“Alright, you’re free to go.” You dashed around the car and fell to your knees in front of Dean with tears pouring down your cheeks. You wrapped him in a hug as Mary screamed from the back seat of the cop car.

“You will always be my mom.” He whispered to you as you picked him up and kissed the side of his head. You turned and walked over to Joe with a smile. 

“Just bring me a bill for the window and whatever damages that were done on the inside and I will pay you double for them for this inconvenience.” He smiled as he pat your arm and nodded.

“Just pay for the window. As long as you throw in one of those new apple pies you got on your menu, you can consider the rest covered.” You nodded and walked back over to the rest of your family.

“It’s kinda come full circle, hasn’t it?” John asked as he opened the door for you. You cocked an eyebrow as you put Dean down on the seat and took Sam from his dad.

“What has?” He smiled as you slid in next to the boys and he shut the door behind you. Sam climbed into your lap again and Dean wiggled over to lean into your side as John got into the car.

“Well, we started our relationship by saving the boys from this motel and now, here we are, a year later, saving our son from this motel again.” You laughed and nodded as John pulled out of the parking spot and you smiled smugly at Mary as you drove past. 

“I’m making it a new family rule that none of us goes near that motel. All in favor raise your hand.” John and Dean both raised their hands and Sam turned in your lap to look at you.

“What’s in favorite mean?” he inquired innocently. You and John laughed as you brushed Sam’s hair off his forehead.

“It means that you agree we shouldn’t go near that motel.” He nodded once and raised his hand as he lay back against you and hit his shoes together on your lap.

“Hey mom, do I have to go to school today? I’m kinda tired.” You looked down at Dean with a smile on your face and shook your head.

“No sweetheart. You and me and Sam and dad are gunna lay in our bed for the rest of the night and watch movies and order pizza and eat ice cream for dinner. You can go back to school on Monday.” You looked up at John, shook your head and grumbled. “After I sue them for gross negligence.” He nodded as he reached his arm across the seat, lacing his fingers with yours on Dean’s side as he drove the rest of the way home.

Part 7

[theladyofdeath]

Lord of Night and Darkness, Chapter 1.

Following Rhysand’s journal entries through the ACOTAR series, beginning Under the Mountain and ending after the War with Hybern. Characters and storyline belong to Sarah J Maas.

Intro II Chapter 2 coming soon

Day 18,340?? Calanmai.

She forced me to tend to her for longer than usual, in return for my favor.

I have not asked anything of that horrid bitch since I’ve been imprisoned here, but I had to.

There’s a girl. A human girl. I don’t know her name. I didn’t know what she looked like, not before today. But...I dream of her often. Not as a girl, not as a human, but as a feeling. I feel connected to her in a way I cannot comprehend. In my dreams, she is the stars in my night sky. I am captivated.

I can feel her presence, I can feel her emotions. In my dreams, her emotions are colors. More often than not, they are blues and grays, but within the last few weeks they have changed to tangerine, magenta, periwinkle and emerald. And they’ve become amplified.

It did not take me long to realize what had happened: she had entered Prythian. She was in the Spring Court. She is the one that Tamlin has chosen. She is the one they hope to break the curse.

I asked Amarantha to be the one to check in on Tamlin tonight, instead of one of her hideous sidekicks. To my surprise, she said yes. Of course, there was a cost. There is always a cost.

Hours. I spent hours slaving away in her bed, every inch of my body touching and kissing places that would haunt me for the rest of my immortal life.

But it was worth it.

I saw her.

It is fire night, the night of the Rite. I always like an excuse to drop in on Tam, and the young and handsome Lucien. I gagged at the thought of Ianthe being there as I dressed earlier this evening. She always seems to show up when I’m least expecting it.

And yet, my heart was beating as it did before I became trapped here, all at the thought of meeting the mortal that haunts my dreams.

So, I went to Calanmai.

I exited the tunnels and found myself in the Spring Court. I was tempted to show my wings, to stretch them out and let them take me wherever they wished, but I would not be foolish, I would not risk being seen. Instead, I followed the pounding of the drums, and the smoke that drifted into the warm air.

I could have stood there for hours, breathing in the fresh air, admiring the stars and the moon. The night sky in the Spring Court was nothing like it was in Velaris. Velaris. Home.

I wondered what the others were doing in the City of Starlight. It would be dinner time, they were most likely gathered together to eat. I wonder if they saved me a seat.

Anyway, I was on a mission. I had to shake off the homesickness, not that it really ever went away.

I felt it then. A tugging. And when I got closer to where I felt she was, I felt her terror. I picked up my pace, trying to remain nonchalant as I did so. I didn’t let out the breath I found myself holding until she came into view, until the three lesser faeries that were assaulting her saw me.

My grin became lazy, and sensuous, and I returned to my charade as High Lord of the Night. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I approached them.

She didn’t turn around, but I took in the long, golden-brown hair that hung low against her back. Her dress was long and flowy, one that undoubtedly belonged to Spring.

The three lesser-faeries were frightened, their eyes growing wide as I stopped, making me remember who I was.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” I said, as smoothly as I could muster. My stomach flipped as I realized how true those words were. I’ve been looking for you, the girl who has consumed my every thought. I’ve been looking for you.

But, she had no idea who I was. The tension in her shoulders faded, slightly, as I slipped an arm around her shoulder; although I could still heart her heart pounding, rapidly, inside her chest. She was frightened.

Of me, a stranger. A Fae. A monster.

The three lesser fairies looked as if they may vomit.

“Thank you for finding her for me,” I said, a dangerous smile playing on my lips. I watched them shudder at the sound of my voice. I watched them tremble at the thought of what I could do to them. “Enjoy the Rite.”

They vanished, quickly, and she turned to me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see anything else, except for her. My dreams became reality, trapped in a small, frail human girl.

We spat at each other, went back and forth, as she lied to me about why she was there. I knew who she was. I knew she was Tam’s salvation, the salvation for us all. I knew she had no friends here, in Prythian. No human would. I knew she snuck out, no doubt going against Tam’s demands. She made me laugh, though. She made me smile with her made up story and untruths. I haven’t felt that sort of amusement in fifty years.

She looked scared, though. I could tell she was uneasy about me. She found me handsome, perhaps, but to her I was nothing more than a monster.

To most of Prythian, I am nothing more than a monster.

She walked away from me, and when she did, I begged the Cauldron to get her somewhere safe. I hid in the shadow of the large oak tree, waiting, until I felt her terror ease. She must have found a familiar face. Hopefully not Tamln, he would have been wound up by his ego and testosterone at that point. I hoped for Lucien. I’ve always liked Lucien, for he was nothing like his father, and everything like his mother.

I took my time walking back to the tunnel, and that’s saying something, because there are a million places I would rather be than within his boarders.

Under the Mountain is not one of them.

I thought of my family as I stood by the entrance, and made sure I was utterly alone before letting down my guard and letting out my wings. A burden was released as I stretched them as wide as I could, letting them breathe for the first time in weeks. Sometimes, I let them out in my bedroom, but I don’t want to risk Amarantha catching word. It’s only for a minute, to admire their beauty and strength. I don’t want her knowing my greatest joy. I don’t want her having another thing to hold against me.

I stood there, wings stretched wide, for a few minutes, before I tucked them away, put up my glamour, and entered the tunnels that returned me to hell.

Now, all I can think about is the girl with eyes the color of the sky before a storm, how she captivated my greatest enemy, how she could be the one to save us all.

I need to help her.

I need to help her, so I can get home to my family. 

Hopefully she makes it out alive. 

Hopefully we all do.

[jawllines]

OKAY SO A WHILE AGO I WROTE VAMPIRE HARRY AND THERE WAS  A LAST PART WHERE THEY WERE GOING TO FUCK THAT I NEVER FINISHED BUT HERE WAS WHAT IT WAS GOING TO BE!!

iv.

Harry is no virgin, obviously, in his 100+ years he's had sex with a good amount of people.

However, none of those people had been humans.

And now Harry has a human who he loves dearly, who is getting antsy with him as each day goes by.

His dilemma is clear. How was Harry supposed to trust himself to bed a human without hurting her in some way? Vampire sex was rough, raw, hot and heavy, with lots of biting and scratching, pulling, sometimes throwing -- it's a lot of stuff where Harry's inhibitions have gone entirely and all he's thinking with was his prick. A vampire can take a lot because they're and able to reciprocate it, whereas a human wouldn't be able to handle most of what they do, so that means Harry has to learn how to have sex with a human before he can even think to touch Y/N.

Or that was the plan, at least, it was really hard to not think about it. When he'd eaten her out that was one thing and he'd almost lost himself doing it, Harry could only imagine how his body would react to being inside of her. In warm, pulsing, tight walls that draw him nearer and the thought of hitting that spot deep inside her and the reaction she would have makes him shudder. It's images like these that make him hesitant to let her kiss him for long before he starts in with something he might regret, no matter how she cements her mouth to his with greedy fingers crumpling in his shirt like a plea. '

It's been a few weeks, closing in on a month since Y/N found out exactly what Harry was. Kristie is locked away for now and with strict instructions to not listen to whatever "delusions" she might spit at them, the black mass that had been controlled by her has been eliminated by means of destroying the charm she made for it (which was this whole, complicated thing Harry barely remembers reading about, but basically she concentrated her dark thoughts into a small jewel and whenever she wanted Y/N to be sought after she would give it a squeeze three times), Des has been resorted to only knowledge of Y/N's existence as a "blood whore", and he doesn't seem to really care about that much because their business was booming. It was the calm after the storm, everything slow and easy and nice, so it would be the perfect time to do it. The perfect time to bed her as they both desire.

He knows its insensitive to keep bringing Liam into his life with this human considering his own circumstances, but in a weird way Harry thinks he might like it a bit. Like he might be simultaneously living through him or something, but Harry doesn't mind it -- actually thinks it might be good for Liam to enact some of his dating fantasies on the two (for example Liam keeps sending him these brochures for winter wonderlands they can go visit because "they just love colorful lights Harry, do it for her") -- it makes him less sad, at least.

So he asks Liam late one night, when Y/N had fallen asleep strewn out on the couch, limbs every which way and making sure there was no room for Harry there. It hadn't been on purpose, she'd just been studying for her finals and bam -- she's out like a light -- and although he loves lying with her, this gives him and Liam some time to speak. "I -- Liam?" He begins sheepishly, "I've got a question."

"Hm?" He hums his response, eying the notes Y/N had been highlighting and even popping the cap off with his teeth to highlight some additional information he thinks she should look over. Liam was always doting like that -- for both Harry and Y/N both, like he felt he was responsible for them in some way. This led to frequent occasions in which Harry has woken up to a blanket being fanned over them as they lie on the couch, having fallen asleep together watching a movie or summat, and a plate of food still steaming like he might've just left. It reminds Harry of being young, and it feels like Liam is giving him a pass to relax and have fun with Y/N, since the immediate danger is no longer prevalent.

Harry gnaws at his lip before finally continuing, "I feel as if I don't know how to have sex with Y/N in an. . .an adequate way."

Liam's head lifts, making brief confused eye contact before peeping back down at her notes, "What do you mean?"

"I worry I'll hurt her." He adds, trying to preoccupy his hands with something but he can't figure out what to do so he just twiddles his fingers together in his lap, "It's like -- she's so fragile; like porcelain almost. I don't want to hold too tight or bite too hard or lose myself and start. . .I just don't want to scare her."

"Now Harry," Liam sets the highlighter down now, looking towards him, "You need to talk to her about this --"

"I know! I know, I just. . .what if she thinks she can take more than she can actually handle? And I'm allowed to bite her during sex, no? Or would that be -- if she got all floaty how she does, then I'd have to stop right?"

Liam rolls his eyes, "Really, Harry, there is no science to it. With a human sure you have to be a certain level of gentle, but what's important is to talk to her. You can't find out her boundaries from me, so ask her."

Harry brows furrow, because Liam literally has answers to everything else but the one time he feels so embarrassed and sheepish to speak with her about it, Liam's got nothing. He knows it's important that he gets her input, but he doesn't want to come about it in a way that makes him sound nervous. All he wants is for her to understand she is in safe, capable hands, but how is she supposed to feel safe if he's fiddling with his fingers and asking how she would like his cock in her?

A hand whacks him in the back, making him perk his head up and turn to face her where she lay still blissfully unconscious. Fondly does he smile as he twists around, fixing the blanket from around her waist so it was over her shoulders and tucking her arm back onto the couch beneath it. Even when he's lying with her, Y/N has a knack for flopping around and rather than doing it on the huge portion of her side of the bed, she'd been resorted to such a smaller size at her dorm that she stays within her limits and Harry is always within her limits. This includes random bonks in his bicep, or his chest, or if her legs are feeling particularly feisty, his groin is in danger.

With a parting stroke of his fingers to her cheek, he looks back at Liam who gazes at the two, obviously endeared, "When has she ever made you feel silly for asking something, Moppet? Tell me." Harry gets quiet, and Liam nods, "She hasn't, so there is no reason for you to fret about asking her this. I mean, if I'm honest Harry, she might be the most open minded human to find out about vampires in the entire history of history. Even some feeders are more reluctant to the idea, but she's accepted this part of you into her life fully, without any objections. Talking to her about this should be easier than talking about it with a vampire partner."

It's true -- Y/N has been very open to the idea of Harry being what he is. She still lets him feed from her, though now she knows what he's doing exactly, sometimes she'll let him bite other places for leisure feeding. They still cuddle, and watch TV together and she still falls asleep easy around him so she's not afraid he's going to try anything. Really, the only difference is that she knows what he is, and she understands that they can't be very open about it, and she's not put off about the whole time travel thing or the fact someone was out to get her because of him.

"Ya dolt! Why I should I care about all that stuff, it's really trivial in comparison to the amount of love I've got stored up for you." She had told him one day and it made him so happy he bent down and kissed her while she was midsentence, having gone on to talk about her lecture that day but Harry had been so overwhelmed. Y/N is the greatest thing to happen to him, he's certain of it, and he's so lucky to have her in his life.

"Gosh, how come you always know what to say Liam?" Harry utters, plopping back down on the floor in front of him.

Liam grins, "Cos I'm smarter than you."

                                                                    .                         .                        .

"Bunny, we're going to need to talk about sex."

When Harry had played this out in his head, never did he imagine that he would spit it out while they were out to dinner at one of Beau's restaurants, but apparently his mouth resents his brain and decided this was the perfect time. They were in a more secluded portion, yes, with a fancy Japanese lantern decorated in the pink petals of cherry blossoms, emitting a warm glow down over their table (for mostly French inspired food, Beau has a lot of influences from different country's décor wise), however they were still within ears reach of a few waiters and close enough that if they didn't speak quietly, a very stony looking business man would overhear them as he's out with someone who is 100% not his wife.

Y/N sputters on her water, a few droplets clinging around her mouth before she swipes them away with the back of her hand, "Oi! What'd I say about saying interesting stuff when I'm drinking?"

Harry laughs some while he hands her a napkin (Y/N requested extra because "I'll make a mess if it isn't an option, I swear I'm the worst at eating), "Sorry, it slipped out. Didn't know you were gonna spit at me."

"Stop, if anyone hears they'll think I'm a monster!"

"Aren't you?" Harry rejoinders, biting his bottom lip a little, "There's just a few things we need to discuss." He continues to say.

Her face gets a little softer, "Hey, if you don't wanna do it then it's fine," she tells him, and Harry's brows furrow, "I get, like -- if it's too much too soon, or like it's the whole interspecies thing or even if you don't want me in that way but --"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a tick Petal, this is not about not wanting you! Jesus fuck" He cuts her off, his  voice loud before he remembers where they are and then he lowers it a considerable amount, so only she can hear, "god do I fucking want you. It's all I can think about sometimes," he continues to say, and Y/N's eyes widen, setting her burger down entirely, "We just -- I don't want to hurt you. I'm. . .I'm stronger than I look and if I want you this bad I'm afraid I might be too rough, so I just -- we needed to go over some things. What you like and what you don't."

"What I like and what I don't?" Y/N repeats slowly, like she's tasting it on her tongue and Harry nods, "Like my kinks or something? Getting spanked and all that?"

Harry doesn't know why speaking about this gets him so. . .bashful. Really, Harry thinks he's the least bashful person he knows but hearing Y/N speak so freely makes him jittery and reluctant to speak out of fear of a squeaky voice. So he nods once more, trying to hold eye contact with the very curious human, who is clearly running through a list in her head.

"Huh, I don't know if I thought about it extensively before," she tells him, picking through her fries as she digs around in her brain, "Well, I've  thought about it but I haven't acted on them. Like spanking -- I think I like that."

Shifting in his seat, Harry hums, "Is that right?"

Y/N plays with her bottom lip, "And I think I'd like if I could suck you, but that's not a kink is it? Also there's something about you that compels me with want to swallow. Also I kind of want you to cum on me too, I think I'd like that."

Harry chokes on his spit.

"And maybe. . .well, there's this weird one I wanna try. Maybe a few, actually, like I kind of want to be tickled while I'm on your coc--"

"Baby! Baby, fuck, slow down." Harry digs his fingers into his thigh in attempts to ground himself, letting his eyes fall shut momentarily and shaking his head, "Are you trying to work me up?"

When he opens his eyes, Y/N's brows are furrowed, "Hey, you asked."

He couldn't argue with that, "Okay, okay, how 'bout -- here, I'll propose stuff to you and you say yes or no, yeah?" Y/N nods her assent, absently popping her knuckles like she's getting ready to take a quiz. Harry takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts in order so they could progress slowly and not go full throttle as Y/N has proven to do without much thought to it. "Let's start with some nice, g-rated questions, yeah? What time of day would you rather do it?"

"Anytime," she answers quickly, "I think I'd like it most either late at night or early in the morning. I know I don't look the greatest early in the morning --"

"You look the greatest always. Pretty lil' thing you are." Harry murmurs.

"--but you always look really nice in the mornings and I like the lighting too, in your room, it's very nice."

"Alright, nice, I like the mornings too. Then we can eat breakfast afterwards?" Y/N agrees, grinning wide, "Good, we're getting somewhere. Are a you a kisser during? Or would you rather us kiss at the beginning and that's it."

She scrunches her face at him, "I like kissing you always."

"Are you okay with me giving you love bites?" She nods, "Are you okay with me biting you? Just a bite, not like drink from you?" She nods once more, "And you're okay with me having my mouth on you? Don't really need an answer for that considering you came all over my tongue before, hmm?" And once more, with a sheepish nibble at her lip, she nods again. Harry likes that she gets a little squirmy when he says it, because it means he's not the only one affected by talking about it, and he feels better.

Harry lets Y/N take a bite of her burger, watching her chew slow like she's thinking, before he continues, "Do you want me gentle or rough?"

"A mix, maybe?" She replies, wiping at the sauce on her lip, "I -- I like both. I like the idea of you manhandling me, a lot, and like not mean like or anything just move me however you want."

"Dirty talk?" He lowers his voice a little more for this one.

Y/N smiles, "Oh yes, yes, yes! That'd be great, um. . .I don't like too mean of names, like whore or bitch -- those don't sit well with me, but slut is okay. And maybe if you could call me them pet names, and I could call you Daddy or something?"

"Jeez," Harry tuts his tongue, shaking his head, "You're a naughty one."

                                                                                  .                     .                   .

Y/N finds, throughout their conversation, that she would let Harry do whatever he wanted apparently. She was saying yes to things she's never tried, she's never thought of trying, or was otherwise repulsed by, but the thought of Harry doing them to her made it all so enticing. By the end of it there was a sparkle in her lower belly that would be hard to pacify through the night, and she was in a sure need of a panty change that's for damn sure. For a moment, she wonders, if with his heightened senses he can smell somethings different or if he just knows from the way she melts into his side when they walk to the car, and she's a little clingier to him than normal, nestling into his neck, nipping at his ear.

"You're snuggly tonight." Harry hummed low, puckering his lips up for her to kiss her, "Has it something to do with our conversation?"

Huh. . .so she guesses she's as transparent as she thought. Y/N refrains from answering -- she doesn't want to seem pushy, they just talked things through, she was just a little. . .ready.

Apparently Harry knows that too, as he moves to slide his hand down her tummy but Y/N grabs his wrist, stopping him before her brain could catch up to what she's doing, "No," she starts, looking at him and trying not to lose herself in his marble green eyes because from this close they look like waves of a water mass, plodding gently that she could dive into, float in, swim around, and what was she doing again? Oh, yeah, "Like, I wanna be desperate?" She says it as a question/

Abruptly, Harry moans aloud, pulling her tighter to him and letting his head fall back, "Bunny, you can't just say things like that," he whines, lulling his head around to pout at her. "You'll be my undoing."

                                                                              .                .                  .

Harry hadn't been to sleep yet, staring at Y/N asleep in his arms with early morning sunlight bathing their skin like the beginning of an aesthetically pleasing, artistic movie. The Christmas lights she'd begged him to string up still on, adding just a little extra twinkle to the room like stars, and she's toasty; her skin felt as if it was kissed by the sun on a summer day and it brings shivers to his body. Even in the dead of winter she could be so warm, it makes him not want to move at all for the rest of forever. He'd gladly have Liam bring them breakfast, lunch, and dinner to where they lie and he's pretty sure Liam wouldn't mind it. Doting as he is on them, he'd probably encourage their closeness and do as he could so they were glued together.

After their conversation the night before, and after Y/N more or less telling him she was into delayed gratification, Y/N took her shower first and came out in one of his sweaters and no pants, only this panties that really shouldn't be as cute as they are. There are pears on them ("I get my panties from Walmart. Sue me." Harry overheard her telling Niall once, after he said her taste in underwear was less than satisfactory), and a little bit of her bum peeks out at him tantalizingly. She hopped up on the bed, boasted about the chunky evergreen colored socks on her feet before she burrowed beneath his covers and against his side. Inhaled deep, murmured idly about loving how he smells like the forest and citrus, before she was asleep a mere ten minutes later.

And Harry had been left with the filthiest most fluffiest thoughts he's ever had.  Images of cuddling her invaded with being buried inside her, fingers dug into her skin, biting down hard on her shoulder to stop the more than embarrassing whines he couldn't seem to keep quiet. And vice versa, depictions of her sucking at him desperately with watery eyes pleading for him to nut off in her mouth are then suffocated with thoughts of her standing up sweetly from where she kneeled, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close.

He wishes the cutesy stuff was more grounding, but it only made him want her that much more.

When Harry thinks about it -- vampire sex is good, sure, rough and hot and sweaty, but the appeal of a human when you could have no restraints with a different partner was something hard to describe. They're softer, and their blood smells good -- ample in amount, the thought alone of it flowing through her body was equally parts comforting and intoxicating. When Harry digs his fingers into Y/N's skin it gives against him, often she's easier to move and positon; pliant and complaisant, and that's just from what he knows from kissing her. And oh, kissing, that's a whole different thing entirely. Her kisses were much like her; sometimes playful and frolicsome, with a darting tongue, nipping at his lip, whining when he maneuvers away from her mouth a few times. Other times so slow, thoughtful, with intent to drive him wild to the point he has to pull himself away before his cock gets any ideas.

She always touched him like he could break, never too rough nor rude with him. Much how he handles her, Y/N skates her fingers against his skin before like she's trying to decide how to hold him, and when she does it's gentle as can be. Only slight tugs and soft squeezes, opposed to what people like Kristie would do to him, because their bodies withstand more but it's nice to be treated like glass. It means she cares -- doesn't even want to take the chance of hurting him.

He just can't help himself when he kisses her cheeks, soft and supple against his mouth. A grumble elicits from his very own sleeping beauty, reaching up to scratch at her face a bit before melting back down into the mattress. Harry bites back a coo; humans are real cute when they sleep too, that's something he'll never be able to get over. All floppy limbs and sleep sighs -- sometimes Y/N murmurs about him in her sleep too, quite often incoherent things but he can always make out his name.  

Pressing her hair off her forehead, Harry leans down and kiss there too. As much as he likes watching her sleep (as creepy as that sounds), he likes when she's awake too. They've got nothing to do today and it's barely budding on 8AM, so she wouldn't be happy with him if he woke her up. However she did tell him that she wanted to have sex with him in the morning, when the winter sun makes their skin glisten like crystals and Harry's eyes are all, "soft and sweet".

[masterofmunson]

Chase You Down (2)

Mobster!Bucky x Reader

Based off of Chase You Down by RUNAGROUND

Summary: The infamous Brooklyn mob boss, Bucky Barnes, has a tendency of sleeping around and killing people on a short fuse. So what happens when a certain girl catches his eye and turns his already shitty world upside down?

BEFORE YOU READ: this is a semi-oc fic! You can still insert your name into the fic, that’s not changing. However, ‘you’, will have some characteristics that ‘you’ might not actually have in real time. It just fits the story better if I actually describe it instead of leaving holes in the story. Enjoy!

Warnings: swearing, angst

Word Count: 1.8k+

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Hiring Y/n was one of the best decisions my staffer---bless his heart---has ever made. Now, months later into her job, she only has to work for me, not that I mind anyway. I love having her around. Not only does she draw in big crowds and make me a ton of money, but she makes me happy, not that I would tell her of course. If I ever do, I would be putting her in harm's way. I can't risk losing her, she means too damn much to me. I'd never be able to live with myself if she ever got hurt. Seeing her now, though, up on stage, in her element with my best pal Steve, hurt even more.

She's laughing at him in between breaths and she's out of focus. Normally, she's so into it, distractions like Steve never seemed to phase her, so now why were they?

I can't help but feel a little jealous inside. Seeing her laughing and goofing off with Steve hurt a lot more than I'd care to admit. I want to be the one that's she's laughing at. I want to be the reason why she's smiling so hard. I want to be the person to sweep her off her feet. Not Steve. Me. He's so damn good at sweeping girls off their feet, and now he has Y/n in the palm of his hand. Now, all he has to do is act.

“Okay, folks! That's it for me tonight! Have a wonderful rest of your evening. This is Chrissy handing the mic over to Daisy! Bye!” Y/n grins, placing her trumpet into her case and snapping it shut. She hops off stage and starts walking towards me--the bar. She climbs up onto the stool and her drink of choice, whiskey, is already waiting for her. She turns towards me and grins. “Hiya, Boss! Did ya enjoy the set Steve and I put together?”

“You know I always enjoy your sets. We need to talk, come with me to my office,” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. Her expression falls, but she nods anyway. She hops off the bar stool and trails behind me towards my office. I open the door and hold it open for her.

“What's up, Buck?” she asks, leaning against my desk.

“What's your motive?” I ask, getting to the point. I cross my arms over my chest, attempting to seem intimidating.

“Excuse me?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me. She fixes her stance and stands up straight. She crosses her arms over her chest and stands defensively in front of me. “What do you mean?”

“Your motive. Why are you working here? Are you attempting to exploit me? Is that why you're so kind to me?” I accuse, my voice rises with each accusation and I grit my teeth.

“Where is this coming from, Buck? Did someone say something to you to make you think that?” she asks gently, reaching for my hand. I step away from her and her face falls.

I fight the urge to answer her questions. She's concerned for me. She's confused. She wants to know what happened to the Bucky she knows instead of the Bucky she's looking at right now; the Bucky that's pushing her away. “Just answer the questions.”

“I'm working here because I want to, because I'm happy here, because I feel safe here. I don't know what's gotten into you to think this way. I'm not exploiting you. I care about you because you're sweet and kind. Behind the tough exterior you wear, you care so much and so deeply for the people you care for. I admire you for that,” she mutters.

“I'm a monster!” I howl, causing her to flinch. “I kill people. I hurt people. People are suppose to fear me. Why don't you fear me?”

“Because I've seen who you are!” she retaliates. “You're sweet and funny and incredibly smart and I---”

She stops speaking after that, afraid that she's already said too much. She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “And you what?” I ask, pressing her for more.

“I--it's nothing. I'll see you later.”

“What is it? What won't you tell me?” I ask again, reaching out for her arm.

Her eyes meet mine and she swallows hard. She glances at the ground and then back up to me. She takes a deep breath before pulling herself up on her toes. Her mouth touches mine delicately and fireworks erupt from my toes all the way up to the hairs on my head.

Her lips are soft against mine and I breathe her in. She tastes like whiskey and minty gum. She curls her fingers into my hair and tugs lightly. My hands hold her face gently and my eyes close. I push her away from me gently and create distance between us. “I can’t, Y/n. I won’t risk losing you. If any of my enemies found out about you, they’d do everything in their power to exploit you. I’m sorry.”

She forces a smile onto her face and it breaks my heart to do this. Now I know she feels the same way I do about her. She nods in understanding and kisses my cheek. “It’s okay, Bucky. I understand. I’ll see you later,” she smiles, squeezing my forearm. She grabs her coat and trumpet case before leaving my office.

I don’t see Y/n for another four days, and it isn’t even at the bar. She’s working behind the counter at Lake Shore Diner, the same diner she left only weeks prior. The diner’s busy, so I doubt she sees me enter with Dot, one of the girls I had been seeing on and off over the last couple of months. Her hand snakes around my waist and we take a seat in one of the far booths. Dot picks up the menu almost immediately and my eyes are still glued onto the girl whose maneuvering about the floor with ketchup in her bright blonde hair.

“Y/n! Table 24 has been waiting for awhile!” someone barks from behind the counter. Y/n’s head turns towards the counter and I can see her face flush.

“Sorry, Boss! Liz ‘n I are the only ones on floor!” she replies, tucking a tray under her arm, and to my horror, coming straight towards me. “Hiya, folks. I’m Y/n and I’ll be your server for today. What can I---”

She cuts herself off when her eyes meet mine. They’re as big as the tray she’s holding and there’s nothing more that I want to do right now than to just scurry out of the diner. Her eyes move towards Dot and she takes a deep breath. I know seeing me here with Dot hurts her. Hell, it’s hurting me. I don’t want Dot in my arms. I want her.

“What a pleasant surprise!” she exclaims through gritted teeth. “It’s nice to see you Dot. Mr. Barnes. What can I get you two to drink?”

Ouch. That hurt a lot more than I’d care to admit. She hasn’t called me that since we met. Now it’s like we’re strangers. I don’t blame her though. I hurt her. I rejected her even though I wanted--want her.

“Oh, hiya! It's Y/n right? Don't you work for my baby?” Dot asks, running a perfectly manicured hand up and down my arm. She pulls on my chin and captures my mouth into hers. I'm stunned and she pulls away just as quickly as she kisses me. I grit my teeth. I know Dot’s baiting her. The two hate each other. Dot doesn't like competition and Y/n doesn't like pretentious snobs.

Y/n’s back straightens and her fingers grip her notepad. Her jaw locks and she forces a smile up on her lips. “Yes, that's right. I do work for Mr. Barnes. What would you like to drink?”

“What's the healthiest thing here? I'm on a cleansing diet,” Dot asks, her eyes drilling into Y/n’s.

“Uh--water and the lettuce on the burgers. Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but coming here on a cleansing diet probably wasn't the greatest idea. I'll come back in a few minutes once you decided what you want,” Y/n answers, leaving our table.

My eyes follow her around the restaurant as she takes orders and places food on the tables. She hurries behind the counter and into the kitchen.

“James, are you listening to me?” Dot asks, pulling my attention back onto her. I blink at her and she sighs. “Do you wanna go to the exposition tonight?”

“I have to do something at the bar, so probably not,” I lie, running a hand through my hair.

“It's okay!” she grins at me.

My eyes watch the kitchen door and Y/n comes out with a tray of drinks. She walks back over to where Dot and I are sitting and sets a glass of water in front of her and a coke in front of me.

“Oh! Thanks, we didn't order anythi--”

“Lucky guess,” Y/n cuts her off. “What do you want to order?”

I look at the ground. I know she knows my order by heart. I always get a double-cheese burger with a large fry to share with her. Dot orders her meal and I do too. She walks off and I don't see her until her shift is over.

Her coat is snug against her arms and her arm tugs on her purse. “I'll see you tomorrow, Robert! Call the house if you need me!” she shouts out the door, walking down the street towards her house. I kick the wall behind me and walk behind me.

“Y/n, can we talk?” I ask, meeting her pace. She stops and turns towards me.

“I have nothing to say to you, Barnes. Excuse me, I’d like to walk home in peace,” she snaps, storming off.

“Wait!” I beg, reaching out to grab her arm. “Please, let me explain.”

“Don't touch me!” she screams, pulling her arm out of my grasp. “There's nothing to explain. I saw it loud and clear in the diner. Why didn't you tell me that you're dating Dot?”

“I--we’re not---”

“Save it! I'm not one of your stupid Call Girls! I don't deserve this. You should've told me, maybe we'd still be friends! I feel like a fucking idiot! My friends warned me about you, and I didn't listen, because they were wrong. I refuse to believe that you're anything like how they say you are. You're sweet and kind and incredibly charming and I was stupid enough to think that I'd ever had a chance with you,” she interrupts, looking up at the sky.

My chest hurts and it hurts to breathe. I hate this. I hate making her cry. I hate hurting her. I hate that she wants nothing to do with me anymore. Goddammit, I just want to love her, but I’m so goddamn scared. She sniffs and a tear slides down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, feeling my throat tighten.

“I know. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she sighs, walking away from me.

A/N: yikes i really love the pain??? oh well. tell me what you think!

 TAGLIST: @jessevans @gingerbatchwife @ria132love @aenna-4@bubblyaschampagne  @inlovewithmydreams

[xjarlonx]

~The Story of the Amaryllis~

Amaryllis transcended up the cold staircase of the dark corridor, each step echoing and resounding across the walls but fell deaf to her ears. By her side was a small brown pot filled to the brim with dirt. Inside bloomed a red flower that stretched its petals far and wide, swaying with every step like dancing flames from the tips of her palm. It brought a faint smile to her face, a reminder of a love that had been unable to leave her heart. A reminder of the time when she learned just truly how three words can bring about the happiest joy in anyone’s life.

           A memory that begun during the winter solstice ball where she was on the balcony where the trees of the forest swayed back and forth as the gentle icy winds whistled through, caressing her rosy red cheeks with its chilling presence. From beyond the forest, the gleam of the moon glowed upon the ripples of a lake that stretched far off into the horizon. Little trinkets of stars danced in the vast sea of the sky, filling a once empty canvas with an array of mesmerizing lights that captivated those whose eyes fell prey to their magnifying presence. It was a night like this which sparked the foundation of her serenity, the solemn tune dampening the chaotic clamor of the ball happening inside.

           Then he had waltzed in from the brink of the darkness, standing by her side with an enchanting smile that danced upon his lips. His eyes were a dark blue that were comparable to a great vast ocean that poured on forever from all ends. A deep sea encompassed by dark clouds, the twinkling tune of rain and thunder offering an ominous melody of a storm clashing in the world of absolute nothing. A world of which she had found herself drowning in, unable to swim safely to shore as she was lost within those eyes of his.

           Those eyes that bathed in the faint glow of the moon, eyes that held hers in his, eyes that would only look her way as he smiled. A patch of glossy brown hair drooped between his face as he leaned in, his soft tender lips pressing firmly against hers. For the first time, her heart felt ready to explode, each pulse pounding violently against her chest like a ticking time bomb. All outside noise completely dissipated as her ears became completely deaf to it all, her sole attention to the man in front of her as she emptied these feelings that had been stored tightly away in her heart within confined chains and released it all into him.

           When he pulled away he extended an arm and placed a tiny seed in her palm. Before she was able to question what it was the man leaned in to whisper in her ears, “it sprouts from the heart and entangles us whole. It blooms in our mind, ensnaring our soul. For love is like that of this very seed, nurture it a little and it will begin to grow.” Then came the same captivating smile, a smile that turned her into a moth chasing desperately after the enchanting bright lights.

           The man had become someone she could confide in, someone she could release all her insecurities and frustrations to without having to fear judgement. He became the source of her joy, someone who became a vibrant array of colors in an otherwise monochrome world. Each memory became another color to the rainbow, her favorite being the time she chased him across town on horseback just to give him a gift. As she finally caught up to him they toppled to the ground and snuggled closely together within the wide grassy plain hills by the pouring creak that seeped through the rocks.

           He told her the most bizarre fantasies of his time in a far of land, a time before he had ever ventured forth in the town they lived in and more importantly a time of which she was not apparent in his life. In this world, he was like a young gang boss creating chaos with his childhood friends, starting all kinds of madness with the other children. He would explain all the different kind of exotic foods and scenery of the area, delving into the different culture compared to where they lived at.

Despite being with him for well over half a year now she had finally begun to realize she truly did not know much about the man shrouded in mystery. Rather, she had just begun to peel away the surface to dig much deeper within him.

           Before they left that night, he decided to draw a portrait of her bathing beneath the moonlight with the river by her back to remember the day they spent together. The finished product was absolutely stunning, the painting almost identical to the real thing. Her piece was nowhere near as close to his level, looking more like a noodle than anything. Compared to his, it was like looking at Mona Lisa to her spaghetti figurine. To this day he stills laugh at all her drawings, but she was okay with that. Hearing his laughter brought a smile to hers.

           With every passing day their love bloomed, as did the little seed within the pot.

           Amaryllis train of thought was interrupted when a strong gust of wind poured through a window from the tower, nearly knocking the pot from her hand. She hurriedly moved forward to her destination, keeping the plant tucked tightly in her arms to prevent any potential harm. Just a little bit more and the travel up the tower would all come to an enclosure.

           Yet, as she walked up her mind began to run itself astray, remembering full well that being with the man she had loved dearly grew all the harder to stay with. The time they had spent together grew miniscule, invitations to do something which each other become a rare treat now. No matter how much she poured out her soul to him, she would never have those same very feelings returned back to her.

           Eventually the day came when they parted ways, their path taking them to far stretches of the world as they traveled in parallels. What she had neglected to see in that day when he handed her the seed was that in those eyes of his reflected herself, but she was blinded by the false idea of love to see it entirely. There was nothing but him that she could see, only that man wherever she looked. To him his eyes only saw who was in front of him, and now that would become another woman entirely.

It all ended the day before New Year’s, and now she would enter the new year with one less companion by her side.

           The memories would always come flooding in, like a deathly plague ravaging all in its course. Consumed by this disease, the pain never ceased as it destroyed her from the inside out. Liberation may only come from transforming into a ghost, transparent to the harsh cruelties of the reality in which she faced, but in doing so would bring the greatest regret in her life. All she could do now is let the pain dwindle onwards.

           The first week she found herself only sleeping, sleep until it physically hurt to close her eyes. Only then did she allow herself to wake up, pleading to receive some form of contact from the man whenever she did. None of course would ever come, so her mind would reminiscence of the past, all alone in the bleak of night while fighting against the most fearsome enemy to herself.

           The second week was when her eyes become unable to bare the conception behind sleeping, so she attended plays and theatrical acts to pass the wretched time, the horrid agonizing days in hope it would pass by swiftly. Even though the play would go on her eyes were drawn to the phone in her pocket, always hoping that he would send a message.

           The third week came upon her, and the grappling chains still bounded tightly around her arms and legs, dragging her backwards as she tried walking forward. Taking one step at a time she sought ways to fill the day up, anything to distract the memories, but a plague does not simply go away if you wish it to.

           Only the fourth week had she managed to regain her sanity, to think her life had finally been pieced back together again like a jig-saw puzzle, but only a fool would believe that. Come the final day of the week a messaged was finally sent to her, and his voice was heard in the first time in forever. She did not dare say a word, merely listened. The reality of which she lived in immediately came crashing down and it felt like she was drowning in the air itself.

           Hearing about his time with a new love had pierced her soul. All that time spent together had surmounted into nothing, her place in his life tossed out rather easily as someone else came to fill that spot. Every passing second did she get to see how miniscule her place was, how she believed to be a larger part of a whole to only be a small piece of it. It became painful to see how if she were to merely disappear, he would simply not care, that during all this time if she was no longer in his life it would mean absolutely nothing.

           Sitting amongst nothingness will the mind truly run freely, expressing everything in nothing. Our true selves and very nature unraveled in that very moment. Loneliness will bring about the only companion we seek, but it is that companion that brings about our greatest enemy. We live inside of a dream, but only through a mirror will the nightmare be unfolded, for the eyes of the greatest enemy can be found staring back at you through the reflection.

           It became maddening every day to watch as she began to tear apart piece by piece, to see herself transform into the very person she despised. Each passing second, she became more into the monster she hated, a being that was opposite of who she transpired to become. It was frustration that see reflected back in the mirror not of herself, but of the nightmare she had grown to become.

           In his heart was someone else, and in hers was still him. She became like a puppy, loyally waiting for their master’s return, despite being fully aware that she was abandoned and tossed aside like a puppy in a box. However, even puppies can get tired of waiting.

           Someone knew had come waltzing into her life, and they quickly became friends. The new man was like the rising sun, always bright and cheerful with an abundance of energy. Never once did they wept as a smile remain fierce on their face. It was so bright it became blinding to her, and for the first time the pain had been quenched. Laughter slowly came back, joy returning as she was brimming with life. He were a direct upgrade in every aspect compared to who she previously loved, and for a time her eyes were no longer blinded to see only him, ears no longer deaf to everything but his voice.

           Yet then it came pouring back, not every day but from time to time again. Despite knowing how much better the new man she found herself having a crush on was, her heart still yearned after the man she hardly knew why she loved at all. Her former love was nothing compared to the new man, but she couldn’t help but try sending countless messages back to someone in her long-forgotten past, but found herself deleting each sentence one after another.

           There was a never-ending void that erupted in her heart, and perhaps she had sought someone else to fill in that emptiness inside. What she felt for this new friend of hers is merely admiration, admiration for the man who was everything she wasn’t but wished to be. Rather, her heart was unable to be deceived by the man’s charms where her mind was, for she was unable to move on, continuously keeping her chained to the ground all this time as she believed to be moving forward.

           Amaryllis made it to the top of the tower and traversed along the stone marble floor of the ballroom until she nudged open two large stainless steel glass doors across the room to enter the balcony. What he neglected to tell her here is that, “a flower can also decay and wilt away.”

           She picked up her phone for the last time and looked at the empty screen. No matter how hard she tried to convey the message, it was impossible to send when there was no signal for it to travel over. Like a message in a bottle, her message would travel aimless across the sea never to meet its target. Simply disappearing would end the pain stored deeply in the very essence of her heart, the pain that love can bring.

           Amaryllis climbed to the top of the railing and looked down to the snow padded ground hundreds of feet below. There was no fear that gleamed in her eyes, merely sadness. She tossed the flower down first, and a faint smile curled upon her lips. The flower had needed a name, so she called it Amaryllis. Now as the world may forget how it blossomed, she would be there to remember it eternally. That where it once bloomed is also where it decayed.

           Then she jumped and plummeted hundreds of feet below. She did not have any regrets, but merely a single thought. The same very three letter words that brings about our happiest joy always brings our saddest pain.