#( he's spent so much time ingraining breathing breathing breathing into his head that he accidentally gained the habit )

[erabundus]

today's  miscellaneous  ren  fact  of  the  day  —  i've  mentioned  before  that  his  equivalent  of  breathing  is  actually  part  of  a  cooling  function  meant  to  keep  his  inner  mechanisms  from  overheating  (  he  only  chooses  to  regularly  "breathe"  to  keep  up  appearances  )  but  that  isn't  all  that  it's  good  for.  his  voice  box  still  functions  much  like  a  human's  does,  which  means  in  order  to  SPEAK  he  needs  to  have  air.  if  you  cut  off  his  oxygen,  it  won't  cause  him  any  physical  harm  —  he'll  likely  just  get  mildly  annoyed  at  being  silenced.  it  also  means  he  isn't  able  to  talk  somewhere  he  can't  breathe;  underwater,  any  place  devoid  of  air. he can still survive in them, he just has to get creative with his gesturing.

[some-little-infamy]

heart of a rider, mind of a scribe

(Read on AO3)

Violet tries, and fails, to ignore the knocking on the door to her room.

No, not her room - it’s simply the room she’s staying in, because she’s so far from anywhere she would call home. Her brother is on the other side of that door, she’s certain of it. She’s learned to tell his knocks from Xaden’s, not that it matters. She won’t open the door for either of them, she hasn’t for days.

She can’t face them, or anyone else right now. Every time she thinks she’s regained control of her thoughts and emotions they begin to spiral again until she’s barely able to breathe, her vision dimming around the edges.

How could she be so foolish?

She’s a Sorrengail. This entire year she’s been so hellbent on living up to her mother and siblings’ names, of the Sorrengail name, that she forgot there was another Sorrengail with a legacy to uphold.

Worse than anything else that’s befallen her these past few days, is the realization that she let her father’s memory down. He raised her to value knowledge, to utilize the power of words and stories. She knows how important they are because he told her, ingraining it into every facet of her life and studies. If she only followed her gut instinct to bring the book of fables… if only she kept her head and her wits about her amongst all the physical conditioning and… and…

Violet doesn’t realize she’s crying again until the tears are soaking through her shirt, pressing it cold and damp against her chest.

She had everything she needed to figure this out weeks ago. Months ago. The incidents that never made it to their classroom reports - the scroll she accidentally read, and the attacks her sister was involved in - all the information was there. All the signs were there, right in front of her face, but she was too focused on her own goddamn drama to piece it all together.

She should’ve known, should’ve realized sooner.

She could’ve figured out the truth behind the Wyverns and Venin.

She could’ve saved so many lives.

She could’ve saved Liam.

Instead, she spent her time training to fight, or worrying about her friendship with Dain, or fixating over her stupid crush on Xaden. Nothing mattered except fitting in. Nothing mattered except surviving, getting stronger, and proving herself physically. She let everything else fall to the wayside, including everything that made her her. She lost herself a little bit more every day she spent as a Rider.

And because of that, she lost so much more.

On some deeper level Violet knows that this isn’t her fault. She knows that there are people much higher up than she is to blame for the lack of information and transparency. She wonders how many more secrets her mother kept that harmed so many more than they helped. Is that the legacy she’s so keen to uphold? One rooted in selfishness and the sacrifice of others to serve her own best interests?

Violet tells herself that she’s nothing like her mother, that she actually saved a lot of lives by figuring it out in the end… but it isn’t enough.

She isn’t enough, not split in two the way she is.

The heart of a rider and the brain of a scribe, constantly at war.

A Sorrengail, through and through.

It’s time she starts acting like one - all of it, everything that comes with her lineage, not just whatever bits and pieces she feels like handpicking for any given moment.

Violet wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt in careful dabs, not wanting to add to the redness she’s certain is already exhibited there, before standing up and making her way to the door.

There’s work to be done.

[cupids-crystals]

Cupid Crystals (Fred Weasley)

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: Fred becomes infatuated with reader after accidentally coming into contact with a new shop product.

A/N: No warnings, just fluff!! In case anyone was wondering, this is where my username comes from!! No reader pronouns. My requests are open!!

Dating Fred Weasley meant that you found yourself volunteering in the joke shop night and day. You stocked shelves on the weekends and spent many midnights helping with inventory counts. Nearly half of your dates with the oldest Weasley twin took place in the small office while George took care of the customers.

You loved being in the shop, though. The atmosphere was something indescribable; the sounds of laughter seemed to be permanently ingrained in the air and you wondered how anyone could be upset surrounded by the colorful and curious products.

Fred and George had been tirelessly working on a new line of products for months and the unveiling was only a few days away. One product was a new take on a wizarding favorite – a love potion that only lasted a short amount of time.

Fred was stacking the new love potions – Cupid Crystals as he so cleverly named them – onto the display while you and George were working to set up other areas of the shop. The bright pink concoctions swirled in heart shaped glass bottles as Fred crowded them onto the display stand in the front of the store. He absentmindedly slid the potions out of the box, mind focused on the work the three of you had left before the unveiling of the new products.

Scanning the store for his next task, Fred hurriedly shoved the last bottle onto the full surface. His jarring movement pushed one blush colored bottle off the stand, causing it to crash into the floor. Hearing the commotion, you glanced over to see Fred crouched over the mess a few feet from you. You made your way over to him, ready to help clean whatever mess he had made.

“D’you need help, Freddie?”

The redhead turned to face you, his eyes wide and a dopey grin taking over his features. His hand raised towards you, fingers outstretched to grab onto the hem of your shirt.

“Y/n, I’m so glad you’re here. Missed you so much.” His words were lethargic and slurred, causing you to raise your eyebrows at his odd speech. His fingers curled tighter into the material of your shirt, pulling you closer to him.

“You alright, Fred?”

He nodded, slinging his arms around your waist from where he sat in the floor. When you glanced over, you noticed that one of the Cupid Crystal bottles was shattered next to him. You quickly connected the dots, realizing that Fred must’ve be acting this way because he inhaled too much of the love potion.

His head came to rest on your covered abdomen and you ran your fingers through his bright hair, stifling your laughter at the state of your boyfriend. He was practically purring from the attention as you scratched lightly at his scalp. George had made his way over to the two of you, eyes wide at the scene before him.

“Is he alright?”

You nodded with a look of apprehension. “He inhaled some of the love potion, I think.”

George huffed, eyes downcast onto his brother. He chuckled slightly at the predicament as he moved towards the two of you. Hearing his footsteps, Fred glanced up at George and then up at you.

“Well, he isn’t going to be any help for a while. Why don’t you try to keep him upstairs while the potion wears off? Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

Listening to George’s instructions, you nodded and attempted to pull the lanky redhead off of you. Fred only tightened his grip and pressed the side of his face further into the material of your shirt. George was in a state of laughter as he left to grab his wand to clean spilled potion.

Trying again to get your boyfriend to move, you cupped his cheeks in your palms and pulled his attention to you. “Fred, darling, will you come with me? I need to get something from the apartment.”

He nodded and rose to his feet, his hands scrambling to keep ahold of you in any way he could. The two of you shuffled towards the stairs, Fred’s arms wrapped around your shoulders while you lugged him through the shop; his awkward and clumsy steps made the trip upstairs nearly twice as long as usual.

When you finally opened the front door, you pulled Fred to the living room and deposited him onto the couch. He curled into the soft material as you glanced around the room for something to keep him occupied. Deciding that you weren’t close enough, Fred sat up suddenly, bringing your attention back to him. He grabbed onto your hand and tugged you to sit next to him on the couch.

“Y/n, you look so pretty. You’re too far away, wanna see how pretty you are.”

Your face warmed at his overt compliments; Fred was always vocal about his affection towards you, but the sudden openness to his words made your cheeks burn.

Fred couldn’t seem to sit still beside you. He moved his hands over your arms, watching his fingertips as they ran across your skin. Still under the affect of the potion, he muttered a string of praises directed at you. The words blended together as he rambled on without a filter.

“- and I just love you so much. Did you know that? Did I tell you yet? I should tell you more. I’ll tell you ten times a day. No, a hundred!”

You groaned at the constant chatter coming from the boy beside you. Surely, you thought, he would pass out if he didn’t take a breath soon. An idea popped into your head of how to pass the time.

“Fred, darling, why don’t we take a nap?”

He stilled at your suggestion, seemingly pondering the option. In a hesitant voice, he answered, “you’ll stay with me?”

You nodded earnestly, moving to lay flat on the couch. You patted the spot next to you, prompting him to lay down as well. The two of you were in a tangle of limbs as Fred tried to stay attached to you. His head rested on your chest and his arms were wound tightly around your frame, practically covering you completely as his body laid overtop yours.

The two of you rested in the quiet apartment, the only sound being Fred’s occasional murmured compliment. His eyelids drooped and he relaxed his grip on you, content with the rise and fall of your chest against his cheek. You were clearly amused with the situation as you giggled at the words tumbling from his lips.

“S’pretty, y/n.”

“Shh.”

“Just love you so much.”

“I love you too, darling. Go to sleep, please.”

After a few rounds of back-and-forth chatter, his light snores filled your ears. You sighed in relief, hoping that he would sleep away the effects of the potion. Your fingers ran over his back lightly, finding comfort in his peaceful aura.

Closing your eyes, you began to feel drowsy as well. Before you could fall asleep, though, you heard the front door crack open and the sound of footsteps move through the apartment. George appeared in your line of sight, a mischievous grin taking over his features.

“Alright, y/n?”

You rolled your eyes and replied in a quiet voice, “if you wake him up, I’m giving you the love potion next.”

He laughed airily and held his hands up in surrender. George looked over the saccharine image in front of him; Fred’s eyebrows were pinched slightly, his cheek smushed against your shirt as he held you in his embrace. Even though the day didn’t go as planned, he was happy to see the two of you have this moment together. George grabbed a thin blanket and draped it over the two of you.

“At least we know the potion works.”

[itsmeevie01]

A Moment in Time

ok, so. a little disclaimer before we get into the good stuff. Cannon is in no way whatsoever being followed in this. honestly? im not even sure that i REMEBER cannon at this point. that said, cannon is non applicable. at. all. 

moving on. YES, i WILL finish B!DBWM stuff eventually. but uh...not today. i just mentally cant. it. will. come. when. my. brain. can. handle. the. world. that. i. had. tailored. for. it. 

ALSO this is going to be kinda sporatic, but the goal (not end all be all but) is to have this wrapped in a pretty little package and finished (at least on my end) by the end of february.

and now....onto the stuff you came here for!

---

Marinette was running late to school when she met him. She ran into the boy and stumbled back, flailing to catch herself before she fell. He looked down at her owlishly, before looking around. By the time he had returned his gaze to her, the teen had pulled herself back together. He smiled and nodded at her, before moving to go around. When Marinette had pulled herself together enough to call a short “sorry!”, He was already gone.

That was three weeks ago. Now, she was looking at a picture of their interaction, where it blared on the front page of the newspaper that Jagged had sent her. When Marinette had received the package, she had been confused. Jagged wasn’t supposed to send her another demo for a few weeks. They were still working on singles. When she had opened the box and found five different American publications with her on their front page, the teen designer had shrieked. With shaking hands, she picked up the top one and studied the headline.

HAS BRUCE WAYNE’S WARD FOUND PARISIAN LOVE?

The bold text was catching, sure, but Marinette was caught on WHO it was placing her with. Someone she had never met. The second one had a picture of her next to Jagged at an event, and a picture of the boy next to a blonde girl. The headline wasn’t much better than the first.

TIMELINE OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN MDC AND THE HEIR TO WAYNE INERPRISES.

The teen snorted. She was starting to see the pattern. Putting the tabloid down the girl moved onto the next one. This one had, once again, a zoomed in picture of the five second interaction between her and a stranger. The title, however, was different than the first two.

ALL OF BRUCE WAYNE’S CHILDREN, AND THE INSIDE SCOOP ON HIS NEWEST DAUGHTER

She squinted, laughter bubbling up a little as she observed the piece of fiction. Whoever the Bruce Wayne was, Marinette hopped that he was able to combat this, because she had no intention of letting this fly.

Tim and Bruce were staring at the pile of papers in mild shock. When Jared had reached out to them in mild panic, they had been confused. His panic had been explained when the rocker had arrived carrying a stack of tabloid literature a foot thick. When he had thunk’d the stack down on Bruce’s desk, the businessman’s shock had been more than notable. When Tim had picked up the first few publications the initial look on his face was mirth, but it quickly morphed into shock, then panic. When he handed the top item to Bruce, the older man frowned. When the second pamphlet made its way to his hands, Bruce paused. His next move was to call the Wayne family lawyers. when he turned back to his old friend, all the faces in the room told the same grim tale of what was to come.

When Tim found out that it was Jared’s niece that he had accidentally run into in the brief moment in Paris, he wasn’t sure whether he should be more stressed by it, or if it was by pure luck. When Bruce’s friend went on to explain that the girl would probably already suing the reports and papers that had published the rumor, the young CEO was impressed. To have a lawyer on hand like that was…surprising, considering that she couldn’t be older than 18.

When he asked the rocker if he thought the girl would let anyone go after her, he laughed. Then, Jared Stone explained that the girl was known in Paris for squishing rumors with surprising efficiency.

That evening, Bruce invited his childhood friend home for dinner, and the star spent the evening telling stories of their capers as children, with Alfred grimacing in agreement with the stories. Partway through dinner, Jared’s phone went off. While the rest of the family tensed, glancing to Alfred, their guest frowned at his phone before rushing to answering. “Hey Little Rocker! How’s Pari- oh. So, Penny was more efficient then I thought she’d be. I- yes I figured that you may want to hear. Do- No! Marinette, what!” here, the man paused, his head cocked to the side, his eyes screwed up in thought. “No luv! Sue them within an inch of their lives! You more then have that right.” Here, the rocker paused before he laughed. “Tell that buzzing bee of yours that she’s a good friend. Alright, Miss Mari. I’ll ring you when I’m back on that side of the Atlantic.” He laughed again, “See you soon, Marinette.” The table stayed quiet, waiting for the man to give an indication on the status of the conversation. “Well, Brucie, expect to hear from my niece in the next few day, or at least, her team of lawyers.” the Wayne patriarch blinked before nodding in hidden surprise.

When the family was talking during patrol that evening, Tim grumbled. The 18-year-old was still taken aback that the press had even seen the momentary interaction almost a month ago. As his brothers listened in, many of them started to make fun of the teen. When Jason tuned in, he dropped in the middle of tale. At his confusion, Tim sighed and started over, again. While the family was laughing over his run-in with the press, the former Robin shook his head and silenced his family. He had a feeling he wouldn’t live this one down for a while.

Originally, Jason had found Tim’s predicament hilarious. Of course, the kid had to have the worst run-ins with the press. Then, he had picked up one of the many tabloids with the story. When he had seen the pictures, all mirth left the resurrected vigilante. The noirette that was looking up at him from the page? Yeah. He knew her. Better than anyone else, actually. With shaking hands, the young man paged to the story. What he found was…illuminating. So. She had been adopted. In France. In Paris. After forcing his lungs to draw breath, Jason pulled out his phone. He had arrangements to make.

The day after Jagged had sent her the gossip rags that were considered journalism, Marinette strode into school with a scowl so ingrained in in her features that anyone who didn’t know her would think the expression was permanent. When she stalked into the Lycée classroom, Chloé grinned at her from where she had settled in the front row. Marinette nodded at her friend as she slid in next to her. Lila came skipping in moments later, a cruel smile playing on her lips, before falling when she saw the bone quaking scowl resting on her nemesis’ face. “oh Marinette! Did something happen? Did…did you anger your parents? Did they find out about all those men?” the other girl huffed before turning to her. Lila froze as she was met with the iciest glare that she had seen in years.

“oh Lila. That’s so cute. It almost sounds like you still think that your little stories affect me at all. That’s…adorable.” The Italian girl shrunk under the younger girl’s stare. Suddenly, she understood why people had been warning her to leave the teen alone. this girl, she was brutal. “lucky for you, you’re not the one I’m after, this time. My lawyers have bigger fish to fry.” The newer addition to the classroom gulped, her throat suddenly very dry. It occurred to her that maybe Marinette had let her take control of the class. After all, if they turn that easily, why would she want them for friends. The smaller girl nodded as she watched the realization run over Lila’s face. Raising her eyebrows, the Eurasian girl motioned her classmate along, sending a cruel smile after her.

Chloé waited until the little liar was gone before giggling at her friend’s reaction to the girl who had become their daily annoyance. “I’m guessing you saw what’s been running in the American news? I thought it wouldn’t take long for you to respond. Are a plethora of lawsuits on the way?” Marinette giggled slightly as her severe demander giving way to the internal glee that was consuming the teen over the sheer chaos that was to come.

When Jason touched down in Paris, he tensed. The atmosphere in the city was less carefree than he remembered. There was an air that actually reminded him of Gotham. Tense. Waiting or the other shoe to drop. The expectation that your day was going to go wrong set from the moment one woke up. Pulling out his phone, the Gotamite looked up the address to the bakery that he had found when digging online. If today went the way he was hoping it would, the bakery would be his only stop for the day. Of course, he didn’t count on Gina.

When she called him over from where she was standing by her bike, Jason had to smile. The woman was part of the reason that he wasn’t still camping out in Gotham, waiting to kill a certain billionaire. Once the spry biker had latched onto his arm, the young man knew that his mission would have to wait just a bit. After all, he owed Gina almost everything he had.

[after-witch]

Adoration and Pain (Vampire!Yandere Overhaul x Reader)

Title: Adoration and Pain (Vampire!Yandere Overhaul x Reader)

Synopsis: You are his pure, sweet doe. His perfect angel. The most exquisite blood bank that a vampire, that Kai Chisaki, could ask for. 

Word Count: 2243

Notes: yandere, vampire, descriptions of violence and mild gore, mentions of past suicide attempt

You sit on your bed, legs crossed, and take a calming breath. You remind yourself of the things that you know, the things that you can count on. It keeps you from panicking, it keeps you sedated while you wait for him to arrive.

The things that you know: It is night time. You are in your room. You are wearing a pale blue night gown, the one with a small blood stain on the lace wrist cuff that won’t come out. Kai will be coming soon. 

You still know your name. You still remember, however dimly, what it was like to feel the sun on your skin, the glowing warmth of a summer day, the cool brightness of a cheery blue sky in the wintertime. Kai will be coming soon. You have no way of tracking time now, in the small suite he’s crafted for you, nor did he like you attempting to keep track of the days.

What is a day when you’ve lived hundreds of years, after all?

Kai will be coming soon.

Time is not a blip for you, though, poor mortal thing that you are; instead, the days--the nights, the nights--drag on endlessly, sometimes feeling like an exquisitely painful, delirious dream. Grounding yourself when you wake up is the only way to keep things from completely blurring together, keeping things separate enough to maintain sanity.

He visits you every night to feed. To tear open your skin and drink the oozing life blood inside. Pure blood, he’d said, when he first took you away from everything you’d ever known. Sweet blood, clean, refreshing--the finest blood he’d ever tasted, and now that he’d tasted it, Kai Chisaki could not fathom anything less.

You were his endless dinner, providing sustenance night after night. Never mind the bruising, never mind the pain, never mind the sounds, those sickening slurps of your blood being feasted upon. Never mind the fear that still gripped you every time he removed his mask, revealing sharp, predatory fangs that could only be hidden by keeping his mouth shut tight--or by wearing a mask.

 You know the rules, now. He’s never been so kind as to lay them out neatly, organized on parchment and ink, ready for you to read and repeat until they’re drummed into your pretty little brain. But he’s expected you to know them, nonetheless. They’ve been learned night by night, in a repetition of a different kind. You used to scream and fight and claw, beast-like. 

That was ages ago, when you still had the strength, physically and otherwise. Before you’d become a paler, fragile thing that gets dizzy, sometimes, when you stand up too quickly. Before you learned the rules, and before you’d learned that obeying him made your life a little easier. Not by much, no, not by much. But a little was an enormous thing in the existence you’d been trapped in.

He keeps you in nightgowns. White ones, pastel ones, with lace and frills, all in the softest of fabrics that feel like a dream against your skin. They must have cost a fortune. You’d said as much once, and he merely smiled at you patronizingly. “Such things aren’t appropriate for ladies to talk about,” he’d said, and you never brought it up again.

You sleep during the day. Or what you assume must be the day, for it is when he leaves you. You are not afforded the luxury of windows. He can’t take the risk, you see, of you accidentally forgetting to close the curtains. Not that you would ever, ever try to kill him, of course. You were pure and sweet and a doe, a lamb, the sweetest thing on hell or Earth.

Sometimes, when he murmurs these things against your wrist, your own blood and flesh brimming against his darkened lips, you wonder if he’s genuinely forgotten how you used to behave. You were not a pure and sweet doe when you’d broken the rail of your bed and tried to stake him with it. You were not a lamb when you broke your mirror and used the glass to stab him, or when you’d found a forgotten shard underneath your bed and sliced your wrists open in an unsuccessful bid to end it all. Both earned punishments, the second more so--you’d tried to deprive him of your sweetness, your purity, your beauty. A terrible thing to do, for someone like him, someone so everlasting and lonely. And hungry.

That was, however, in the past. Weeks ago or months or maybe years. You don’t know, and you know better than to ask--except sometimes when you’re delirious from blood loss and forget yourself.  He’s forgiving of those slip-ups, most of the time. You even have a new mirror, and every morning--night, you remind yourself--before he arrives, you get dressed in a fresh nightgown and brush your hair in front of it.

Which is what you must do now. You slowly put your legs over the side of the bed, rising carefully. You don’t want to pass out on the floor. Once your mind steadies, you make your way over to the large, immovable chest pressed against the wall of your room. You open it, relishing the cool smell of wood that accompanies the ancient creak of the hinges. Inside are your night-gowns and under-linens. You lift up a delicate nightgown made with white muslin; it’s trimmed in exquisite lace and has a ruffled trim that ends at your ankles. You grab an accompanying chemise to slip on underneath.

The curtain on the mirror is there to keep you sane, whenever he feeds. He has no reflection, a fact which used to make you cross yourself; once, it had slipped off while he greedily drank down your blood, and the sight of wounds pulsing out gore like magic had made you pass out. You cautiously slide it over, letting it fall to the ground with a theatrical flourish.

You stand in front of the mirror, slip off your worn gown and under-dress and set them aside. You don’t pay your naked body, thinner and paler like the rest of you, much mind; instead you swiftly change into your fresh clothes, wanting to be ready for his arrival. You smooth down the fabric with your hands, then lean over inside the chest to grab your brush.

Your hair is longer than you like it, which makes it tangle and twist terribly; but he likes it long, so you don’t dare ask to cut it. But you make do, patiently unweaving the tangles from all the tossing and turning you do at night. The strands feel a bit greasy, and a pang of anxiety plagues you--you should have bathed before going to sleep the night before. He likes you to be presentable. You wonder if you have time to wash your hair, at least, but the unmistakable steps coming up the stairs answer your query for you: there is no time.

Thump, thump, thump. You rush, awash in dizziness as you quickly toss your things inside the trunk and swiftly lean down to replace the fallen curtain. Thump, thump, thump. Your head is still reeling by the time you climb back onto your bed, pulling your legs up and curling them to the side. You take a few gulping breaths to calm yourself, just in time to hear the large, heavy door to your suite unlocking.

Before you were taken captive by a vampire, you imagined them to all wear fantastical cloaks, dull and dusty from mausoleums and nights spent roaming the earth. You imagined them to have bat-like ears and claws. You would never think him a vampire, to look at him. He has tousled black hair and striking eyes. He wears a refined, yet simple, suit. It’s only when he takes off the mask and speaks--when those fangs, hidden and terrible--reveal themselves, that his true nature becomes evident.

Tonight, like all nights, he locks the door behind him after he enters. You don’t have the strength to run, even if you could imagine escaping from this place. But it’s a habit, you think, long-ingrained in an immortal creature.

He approaches the bed with a calm, almost soothing demeanor. “Did you sleep well? Are you hungry?”

Pleasantries, pleasantries. Spoken so softly and sweetly. He sits down on the bed next to you, and you nod. You wonder if your eyes are as wide as they feel. Maybe that’s why he calls you a doe, a lamb. You tremble before him like an animal to the slaughter--only your slaughter never ends with death, only with pain and nightmares and fever dreams.

His hand reaches up to pet your cheek. It feels cold and stiff to the touch. “I’ll bring you dinner later, pet.” His hand strokes your cheek, and you imagine it would feel comforting, if it didn’t feel so clammy. You lean your cheek into his touch, as you’ve learned to do. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You nod again. He likes it when you are quiet and compliant and meek. He’s said so, and you believe him, for it is your quiet and compliant behavior that earned you new things; books and a silver hair brush and even a necklace, gold and rimmed with blood-red rubies, though he’d yet to give you anything but nightgowns to wear it with.

His hand travels from your cheek, down your jawline. You shiver as he traces a healing, bruising wound on your neck. He continues his exploration of your body, roaming hands ghosting against your breasts and then down, down to your thighs. You tremble, and he smiles.

“Hand me your wrist.” Your arm raises without a thought. Memories of pain and terror and screams flood through you, heating up your skin and making your heartbeat thrum. He rolls the sleeves of your nightgown back, and a small part of you is thankful--it’s such a nice dress, and you’d have to have it spoiled with blood.

Kai lifts your wrist until it rests against his cold cheeks. He presses his nose against the thin, ever-bruising skin, against the blue veins that wait underneath. He groans, softly, inhaling your scent and feeling the warmth of the life flowing through you.

“So pure,” he murmurs. “So precious.” His lips part, revealing the eager fangs behind him.  

“All mine…”

Holding your wrist in one hand, he brings his mouth closer, opening wide and then biting into the soft flesh with a sickening sound.

You hold your breath. You don’t want to scream, you don’t want to--

But the pain floods you, as it does every night, and you cry out anyway. You moan in pain, and it merely makes him moan in return. His grip is unrelenting as he eagerly begins to drink, sucking blood and even bits of flesh into his mouth with practiced ease. The sensation of his tongue lapping inside the gory wound makes your stomach churn.

Your wrist feels like it is being stabbed in a thousand different ways; burned and dissected and pounded by a hammer. You forget yourself and look away from the sight of Kai feasting on you, the sight of your blood smearing down his chin.

“Mind your manners,” he says quietly against your open wound. You look back instantly, feeling weary and slightly dizzy and tired. You hope he will be done soon. You don’t want to pass out again. You want something to eat. You want to stay up late enough to read a few pages in a book, if your eyesight isn’t too blurry.

Your vision does blur, for a moment, and when it returns Kai is running a sharpened nail down your wrist. It burns, as it always does, but it heals the gaping wound with barely a trace of a scar. Nothing can be done about the bruising, the blue and grey and green mottled skin that takes ages to fade away. He usually bites the same spot again before those can properly heal.

You let out a shuddering cry of relief as he finishes, as he lifts his fingers--now warm, thrumming with your secondhand life running through them--and wipes away your tears. His fingers stroke your cheek again, leaving behind a smear of your own blood, and this time you lean into his hand without effort.

“Such a precious thing you are, such a delicate thing.”

You nod, barely listening, thinking instead to the promise of a dinner, the promise of a few pages in a book. You will never leave. He’s made sure of that, weakening you in mind and body. You will be here as long as he’s hungry. As long as he needs to feed. And he will always need to feed. You will never leave.

[thewickedkings]

Between the Two of Us ~ Chapter 10

Masterlist || AO3 ||  Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Summary:  Jurdan High school AU. Rivals Jude and Cardan are forced to partner up  for a history project, and drama ensues. Filled with banter, pranks, an unhealthy amount of pining, and Jude being clueless as usual.

Trigger Warnings: Mild cursing. Please let me know if there’s anything I missed!

~~~

A/N: This chapter is even longer than the last one, at 4k words. Also, you’re welcome in advance.

That Sunday was one of the busiest at the café. Students were streaming in to work on all their assignments before Thanksgiving break, and by the time they caught a break, Jude was out of breath.

“Damn, I don’t think it’s ever been this busy,” Lili said, wiping her forehead.

“No wonder no one else wanted this shift.”

Lili groaned. “I have to go home and write not two, but three essays. I know I shouldn’t have procrastinated, but it was my birthday week.”

“I’ll help you edit them if you want,” Jude offered. For some reason, she actually enjoyed editing essays, and Lili had definitely taken advantage of that in the past. “And you know it’s called birthday, not birth week,” Jude snarked.

“Shut up, Ms. I-made-googly-eyes-with-Cardan-all-night.”

“I did not.”

“Yes you did. Now please tell me what happened, because I know something did. The sexual tension when you guys came back down was disgusting.”

Thankfully, Jude was saved by a customer who had walked in. But Lili was stubborn, and after Jude took her order, she pressed, “Nope. Spill.”

Jude grimaced before recounting the incident, which she now referred to in her head as ‘the bathroom incident.’

Lili gasped comically. “Oh my God. Cardan has more game than I expected. Kissing your thumb after band aiding it? Hold on.” She called out the customer’s name, leaving the drink on the counter, before returning. “Damn, that’s smooth.”

Jude groaned. “I know.”

“Wait, did anything happen when he drove you home?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Jude blushed even more as she remembered the drive. They had been bickering as usual, as if that could stop them both from thinking about the increasing tension between them.      

And then the silence they’d both been avoiding like cowards descended. The painful, awkward as hell silence.

By the time they got to her house, Jude was anxious to get out of the car. She reached for the door handle right as Cardan spoke, staring straight ahead. “So we’re really not going to talk about it?”

She froze, not expecting them to address it. “Talk about what?”

“Jude.”

“Cardan,” she mimicked, and he rolled his eyes.

“Fine then.” He pushed his door open at the same time as Jude.

“What are you doing?” “Walking you to your door.”

“I can walk to my door by myself.” Her foot caught on the edge of the sidewalk, and she’d stumbled before righting herself.

“Righttt,” Cardan drawled and followed her up the sidewalk.

She ignored him, pulling out her keys and unlocking the front door. “Okay, you can go now, loser.”

“Weirdo,” Cardan said.

“You’re a weirdo.”

Cardan snickered. “Nice comeback.”

“Shut up.” She felt his gaze on her back and was thankful for the dark, because she was blushing for no reason.

“You shut up.”

They both snickered like the immature idiots they were, and Jude knew she had steered clear of the conversation for now.

When Cardan reached his car, he hollered. “We’re going to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she hollered right back.

Cardan just grinned. “See you tomorrow, Duarte.”

Her expression must have been doing something weird at the memory, because Lili snorted. “You’re in deep shit.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Um, maybe first off, actually admit you like him?”

“I do not.”

The Bomb raised her eyebrows.

Jude groaned. “I can’t like him. Not him of all people.”

“But you doooo,” the Bomb sing songed. “You and Cardan are in-”

“Lili, I will not help you edit your essay if you don’t shut up right now.”

She went silent immediately. “That’s just cruel.”

Jude grinned. “So… how’s Van?”

Lili glared. “You’re not subtle at all.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

She wiped down the counter, silent for a beat before she sighed. “Fine. He’s just- I think I need to move on.” Jude opened her mouth to interrupt, but the Bomb continued. “I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, I think he likes me like that, but I don’t know… he’s always so skittish when I try to take things further. And I don’t want to ruin things between us.”

Jude knew there was more to the story, but before she could say anything, a group of girls entered the café, and Jude had to take their orders. She dismissed it, figuring she’d bring it up later.

 ~~~

Jude didn’t see Cardan at school the next two days. Meeting her college application deadlines took up most of her time, and before she knew it, it was Thanksgiving Break. Vivi came home from college, and suddenly their house was much more lively than usual.

Before Thanksgiving dinner, Vivi stomped into Jude’s room and shut the door behind her. “I know I haven’t visited much, but what’s going on between you and Taryn?”

Jude pulled out her headphones from her ears. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“That’s what she said too!”

“Viv, just leave it.”

“Well, you’re going to have to figure it out, because even Oak’s annoyed at this point.”

“He is?”

“You are all idiots,” Vivi mumbled on her way out of the room, before popping back in. “Oh, by the way, I think your mac n cheese is burning.”

“Shit! Why didn’t you say that first?”

Throughout dinner, Vivi proceeded to force Jude and Taryn into conversation. The ease at which Vivi slipped back into their dynamic was uncanny after so many months away, but Jude supposed that was the way with family.

Madoc and Oriana carried the turkey to the table while Jude prepared for the grand reveal. Oak bounced in his seat in anticipation of what had becomes Jude Thanksgiving tradition. When Jude pulled back the foil to reveal her mac n cheese, it looked perfectly fine. Except for unmistakably charred edges

Taryn snorted. “It’s definitely better than last year’s.”

Jude cracked a grin. Maybe there was something to say about Thanksgiving in bringing the family together.

 ~~~

Jude spent the end of the break hanging out with Lili, Van, and Garrett. The weird energy between Lili and Van was palpable, and Jude instinctively looked for Cardan to raise her eyebrows at before realizing he wasn’t there. Cardan had texted that he was busy with family stuff on the group chat, and Jude couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding her. Logically, she knew she was being self-centered and he probably was busy, but the thought stung more than it should have.

Monday came far too quickly, and Jude rubbed her eyes as she walked to her first class, bumping into the last person she expected to see: Locke. For the past few weeks, she’d been messing with him, but not too obviously that he would suspect she knew about what he did. Her revenge plan was still brewing, but until then, she could have some fun.

She and Lili made a game out of replying to his texts with the weirdest responses, just to see how much he could take. Her favorite was when she had ‘accidentally’ sent him a picture of two tampon boxes, asking which one she should get. When he had responded with a ‘whichever one fits??’ Jude had exploded with laughter before clarifying that it wasn’t meant for him, except that it definitely was.

When she’d asked him if he wanted to come to dinner to meet her sister and her parents, with an emphasis on her dad, he had avoided her for the next two weeks.

Which made it even harder to control her laugh when his face paled when he saw her. “Sorry, I’d better get going. I’m going to be late.”

“Right. Let me know if you can make it to dinner. My dad really wants to meet you.”

Locke practically tripped as he ran away from her.

“Damn, Duarte, what did you say to scare him?” Cardan’s familiar voice drawled out from behind her, and a grin escaped her lips, a small part of her relieved that he sought her out. She hadn’t realized how ingrained he was into her routine until she hadn’t seen him for a week.

His pace matched with hers until they were walking side by side, falling into their familiar groove.

“Just mentioned how much my dad wanted to meet him for dinner.”

Cardan grinned and handed her a cup full of coffee.

“What’s this for?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. It’s black. I don’t know why you would willingly drink that, but you do you.”

“Yes, okay, but why’d you get me coffee?”

“Consider it me paying you back for accidentally spilling your coffee that one time.”

“Accidentally, my ass.” She frowned at her cup. “It’s not poisoned is it?”

“Fine. If you don’t want it, I’ll find some other psychopath who likes black coffee.”

Jude hugged her coffee protectively to her chest. “No. Mine.”

“I figured. Also, we need to finish our project. It’s due…“

“Next week, I know,” Jude cut off. “We still haven’t bought a poster.”

Cardan groaned. “We should have gotten one from Dollar Tree.”

“Well maybe you could’ve gotten that instead of a tiara,” she said, grinning up at him as they stopped in front of her class.

Cardan rolled his eyes. “So are you free Thursday night?”

“Yeah. Text me when later.”

“Good. We’ll talk then,” he said, with an extra emphasis on the word talk. His eyes dropped shamelessly to her lips, long enough that it was anything but unintentional, before he smirked and strode away.

Jude called after him, unwilling to let him get the last word. “About the project!”

“Of course. What did you think I was talking about?” He disappeared before she could respond.

Kissing. She was thinking about kissing him. Ugh.

She grumbled angrily to herself as she placed her bag next to her desk. When she caught Taryn staring at her, she snapped, “What?”

Taryn opened her mouth to speak, but the bell interrupted her. “Nothing.”

 ~~~

After soccer practice on Thursday, Jude went home to take a shower. While blow drying her hair she texted Cardan to figure out when they were meeting up. He immediately responded with ‘can’t do my place,” and Jude frowned. After a couple messages, they ended up deciding to go to the library at Cardan’s suggestion.

Oak was throwing a fit over something or another as she headed out the door, and Oriana paused their argument to place a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Heading out?” It wasn’t in an overbearing tone, just gentle.

“Yeah. To the library.” Jude hesitated, battling the urge to say something more. Oriana might not have been her real mother, but Jude realized what a blessing it was to have someone that checked up on her and cared the way Oriana did. She swallowed and said, “I’ll be back soon,” and headed out.

By the time she got to the library, Cardan had already texted that he was there. Seconds after she turned off her car, a knock sounded on her window, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Cardan grinned sheepishly when she opened her door. “Sorry.”

She shrugged it off and handed him the poster she from the passenger seat. She glanced around the parking lot for his car. “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.” At the shock on her face, Cardan added, “Don’t look at me like that. Just because we live in a suburb doesn’t mean I have to drive everywhere. Plus, it’s only a fifteen minute walk.”

“Okay, but… car. Fast. Walk. Slow.”

Cardan rolled his eyes and tugged her wrist impatiently. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

They walked through the archway that opened up into the entry area of the library, ‘welcome’ inscribed into the stone. The wall behind the front desk was patterned with hexagons of different pastel colors, and the librarian behind the desk gave them a friendly smile. Her dark brown hair was tied up into a ponytail, strands of gray beginning to appear.

“Cardan, nice to see you. I see you’ve brought a friend,” she said to Cardan. Her honey-colored eyes glanced at Jude with curiosity.

“Um, yeah. Mel, this is Jude. We’re doing a project together.”

Jude introduced herself, trying to hide her own curiosity.

Mel smiled at Jude warmly. “It’s nice to meet one of Cardan’s friends.” Turning to Cardan, she added, “The back room is empty, if you two want to head there.”

Cardan thanked her and gestured Jude to follow him. They passed the kid’s section, which was littered with bright signs and seating, and when they were out of hearing distance, Jude asked. “So… you come here a lot?”

“Um, I guess. I came a lot when I was a kid, so sometimes I stop by.” The tips of his ears turned pink, and damn, Jude felt something squeeze in her chest at the sight.

“Cool.”

His head jerked up at her response, and whatever he saw in her expression had him reaching for her hand and twining their fingers together. He tugged her hand, and she followed him through the stacks, the only sound their footsteps and the comforting hum of the library.

She grinned at the floor. This boy never ceased to surprise her.

They stopped in front of a room divided from the rest of the library by a wall of glass, and Cardan pushed open the door. The opposite end of the room was also completely glass, and the window looked out over the lake behind the library. A table with four chairs was on the left, and a cozy armchair sat on the right.

Cardan let go of her hand, and she ached to pull it back to hers, feel the warm callouses of his palm against hers. Instead she put the poster on the table and pulled out her laptop. “This is nice. I’m surprised no one else took it.”

“Mel saves it for me sometimes.”

Jude snorted. “You really do charm everyone, don’t you?”

Cardan sat down across her, humming in agreement. “It’s only a matter of time before I charm you too.”

“Keep waiting.”

Cardan kicked her leg under the table, and she bit back a smile. If his leg stayed there, pressed against the side of hers while they worked, neither of them mentioned it.

 ~~~

“Not bad, if I do say so myself,” Jude said, as she looked down at their poster. Yes, it did feel like a fifth grade science fair project, but Jude was still proud of it. Something about cutting and gluing things together made it seem so much more satisfying.

“Not bad? This is fucking gorgeous.” Cardan pushed his curls off his forehead, his silver rings catching the light. Jude’s brain automatically snagged on how unfair it was that guys could have such attractive hands. Like how did that even make sense?

Her gaze caught on them now, eyes tracing the veins and the flex of his fingers where they tapped against the edge of the table. She’d noticed that Cardan always seemed to fidget with his hands, unable to keep them unoccupied.

“Jude?”

“Hm?” She pushed her thoughts away and tried to focus. “Yes, gorgeous,” she agreed.

He gave her a strange look, and she felt a flush creeping up her neck. She started hastily picking up the scraps of paper and tidying up the table. When she dared to meet his gaze, he looked like he was battling himself with something.

“What’s up with you and Locke?” Cardan blurted a few seconds later.

“What do you mean?”

This time, his words were a little more deliberate. “I know you’re messing with him, but does he think you’re… dating?”

“I don’t know. We only went on one date, and I pretty much scared him off when I mentioned my dad.” She shrugged, confused as to why he was bringing up Locke. “Does it matter?”

His hand stilled. “I guess not.”

Silently, the two of them worked until they had finished gluing on all the information. They cleared up the excess papers and started cleaning up.

“So when are you going to break it off with him?”

“Well, I was planning to do a whole revenge prank thing, but I haven’t fully planned it out yet,” she said contemplatively, scraping off the dried glue from her fingers.

When she looked up, Cardan was looking at her with a devious smile. “What?”

“I have an idea.”

 ~~~

The sky was dark when they arrived at the grocery store. As they placed their items on the counter to check out, the cashier gave them a strange look. Jude simply smiled and said, “Isn’t it such a wonderful night?”

At Cardan’s direction, Jude drove to a neighborhood a few minutes from Cardan’s, and they parked in a darkened spot on the side of the street.

Jude’s nerves thrummed in anticipation. She hadn’t been this excited in so long, probably since the last time she had pranked Cardan. She had to admit that scheming with someone made it all the more fun.

Cardan pulled on a black sweatshirt, and his eyes met hers as he pulled up the hood to cover his curls. The wicked grin he sent her made her stomach squeeze.

“You take the right, and I’ll cover the left?”

She nodded, and silently opened the door and stepped out as Cardan did the same.

They crouched on the sidewalk next to some trees and silently made their way towards the lone house at the end of the street. Thankfully, Locke’s car was parked out front. They hadn’t exactly planned for it if his car had been in the garage.

A car door slammed across the street and Jude looked at Cardan. “Where-”

He clapped his hand over her mouth before she could finish, and he pointed across the street. A car was reversing out of the house next to Locke’s, its headlights nearly passing over them. Her heart beat furiously against her chest.

The car drove away, and Cardan suddenly dropped his hand from her mouth. Her lips burned from the ghost of his hand, and her heart sped up for a completely different reason.

“That was close,” she whispered breathlessly, and Cardan nodded, his eyes darting away from hers.

They crept up his driveway, and Cardan passed her three rolls of plastic wrap from his backpack. Slowly, Jude unfurled the plastic wrap, and pushed it over the top of his car until Cardan caught it. He wrapped it over his side before rolling it under the car back to Jude. She hadn’t realized how painstaking the process would be, but they kept at it. The sound of the unfurling wrap seemed too loud against the silent night.

Twenty long minutes later, Jude passed the last of the last of the final roll of wrap to Cardan. She waited for Cardan to secure it into place, shifting impatiently on the balls of her feet.

A gentle whirring sound cut through the night, and Jude’s eyes flew to Cardan, who was tip-toeing back towards her from around the car.

“Run,” he whispered urgently.

She grabbed Cardan’s backpack from the ground right as a spray of water hit her arm, drenching her and the side of the car. She glanced behind her and almost laughed, realizing the sprinklers had turned on, not some sort of security device like she had thought in her panic.  

Cardan looked at her, his eyes glinting with laughter. “Come on, let’s go.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him with her.

They ran across the sidewalk like criminals fleeing from a crime scene, narrowly avoiding the sprinklers, and Jude felt giggles breaking out of her chest. Her heart pounded against her chest, her breath coming out in pants. The cold water pressed into the skin of her arm, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Cardan’s hand in hers.

They ran all the way back to her car, and they finally stopped to catch their breath. Jude leaned back into the car, panting, her hands braced on her chest to hold her heart in.

Her eyes met Cardan’s, who was panting as if he had just been in a police chase, and a giggle escaped her mouth. And then another. And then both of them were laughing like maniacs.

“Who the fuck-” she laughed, “turns on their sprinklers-” another fit of giggles overtook her. “-at midnight?”

Cardan laughed harder, leaning into her, a palm bracing himself on the car behind her. “Your face,” he wheezed, “when the sprinklers turned on-”

She could barely breathe in. “The way you said run, oh my god.” She broke into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, clutching her stomach. Cardan wiped tears from his eyes as he tried to regain his composure.

Eventually, Jude’s laughter slowed. The sound of crickets chirping and cars whizzing by on the street behind the neighborhood settled into the air as they caught their breaths. Jude leaned back against the car, tipping her head back up to the night sky.

Cardan was still leaning into her, the moonlight casting a faint glow over his face. When she met his eyes, his lips tipped up in a little smile that sent warmth to her stomach.

With a will of its own, her hand reached up to push back his hoodie, cradling his jaw, and he swallowed, his expression sobering.

A breeze blew over them, lifted a strand of her hair from her face. Her heartbeat thudded against her chest, a different type of adrenaline shooting through her body as his eyes darted to her lips.

In an unspoken agreement, Jude leaned up, and Cardan’s head bent down to reach hers.

Their lips brushed hesitantly, a barely-there kiss, before Cardan pulled back slightly.

Oh. Oh.

“Jude.” His voice was hoarse, a question, a plea exhaled across her lips, and she silenced it with her mouth.

Their resolve snapped, and Cardan’s hand slipped to cradle the back of her head as his head dipped and his lips pressed into hers, again and again and again, warm and soft and desperate. Jude buried her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, until she was pressed against the car, his forearms caging her in.

She had never been kissed like this.

It felt as though they were running past the sprinklers again, a rush of adrenaline running through her body. Her lips parted under his, and he made a noise in the back of his throat that set her blood on fire. Her thoughts fizzled into nothing, everything except the two of them fading away.

When they pulled back for air, Cardan’s lips were swollen, and both of them were panting. He rested his forehead against hers, one hand still tangled in her hair, and Jude‘s eyes finally fluttered open.

“That,” Cardan rasped, “was worth waiting for.”

“Shut up.” Her voice was a little too breathless for her liking.

“Jude, Jude, Jude,” he murmured as he nuzzled the side of her face, and she felt goosebumps erupt on her arm. “Now you know exactly how to make me shut up.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head, barely close enough for another kiss, before shoving him back, hoping distance would help her regain her composure. “You wish. There are other ways to shut you up.”

He stumbled back with a breathless laugh. “I do wish.” He glanced around at the street, as if just remembering where they were. “We should probably go.”

“We should. Wouldn’t want to get caught.”

“Okay, right.” His hands spazzed at his side for a moment before he spurred into motion, opening her door for her with a roguish grin.

Jude didn’t exactly know what she was getting herself into, but she couldn’t bring herself to put an end to it.

~~~

A/N:  And there you have it, the scene that inspired this whole thing. It’s the first scene I even wrote, and everything else was just fun to write to lead up to it. I was about to cut this chapter off before the last scene, but I decided to keep it in because it takes me forever to update. Like I said at the beginning, you’re welcome 😌  I hope it’s as good as it was in my head 😭

Okay, but the fact that this is the tenth chapter and people are still reading?!! Thank you all so much for reading this and supporting this!! I probably would have abandoned this if not for you <3

As usual, let me know what you think in the comments!! Reblogs are appreciated :)

Check out my masterlist for more of my writing!

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[yoditorian]

lacuna - part 9

din/reader

well shit guys,,,,this is the last one.

this has been a labour of love and i just want to say a huge huge thank you to everyone who’s commented and reblogged and sent me asks and even just lurked and read it. seriously, from the absolute bottom of my heart, thank you. i’d also love to extend a special thank you to @keeper0fthestars and @chatterbean for consistently cheering me on throughout this fic. and an extra extra special thank you to @bee-dameron for being the most incredible sounding board, and without whom this fic literally would not exist. this was really my first jump back into writing fic properly and i couldn’t be more grateful for the love its received. it might be the end for the main storyline, but it’s definitely not the end of this universe 💛

series masterlist // main masterlist

word count: 4.9k

warnings: angst angst angst, rebel is healing, din is having the worst time of his life (all of season 2), swears, yes i am referencing That Monologue

He can’t stop hearing it. 

How you pleaded with him, how you begged him to stay, how you cried when he left. Din’s sure it’s a sound that’ll haunt him for the rest of his life.

Din has been staring out at the swirling lights of hyperspace for hours when the kid clambers up into his lap, his stomach lurches when he notices three little green fingers curled around a corner of your old blanket. The kid leans over to frown at the second passenger seat. Empty.

“I know, buddy. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.” His voice is wrecked, the sound of it so harsh through the modulator that even he flinches. 

Din’s still not completely sure that the child understands him, but his little ears droop down at the apology and he wraps himself up as best he can in your blanket. Five minutes and you’ve charmed the little thing. Din isn’t sure why he’s surprised, you did the same to him all those years ago. 

The kid settles back down to sleep in his lap, curled up in the thinning fabric, and one of Din’s gloves hits the floor before he even realises that he’s slipped it off. The wool is a little stiff with age under his fingers, but it’s been well loved. And been well loved on if his memory serves. He wonders if it smelt of him afterwards. If you spent nights curled up in it, trying to inhale the last memento you had of him before he saw you again, the same way he spent so many nights wallowing in his own memories. He used to wish he had something physical with him to keep close, the cruel irony of your forgotten blanket doesn’t go unnoticed now. 

Part of him wants to bring it back. A peace offering, maybe. He wants to let you get to know the kid better, to help him on his quest to find his home. Or maybe just to stay, like you asked. But he fucked it all up. You’d probably slam the door of your little home in his face now. Honestly? He’s pretty sure it’s the least he deserves. He wouldn’t be surprised if you pulled a blaster on him with all the ways he’s hurt you. 

It feels like grief. The way the sorrow settles on your chest, curling it’s cold hands around your lungs and squeezing. You hope it chokes you, if only so you don’t have to feel like this anymore. You curl up on the kitchen floor, the cold tile freezing through your clothes, and wonder if this is it.

Kes finds you there, hours after the door was slammed and the sun has set. 

“Is there something wrong with me?” You can’t help but ask, you can’t help but wonder. Because even through the pain and the silence and the arguments, you still love Din. Maybe you always will. But you’re not sure it matters anymore. Kes looks at you, confused, and you press on.

“I mean, I laid out how I feel so many times and all he ever did was push it away but- but I know that if he walked in that door right now I’d let him back in.” 

“I think that’s love, kiddo.” He sinks down to join you on the floor, and if the chill of the tile raises goosebumps on his arms, he doesn’t mention it. 

“Love is stupid,” You pause when he shoots you a look, “No offence to you and your ridiculously happy marriage, but this sucks.”

You sound like a child, you know that. Just like you know that things with Din were always going to end the way they have. You’ve always known you came second to his creed, so much so that you can’t even bring yourself to be angry about it anymore. The alternative is to cry until you lose your voice, so childish seems like the way to go.

“What?” You huff. Kes is watching you carefully, in that pensive way that he does when he’s about to call your bluff in sabacc and take the game. Like he always does. 

“I’m not sure you really think that.”

He’s right on the money yet again, the fucking asshole. 

A fresh wave of tears stings your eyes. thankful at least that Kes has found a spot on the floor to look at instead of turning those big sad eyes onto you. You’re not sure you could take it. It’s frustration at yourself, mostly, instead of just the heartbreak of being left behind so willingly. So angrily. What is it about you that made the idea of sticking around so repulsive, so disgusting, that he left without a second thought. You thought he loved you, you really did. But you’ve been wrong about things before. However much you hate it. 

“I can’t stay here. I can’t.”

“I know.” Kes’s eyes lift from the floor finally, settling uncertainly on yours. 

“I’m sorry, it’s not that I- I want to be close to you guys but,” You flounder for a moment, desperate to think up a reason, “I just can’t be here.”

He understands, you know he does. You’ve all lost enough people, physically and emotionally, to know when a place is no longer welcoming. And you do, genuinely, love the little house on the edge of their land. You love the way the sun hits through the kitchen window in the late afternoon, you love the way you can hear the birds in the trees when you wake in the morning, you love the way any of them can drop by anytime they want to. But it’ll always be the site of the last time you loved Din, the last time he kissed you. Ground zero of your relationship. If you could even call it that. 

“I’ll be alright. I’ve been without him before.”

You have, you’ve been without Din. You’ve spent years without hearing the comm you gave him so much as click. You’ll be alright. In time. 

Only, there were never arguments before. All those times you left, or he left, he’d never shouted at you the way he did. You’d never felt the rage he keeps so carefully locked away, not with you in the crosshairs anyway. It sends your stomach churning, remembering the way he denied you so easily. 

You eye the pouch of credits on the table, just visible over the top of Kes’s head. Why would he leave something like that behind? The Crest is falling apart, he’s got the kid to think about now, why would he forsake a payday for someone he’d so readily abandon.

The dam breaks, and your brave face along with it.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Kes shuffles over to sit closer, to draw you into his arms and let you cry it out on his shoulder. So, in turn, you let yourself feel it. Properly. Sobbing until you’re half asleep, breath hitching every now and again, and the sun starts to rise. 

You don’t know why Din left the credits there, and it feels odd to think about using them when he’s the reason this house isn’t a home anymore. But he could never give you much, and despite everything you know he’s never been a heartless man intentionally, maybe this is his way of making up for that. A clean slate.

The first thing he thinks of as Din comes to, only seconds after the e-web cannon explodes in his face, is you. Of course it is. 

You with your feet up beside you on the passenger seat and the child in your arms, wrapped up and snoring softly. No idea of what was coming. It’s that image that stays at the forefront of his mind, even through the pain of being dragged across the ground into the almost safety of the destroyed cantina.

That’s the view he wants, regardless of however futile it is to realise that now. Regardless of the fact that he’s dying and you’re not here. You don’t even know. Maybe you wouldn’t care if you did. He wouldn’t be surprised. 

But he gave it up for what? For this? Denied himself and the kid safety and a life just for both of them to die on the grotty floor of the cantina on Nevarro. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Maybe he always has been, for refusing you at every turn, refusing to let himself give in and reassess and have the life he’s so desperately wanted with you for years now. Who is he, without his creed? 

Yours. He knows that now.

There’s something profoundly wrong about you not being there as the blood trickles down the back of his neck and soaks into his clothes. As he hands off the child to the people he’s come to think of as his friends and trusts them to do the one thing he can’t.

“Take him to Yavin,” He tells them, desperately, “Find the little house at the end of the farm track.” 

You’ll take care of the kid, despite everything. You’ll take him in without a question, in a heartbeat. The same way you so effortlessly ingrained Din into your life when you first met. Even if it was accidental on both sides.

Din can’t stop himself, as the IG unit lifts his helmet, from remembering the way you did the same. This feels so clinical, mechanical. There’s nothing of the warmth and reverence that had been in your touch. Even this close to death, it’s like his bones themselves are calling your name.

“What do you think?” Your voice echoes in the empty space. The smell of fresh sawdust is strong in your nose, but you don’t mind. It’s oddly comforting, as though the shop was built just for you. The sound of little footsteps pound over the upper floor and a messy mop of curls appears over the top of the railing.

“I love it. Can I live here too?” Poe grins cheekily.

“Your parents might have something to say about that, buddy.” 

He thunders down the stairs beside the little back office and comes to a skidding halt in front of you, kicking up a little dust in his wake. You catch him easily, whirling him around in a circle as he laughs. The way the sound fills the space starts to stitch the edges of your heart back together. Maybe this is what you need to do, fill a new space with light and laughter and the people you love. Somewhere to exist, somewhere to grow. The workshop seems like a good place to start.

A child of The Watch.

What does that even mean?

His covert, his family, it’s- it’s not a cult. It can’t be. The way she talked about it, like even the thought left a bad taste in her mouth, sends a shot of anger down his spine. He is not a religious zealot. But, would he know if he is?

Is he?

Din’s never had cause to doubt his creed, or his covert. They saved him, rescued and raised him. They taught him to fight and to protect and to provide for the covert. Foundlings are the future, right? Would he be less, maybe, to those born on Mandalore? To people like Bo-Katan who wear the armour from generations past, who fought to defend their homeland and their clans. Din doesn’t wear ancestral armour, but has he not defended his family with his life? Ancient way or not, it seems like the kind of thing that would be important in any kind of Mandalorian culture. Traditionalist or otherwise. 

No one has seen his face since he was a child. And yet, he still took off his helmet, every time, for you and believed he was breaking his creed. Sure, you never saw his face, but does that matter? Is it not the principal of the thing? Then there’s the glaring evidence that there are Mandalorians who can remove their helmets. What does that make him, if he’s neither followed the letter of the creed or whatever rules Bo-Katan has. 

With the kid safely tucked away and snoring in his little hammock, Din pulls the helmet off and glares at his distorted reflection in the curve of the visor. He can feel your hands on him like you’re there, smoothing over his shoulders and curling around his waist. And as all the tension melts from his body, he knows what you’d say. That he is himself. Din Djarin, and it’s up to him what he wants that to mean. Whether it includes Mandalorian or not. Whatever he wants to be is what he is and you’d never love him less for it.

Love him.

He scoffs at himself. There’s no way you feel like that about him now.

“Can you reach right up in that corner?” 

You’d let Poe pick the colour for the walls of the main attic space, and so he and his dad are flecked in bright orange paint as they swirl brushes over the wood they’d primed yesterday.

Kes has him on his shoulders, fully in charge of the high up sections as he’d so politely asked, while you and Shara are screwing together the fittings for the kitchen units. A pastel blue this time, also chosen by Poe. Although Shara had kindly guided him away from the neon purple cupboard doors that had caught his eye with a quick wink at you. Maybe giving a small child free reign over your interior decorating was a bad idea. But he’d proven to have quite an eye on some things. 

The four of you had travelled all the way to an inner rim market to find your furniture, deciding on a deep red fabric couch that fit all of you comfortably and takes a considerable amount of effort to rise from. It’s been pushed back against the half wall that hides the attic living space from the workshop floor. Your bedroom furniture is brand new as well, all light polished wood and soft bedding. The credits Din had abandoned had gone a long way, almost long enough that you can forget where they came from. Sometimes. 

It hits you again, cross legged on the floor as Shara hands you another piece to slot into place, that there should be an extra pair of hands. Pulling more pieces out of crates or rearranging the layout in the bedroom or hanging lampshades. It’s nice to be making this new house into a home with your family, but there’s still a gaping hole where there should be someone else. 

A warm hand settles on your knee, breaking your focus from where it’s settled at the top of the staircase. Shara. You turn to her with a smile, and blink back a wave of tears when she returns it. You have your family, right here, you don’t need him. You don’t need him.

“Get down!” Shara calls, just as a shadow looms over you.

Poe’s feet swing over your heads and he laughs when Shara just misses grabbing his ankle, Kes lifting him deftly out of the way at the last second. This is what your life is supposed to be, definitely. The sound of everybody else’s laughter lifts the weight off of your shoulders just enough for you to breathe, to laugh along with them. For a little while.

Din loses everything in a matter of moments. Everything.

Methodically searching through the ashes of the Razor Crest, of the only home he had left, is the final barrier between him and the guilt about the child. About Grogu. The kid’s become his, undeniably, and he couldn’t do the one thing a father is supposed to do. Gideon has him at his mercy, has Din at his mercy now. Whatever the Moff and Dr Pershing have in store, it’s not good. The kid might not even survive. 

All he can see is his little face, his little arms reaching out as the droid climbed higher and higher towards the cruiser. What kind of a father is he, to just let his son be taken from him? No man who would so willingly see the child in his care delivered to his doom deserves to be called such a thing.

Din kicks the dust at his feet in frustration, all too aware of the new eyes watching him. Grief is a difficult thing in and of itself, it’s even harder when it’s observed. He feels like an exhibit. Sure, the two of them stayed and defended the child without even being asked to, but that doesn’t mean he wants them sitting and watching as he sifts through the ruins of his life. 

Fitting, really, that the one way he always thought he would keep you in his life went up in flames, exploded in much the same way your relationship did. That was his fault too. 

But it’s all gone now. The Razor Crest, his home, Grogu’s bed, your old blanket. Grogu and you. Maybe for good, maybe this is his life now, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get either of you back. Maybe he’ll launch a rescue mission only to find his son dead and hitch a ride to Yavin only to be turned away at your door. Maybe that’s what he deserves. 

“Thanks!” You call as the couple stroll out of the main doors and into the sunshine, newly repaired pit droid trotting after them.

“Which one goes to this one again?” Poe catches your attention, waving the motor over his head. He’s sitting on the desk in the back office, little eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You’ve been teaching him small mechanic things here and there on his days with you. How to wire a basic console, how to program a droid, how a hyperdrive motivator works. You’d taken him out with you on a call once, so you could show him the different engine parts of a ship that his mother doesn’t treasure. Today, it’s hotwiring lessons.

Kes and Shara had pretended to disapprove when you asked them what they thought about it, and they still would if Poe was the one to bring it up. But the larger community on Yavin still sleeps far too lightly, still sleeps far too little. The kids are learning their history and their life skills, but alongside basic combat and strategy lessons. The older kids can enroll in weapons training and piloting lessons. The war will never fully leave this moon so long as it stands. 

“Which one do you think?” You ask, settling down into the chair with your datapad and a mountain of forms to fill out. Poe ponders for a moment, glancing between your expectant expression and the dead motor in his hands. 

“This one?” He touches the exposed wires together carefully, huffing when nothing happens. 

“No, wait! This one!” The little motor whirrs to life the moment the wires make contact, and subsequently dies again when he drops it to throw his arms up in celebration. You catch it before it can hit the floor and burst into pieces, your own smile wide enough to make your cheeks ache. 

You’re living. For the first time in years you’re living, without watching over your shoulder for the Empire, without wondering when you’ll see Din again. You’re spending time with your best friends’ kid and making a living as the town mechanic. You have regular customers and people who drop by just to say hi, and things don’t seem so bad anymore. Even though there’s a gap inside of you that aches and misses him, you’re starting to be at peace with it.

He doesn’t know why he was so stupid as to think the facial scan might work with the fucking helmet on. And now the terminal won’t stop beeping and he’s pretty sure people are looking over at him and there’s only one option left and- fuck it.

Din’s hands shake as he lifts the plastic helmet off, the habit of a usually much heavier one makes the movement almost too forceful, and he sets it down. 

This is wrong. It feels so wrong. The first time any living being has seen his face since he was a child and it’s a room full of Imperials. The organisation that took his parents from him, that massacred whole planets and drove his people underground, that you have spent your whole life fighting against. He feels sick.

It was supposed to be you. He’s thought about it a lot, since the first time you took him to that little house on Yavin. He envisioned standing in the bedroom, curtains thrown open to soak up the last of the afternoon sun, and you’d smile at him in that way you always did. He would pull you close to press his forehead against yours, he would take your hands and bring them up to close around the lip of his helmet. He’d tell you it was okay, and you’d lift it off together. You’d smile, maybe a stray tear would linger in the corner of your eye, and you’d finally get to see him. You’d trace your fingertips along his cheekbone and press a kiss on the little spot on his jaw where the hair doesn’t grow. You���d tell him you always thought he had brown eyes. He’d tell you you’re beautiful. And then he’d kiss you, and you’d let him. 

The terminal beeps again and Din pulls the drive from the port, just in time to turn and face an Imperial Officer. 

Your head is in an engine hatch when you hear one of the wide metal doors at the front of the shop creak open. 

“We just closed up, but you can swing by in the morning if it isn’t an emergency!” You call, and hope your voice carries to whoever is standing in your doorway. You don’t really have the time for a customer, this speeder repair is already a day late because you were watching Poe last night, but Yavin is a community. 

However long it took you to get used to after being back on the station, it’s almost like being a part of the rebellion again. Everybody works together to make things a little easier for everyone else. You hear a shuffle of footsteps, slowly edging closer to you, and you’re about to call out again when they say your name. 

When he says your name.

You hit your head on the hatch as you pull yourself out of it. 

“No.”

You can’t do this. You can’t. 

All the work you’ve done to piece your broken little heart back together starts to unravel, just seeing him standing in your workshop. Every staple and stitch and strip of tape loosens until there’s nothing left and that gap inside you, the one that sits right under your heart, starts to ache something fierce. 

How dare he.

How dare he think he can walk into the one place that you have, the one place in the whole galaxy that doesn’t stink of betrayal and heartache and him. How dare he think he can disturb the life you’ve begun to build without him, however much it hurt. There are nights where you don’t think of him now. Nights where you don’t wake in the middle of dreams of his touch and his voice and his kisses. And now he’s here and all of your work was for nothing. 

“Please-” 

“No. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back and undo everything. You can’t.” At least your voice is steadier than you feel, as you square your shoulders and plant your feet in a vain attempt to stay upright. Or to stop yourself running right back into his arms. 

“I know.”

No, that’s what breaks the final piece of your heart off. The heart that belongs to him anyway. It always has, even when you didn’t want it to. He sounds so broken.

“Did you leave the baby on the ship again?”

You don’t miss the way his shoulders tighten, just barely, or how his fingers twitch nervously. 

“The ship’s gone. So is- so is the kid,” Din takes a shuddering breath, “I lost everything.”

Everything? What does that even mean? Your stomach flips at the thought of what he might mean, that the kid is gone. You’re almost afraid to ask. And you hate the painful tug in your chest when his knees give out and he hits the concrete floor with a thud. There’ll be bruises in the morning.

“He’s with a Jedi, he’s with his people but-” He gestures vaguely, and you know what he means. You felt the same way every time he left you. If the kid’s a Jedi, he probably should be in the care of people who know what to do. But you can’t imagine how it must have felt to just hand the baby over. 

“He’s where he belongs.” You’re trying to stay cold, you really are. 

“Is he?” 

It’s hard to be cruel to a man who’s just given up his kid. To a man you love. 

He says your name again, softly, tearfully. The shudder of a sob ripples through his body and he heaves a deep breath at the same time you do. You can feel it creeping back, every uncertainty you had the day he walked out of your old house. Every bone in your body screams for you to reach out to him, to comfort him the way he should have comforted you when he left you crying for him on your kitchen floor. He can’t be here. You have to make him go. 

“Mando-”

“My name, please use my name.” He interrupts you, desperately. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t hear you call him Mando. It never sounded right, not the way his real name does when you roll it around on your tongue. He needs to hear it.

“Din, you can’t stay.”

It’s so hard to hold steady, to keep your voice even, to not just throw it all away and gather him into your arms the way you want to. The way you need to. You were right, all those months ago, when you told Kes you’d take him right back if he walked through the door.

“You’re home, you know that? It’s you.” 

You say nothing, for fear your words will crack and give you away. 

“And- and every time I left or you left it just, nothing felt right. Not until we were together again, and it scared me. And I hurt you because of it, that’s my fault.” He sighs, defeated, but continues on when you stay silent.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I- it’s inexcusable. I don’t know how to- how to fix it. I don’t know if I can,” Din hangs his head in shame, “You should hate me. I do. I pushed you away and hurt you, when all I ever wanted was you. Just you.” 

It’s not enough to soothe the scars in your heart, the ones that settled deep and angry and split open time and time again. The ones he put there. But maybe there’s room to make a start.

“I don’t hate you,” You press on even as his head shoots up in surprise, “Against all my better judgement, I love you. Pretty sure I always have.”

It’s quiet for a long time. And you think this is when he tells you he’s not good enough for you, that he never will be, and he leaves for the very last time. You know you won’t see him again if he does, but he’ll take your heart with him anyways. 

“Cyar’ika.” He breaks the silence. Again. But it’s softer than the last time you were in this position. 

“You’ve called me that before.”

“I’ve called you that a lot of times, you were only awake once.”

“What does it mean?” You’re almost afraid to know the answer.

He lifts his hand to his shoulder, to a pauldron with an unusual skull welded to it, and detaches the mechanism. It clatters to the floor, but Din’s gaze remains firmly locked on yours. He does the same with the other and lifts the bandolier over his head. That too is abandoned on the ground.

“Sweetheart.” His vambraces, this time. One, two clang as they hit the floor, followed by his thigh plates.

“Darling.” The chest plate. 

He’s kneeling, surrounded by his armour, by the definition of the man you thought he was. All but the helmet. You love him, you can’t deny that. He’s baring himself to you in ways he never has before and you know what it means to him to do this.

“Beloved.”

Your brain stops working. You were so ready to shout and scream and punish him for what he put you through but suddenly none of it matters. Because he’s here, he’s finally here, and he’s telling you he loves you and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

“Take it off, please?”

And so you do.

Your feet are moving towards him before you can even register what they’re doing and you haul him up off of the ground. Din winds his arms around you automatically, without a second thought, until there isn’t a breath of air left between your bodies. No armour, no barriers, just two people who have done far too much damage to each other to ever know anyone else the way you do. 

His eyes. Oh god, his eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” You whisper, careful not to disturb the peace that’s settled. Finally, finally.

“That’s my line.” He chuckles as you smile, as you feel that gap in your ribs quiet after all these years. An unfilled space, no longer.

Din kisses you, and you let him.

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @rebloogggs @keeper0fthestars @remmysbounty @sirianisrock @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @altarsw @darnitdraco​ @greeneyedblondie44​

[ryrima]

Soon [dnf drabble - fluff]

"I'm ready to fall asleep for a full year," was the tired groan that greeted Dream immediately after he picked up the call.

Dream couldn't help the amused chuckle he let out, leaning his head sideways against a shoulder to hold the phone in between, while his hands tugged on his duvet for him to slip in. "Hello to you too, Georgie. I was about to ask how your day went, but that bad, huh?" he asked as a response.

During the short pause, Dream laid down in his bed, ready to tuck in for the day.

"Remind me to never join in a UK meet-up without Wilbur again," George answered, seemingly unrelated.

If anyone questioned him, Dream would deny ever having a teeny-tiny twinge of jealousy from the claim. He either masked it well enough, or George was too tired to notice. "Do tell why?"

"I forgot that age gaps exist in real life. Without Wil there, I had to play the responsible adult," George whined. "Dream, it was horrible."

Dream snorted, sinking more into bed as the explanation relaxed him. "Since when do you care about being the responsible one?"

"Since I realized I was hanging out with four teens under the age of twenty," George sighed. "I would feel guilty if anything happens to any of them."

"But you never feel so, when around Sapnap and I?" Dream felt the corner of his lips lifting up in an amused smile. "You do realize that we are both younger than you too, right?"

"Eh," came George's non-committal answer, Dream could imagine the shrug despite not seeing it. "Both of you can die in a ditch for all I care."

"George!" Dream yelled, wheezing. "How could you?!"

"I'm kidding!" George giggled, the sound causing butterflies to flutter inside Dream's chest. "You guys are different."

Dream hummed. "Different how?"

"Our age doesn't matter. Between us three, who holds the reigns are situational." He sounded more genuine now. "And ... I'm positive that our dynamic wouldn't change even in real life."

"... Yeah?" Dream smiled, also taking a more sincere tone.

"Mhm." George affirmed. "Not saying that Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo and the others are different people online compared to in real life, or anything. More like, I found out that I hadn't fully know them yet online, and meeting up in person filled in that gap. We're much more comfortable now that it happened."

"There's definitely a change," Dream mused. "The attitude change between you and Wilbur still gives me a whiplash," he admitted.

George laughed. "That. It happened because we know each other better, now. Our limits, our boundaries, all that."

He paused, thinking for a bit. "But you see, with you and Sapnap, I won't need that. Because we've known each other for years. We've known everything there is about each other."

Dream sighed in agreement, soft and fond. "We do."

"I know you," George whispered, like a confession. "... And you know me."

And Dream's heart felt full.

He couldn't explain the feeling. It was warm, delicate, complicated.

But his heart felt full. So, so full.

For a while, silence enveloped them, just the sound of faint breathing through the call. It wasn't awkward, though. Wasn't tense, wasn't suffocating. Or maybe, it was a little suffocating, heavy in his chest, but in an oddly comforting way.

When Dream broke it, "George," he called. For what, he didn't know, but it felt right.

"Dream," George echoed in an exhale.

"George."

"Dream."

Another bout of silence, only a bit shorter.

"I'm glad I get to meet them, and properly get to know them, you know." George spoke up again. Soft, calm, carrying the same tone of confession. Of things he hadn't told Dream before. Of things Dream wondered, but never out loud. "I know that lately, I seem so busy going on one meet-up after another. I know how it takes a lot of our ... time together. But like this, I know I won't regret it later. I'm giving myself the remaining time for the friends here, before–..."

With each word, any feelings of unsettlement, worry and doubt that had ever lingered in Dream's mind these past few weeks got washed away. The insecurity, the unspoken fear of rifts and change.

Because of course George would sense it, despite Dream's best act. Like they had admitted, George knows Dream. He really should've remembered that sooner. Suddenly, he felt silly. But for once, he willingly accepted his own stupidity.

Because Dream also knows George. Knows that this is George reminding him. Softly, sweetly, reassuringly.

"–before I'll leave." George said. "To finally be with you."

Dream closed his eyes, letting George's word soak into him. Drowning, all encompassing.

"George," Dream called out again, like a prayer.

"Dream," George responded. Always, always. "I can't wait to be with you."

"George, turn your cam on," Dream pleaded. He opened his eyes and pulled his phone away from his ears. Brought it in front of his face so he could adjust it, searching for the switch-to-video button himself.

There was no answer. But he heard the rustling of bedsheets, of George also adjusting himself. Five seconds later, the screen flickered, and George's brown eyes stared back at him, glinting bright even in the darkness of his own bedroom, under strands of ruffled hair that contrasted his cheek, laid upon his pillowcase.

Beautiful, always so beautiful to him.

"... Thank you," George whispered with cheeks coloring pink, and Dream realized he had accidentally said the words out loud. "You know that you’re not bad yourself, too, right?"

Dream could feel his own face heating up from the compliment, bringing the hand that wasn't holding his phone to card through messy blond tresses. "Glad to know you think so."

He took his time staring, letting his green eyes linger on each of George's features—all he had spent hours, days, weeks, months, years memorizing, but still not enough.

Never enough.

"George," Dream whispered. "I can't wait to be with you, too."

He saw George visibly shook. Knowing how much impact he had on the other man, as much as George to him, it felt good.

"Soon, Dream," George promised, also in a whisper, but it ingrained itself in Dream's heart.

"Soon," Dream agreed.

Like this, it didn't really feel like they're oceans apart. The visual from their phone screens helped, and it was almost as if they're lying in the same bed together.

It felt real, it felt natural.

Dream knew that later, it would stay like so. Only, even better.

"Goodnight, George." He smiled.

George returned it. "Goodnight, Dream."

I love you.

[definitelynotkatesblog]

Sundays l Spencer Reid Fic

Pairing: Fem! Reader x Spencer Reid

Category: Angst

Summary: Reader helps Spencer grieve the loss of a loved one, and loses parts of herself in the process.

A/N: Full disclaimer, angst is NOT my strong suit and for that reason, I’ve been sitting on this fic for a while. Mostly because I wasn’t sure if I liked it, wasn’t sure if it was sad enough, wasn’t sure if a Maeve-mentioned content would interest anyone, and wasn’t sure if I could keep staring at this god damn draft anymore. Alas, Sundays is here and I hope it hurts :)

And of course a huge thank you to my lovey betas @imagining-in-the-margins and @wishingwellwriting for helping me make this as painful as possible!

Content Warning: Season 8 spoilers, mention of drinking/being drunk, mention of death, grieving, a brief kiss, unrequited love

Word count: 4.1k

Sundays were his hardest days.

Sundays were their days.

I had been there for hours, doing dishes and tidying up the living room while he slept. I never minded, he needed it. He needed a break from the constant sadness that seemed to radiate from inside him. I never knew so much sadness could exist in the same place at one time.

I turned to see him sitting up on the couch with his shoulders slumped, an empty expression on his face.

Grabbing the coffee on the counter, I crossed the room and placed it on the side table before sitting on the coffee table in front of him. I took his hands in mine and rubbed my thumbs across the backs of them. They were cold and bony, almost inhuman.  

He swallowed hard and looked up at me, meeting my eyes for a brief moment before tears started to form. His face had thinned too, his cheeks sunken and the hollows under his eyes colored a dark purple. He’d stopped eating weeks ago.

He bit his bottom lip before his gaze dropped back down to his lap.

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but closed again. A broken breath shuddered from his lungs, and I thought it might only be a moment before the sobs ripped through his body. He wasn’t saying much these days, which was unusual for Spencer. He was a fountain of knowledge who often loved to share what his eidetic memory had ingrained in his mind, but as of late the light normally found behind his eyes was dull and uninviting.

I gave his hands a final squeeze before I reluctantly got up to finish tidying. It was enough of a mess inside his head without his home being a mess, too. I knew how that could be; to have your only reprieve be what’s in your head. Lately, he preferred to be alone. I thought sometimes that if I didn’t have a key, he wouldn’t even have let me in.

Sometimes he would fall asleep on my shoulder or my lap, depending on how we were situated. It wasn’t so much a matter of comfort, but convenience. Whatever position we were in before he slipped into unconsciousness became our marble sculpted pose until he woke. Sleep seemed to be his only solace- the only place he could be happy and I wasn’t keen on disturbing that.

Sometimes he would cry in his sleep, and all I could do was try to comfort him in his unconscious state. Sometimes, he would ask me to hold him while he cried, but those times were few and far between. In the years I’d known Spencer, we never really touched. He hugged me once, briefly, then never again. The first few days I’d spent at his apartment with him were spent offering condolences from across the room. He recoiled at my touch- a hand on the back or an accidental brush against his arm. When he started to seek the contact, I knew something was wrong. A man so touch-averse leaving his fingerprints on me should’ve felt like heaven after years of wondering, but all it did was worry me.

He had asked me to dance once. He said they’d always talked about dancing to a song they both really loved and how badly it hurt to know he’d never get the chance to dance with her. I agreed, partially because he had spent so much time telling me how VR therapy was on the rise and helping grieving parents with the loss of their children, and partially because... well, how exactly are you supposed to say no to a grown man drowning himself in memories that weren’t quite made? You don’t. You let him wrap his arms around you and pull you down under the waves with him so he doesn’t feel so alone.

We swayed in the living room for the better part of an hour. He nuzzled his face into my neck and ran his hands along the contours of my back, occasionally resting them on my hips. I tried catching his eye when he shifted positions but he wouldn’t ever look directly at me. I wondered if he was trying to imagine her under his fingertips instead. When he would start to cry, I could feel the wetness soaking into my shirt. I did the only thing that felt safe to do in that moment- held him tighter and kept quiet.

My hands found themselves in his hair as we swayed, his arms snaking tighter around my waist, pulling us closer together. I did my best not to think about how good it felt to be wrapped up in him, or what about this felt good for him or for what reason.

I wondered what song he was playing in his head. He never actually turned the song on, and asking felt like an intrusion on the memory he was trying to create with her while I was busy trying to twist this memory myself, with him.

When we finally broke apart, his hand came to cup my face as he choked on a sob. His eyes were bloodshot and still forming new tears.

God, my heart hurt for him. I reached my hand to cover his still pressed against my cheek and offered a small smile. He blinked hard, forcing the tears brimming in the corners of his eyes to fall while he placed his other hand on my jaw. As he pressed his forehead to mine, I closed my eyes and let his silent sobs shake both of our bodies.

It wasn’t until his hands started guiding my face to his that I realized what was happening.

His lips pressed to mine between broken cries, desperately searching for the response only she could give him.

I froze.

His thumbs ran across my cheekbones as he stifled a cry, guiding my face back to his.

Before our lips could connect again, I turned away, the kiss landing on my cheek instead.

“Spencer,” I said gently, fearing that my words would rip apart the bandages I had so carefully wound around his heart. “Spencer, I’m not her.”

I knew it would be wrong to be jealous of a dead woman, but when I spoke those words, they weren’t born out of jealousy or wishing I was her so I could finally feel wanted by Spencer... Those words were for Spencer. For his grieving. For him to be able to discern reality from the place he had run off to in his mind.

His eyes stayed closed for a moment.

“I know,” he breathed as his hands dropped from my face to his sides.

I licked my lips and took a step back, trying to create some space between the memory he had just made and who I actually was. I could taste him on my lips and did everything I could not to savor it.

“Maybe you could take a nap, hm? I’m gonna go to the store.”

He turned away and shuffled toward the couch, slowly sinking onto his side.

“I’ll be back, Spencer.” I waited for a response that I should have known wasn’t coming. Pulling the door closed behind me, I heard a muffled sob from the other side of the wood.

——

Fumbling with the key in the lock, I finally kicked the door open enough to shoulder the rest of my way in. Upon entering the apartment, I was met with an absolute mess. Books had flown off the shelf and littered the carpet. The flower vase I’d brought over to foster some sense of life in the apartment now only existed as shattered fragments on the floor.

“Spencer, what the hell?” I walked through the landmines of glass and literature on the floor to put the bags in my arms on the counter. I looked out across the room to find him casually draped in a chair in the corner with a bottle of brown liquor resting on his knee. His arm rested on the back of the chair while his legs spread in front of him like he was waiting for a lap dance.

“Are you drinking?”

“Why are you here?” He sneered, turning his nose up at me. “Have I been so hospitable that you just can’t stay away?”

Shooting him a look, I hung my key ring up by the door, taking a moment to swallow the thought of him not wanting me here anymore. “I told you I was coming back,” I replied evenly.

He snorted and took a long sip from the bottle, wincing as he swallowed.

“You don’t even drink. Where did you get this?” I crossed the room and snatched the bottle from his hand. He didn’t try to stop me.

“What else am I supposed to do?” He asked. His tone was cold, but his voice was so clearly pained.

“Not this.” I walked back over to the sink, stepping over the remnants of the vase to pour what was left of the bottle down the drain.

“If I believed in God, I’d pray,” he said with a bitter laugh.

Silence from the rest of the apartment crept in to fill the space between us. I stared at his slumped figure in the chair but he remained unphased, staring at the floor with his brows knit together. I grabbed a glass of water and the broom before making my way over to where he’d slumped down further in the chair.

“Are you gonna throw this one on on the floor, too?” I asked before extending the glass to him.

He just stared at it in my hand like he wasn’t sure. I took a chance and placed it on the table next to him and turned back to start sweeping the mess he had made.

“Sorry, let me–” he slurred.

“No, it’s fine. You don’t have–”

“Shit!” He hissed from behind me, undoubtedly stepping in the shards of glass.

“-shoes on” I finished. I turned to see him hobbling back towards the chair, stumbling and limping with one foot pulled up awkwardly.

----

He sat on the edge of the toilet with his foot in my lap as I tweezed out the remaining splinters of glass from the tender skin. He winced and jerked and hissed as I worked.

“Spencer, stop moving, that’s only making it hurt worse.”

“Yeah, well–” he started.

“Haven’t you been shot before?” I asked, stopping to look up at the grown man squirming while perched atop the porcelain throne.

He grumbled an answer while I took to finishing up the excavation attempt. Satisfied with my work, I stood and offered my hand for him to stand as well. He looked at my outreached hand then my face, stood on his own and tested putting some weight on the foot.

I dropped my hand and looked down at his foot instead.

“Does it hurt?”

“It all hurts,” he said matter of factly, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. I knew he wasn’t just talking about his foot but I’d run out of comforting words weeks ago.

Silence hung between us for a moment while I tried to find something to say to him.

“Well why don’t you shower? It’ll help with your foot and hopefully sober you up.”

He snorted, but reached for a towel on the rack behind me anyways. I scooted past him in the small room, backing up against the wall to slide past him. He made no attempt to move as my chest skimmed his, turning his head to face me head on instead. The smell of the liquor on his breath fanned across my face and choked me.

“And brush your teeth, too.” I quipped before closing the door a little more forcefully than necessary on my way out.

I had never seen Spencer like this. I paced the living room, chewing my bottom lip. He had never had a drink in the years we’d been friends, let alone gotten drunk. Grief makes you do dumb things though, right? He was just coping. He was coping with the loss of a loved one. He was numbing that pain. He needed to get away from the pain.

But god, this wasn’t Spencer. At least, this wasn’t my Spencer. Although, he never really was my Spencer, was he? Maybe it was me who needed a break. I gathered my bag and keys from the table by the door, silently running through the checklist in my head– keys, phone, wallet, sweatshirt.

Shit.

My sweatshirt was still in his bedroom where we’d spent the day reading yesterday. Things had felt almost normal for just a few hours, both of us lost in our own worlds between pages. Fiction providing a long enough distraction for him to relax, to let normalcy slip past the walls he put up. I made my way back to the bedroom, hoping to slip in and out before he was finished in the bathroom.

I had just picked up my sweater and thrown it over my arm when he emerged from the bathroom in a pair of clean pajamas, rubbing his hair with a towel. He did a quick once over of the contents in my hands and stopped drying, his arms falling to his sides.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a slight panic hidden in his tone.

I pointed my thumb towards the door. “I’m gonna go.”

“Well.. I mean… why?” He seemed genuinely confused.

These past few weeks had changed him, and had been changing me too. I’d somehow allowed myself to get swept up in the fantasy he had created to not feel so alone. In becoming a part of that, I had never felt so alone in my life.

“I just think I should go. For tonight, at least. I’ll swing by again soon.” I hitched my bag higher onto my shoulder and gave him my best attempt at a reassuring smile.

He looked at the towel in his hand and around the room, as if the answer might be there.

“Please don’t go,” he said quietly when he couldn’t find the answer he was looking for. I wasn’t even sure if he said it or if I was imagining things, wanting to stay more than I wanted to go.

“Spence–”

“Please. I’m sorry for earlier. I’m so, so sorry. I just–” He took a step towards me, wringing the towel in his hands and swallowing the apparent lump in his throat. His eyes were rimmed with red like he’d been crying in the shower. “I need you.” He hung his head like he was ashamed, like he never intended on saying that out loud.

He’d never said that before. He’d thanked me for being here for him, for helping him with his apartment and being a literal shoulder to cry on, but he never told me he needed me or asked me to stay. Even if it was unbeknownst to him, I knew when he said he needed me, he was using me for her. And that’s all it really was.

My heart fluttered in my chest at his words, but there was a part of me that was telling me to go.

The door and his face tugged at me in their opposite and respective directions. His next question made the decision for me.

“Lay with me?”

I stood still for a moment before moving to drop my bag from my shoulder. “Okay.”  

Just like that, any sense of self preservation flew out the goddamn window.

He nodded quickly and clamored into bed, like if he moved too slowly I’d change my mind. And maybe I should have. Maybe I should have done a lot of things differently- I should have left. I should have set boundaries. I should have better protected my heart instead of so willingly getting lost in him that I’d lost pieces of myself. I did none of those things.

Instead, I kicked off my shoes and pulled my sweatshirt on over my head before climbing into the cave he’d created with his arm holding the sheets up for me. As soon as I was sitting with my back against the headboard, he curled up into me and rested his head on my chest.

I leaned my cheek against the top of his head for a moment, taking in the scent of his shampoo as I reached for a book on his nightstand. He snaked an arm around my waist and sighed.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he hiccuped. “I don't drink, you know. I don’t like this feeling.”

“I know.” And I did know. I knew he didn’t recognize the shell of a man he’d become. Spencer was many things, but empty had never been one of them.  

We sat in silence for a while. I read while he stared at the wall, undoubtedly watching the events of their only meeting unfold on loop like he always seemed to be doing while quiet. I was starting to worry that he hadn’t spoken in a while when he broke the silence.

“I was used to being alone. It was comfortable... She was the only thing better than my solitude,” he whispered.

I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed quiet and watched him. He chewed his lip then lifted his eyes to mine.

“And now you’re here.”

I searched his eyes before he broke our gaze and laid his head back down. The heart that was currently in pieces in my chest knew what he meant, but my brain wasn’t willing to meet the same conclusion.

I’m not her, Spencer.

I know.

Our conversation from earlier replayed in my head, remaining as confusing as it was earlier.

As his lids got too heavy for him to hold open and his breathing evened out, I got ready to head out, satisfied with the seemingly stable state of him.

His arm around my waist tightened as if he could sense my plan to leave. “Stay with me.” He begged, his voice groggy and almost childlike in his demand.

I stayed still for a moment, weighing my options against my best interest. I didn’t know if this would be another dancing situation. I didn’t know if this would help him or hurt him, or more than likely- hurt me, but I was willing to try for him anyways.

How was I supposed to look at the sweet boy in my arms and tell him I wouldn’t do anything to make him feel whole again?

“Okay,” I resolved, closing the book and placing it on the nightstand. I sighed and pulled the covers up higher over him.

“I talked to her about you,” he said quietly, fighting sleep. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a small smile forming on his lips. It was the first time I’d heard anything resembling a laugh in weeks. “She asked me if I was married because it sounded like I was talking about my wife when I talked about you.”

I shook my head on a laugh but I couldn’t hear whatever else he said over the sound of my heart cracking in my chest and the ringing in my ears. It wasn’t lost on me that in a very real and fucked up way, I was jealous of a dead woman, but it was more than that.

I was jealous of their love. I was jealous of the fact that in a matter of 10 months, she had managed to intrigue and enthrall Spencer without them ever having laid eyes on one another. They’d never met, never touched, never kissed. And even still, no one could deny the love between them was real. Not even me.

Was it shitty? Absolutely. The support and happiness I felt for him during those 10 months was genuine. But it still hurt.

It seemed selfish to tell him that while I held him in my arms as he cried that I was racked with jealousy and the realization that I would never be the one for him. That I would never be the one he loved in that way. In his head, she was the only one who had the capacity to love him for everything he was but I had been doing that for years. The truth was, I loved him first. Life rarely plays by the rules of dibs, though, so that didn’t matter- I loved him first but she got him.

And that’s not to say he was property to be owned. I could have said the same for my heart, but even without trying, it was his. Even if he didn’t want it, it was his. And his was hers. And she was dead.

None of these truths changed the way things were in their current state, so I held him. I stroked his hair and watched his chest rise and fall into a steady rhythm. I watched as his face softened until it was no longer twisted in a painful grimace from replaying the same bloody memory. His eyes finally got to rest from their constant tears.  

I hoped his mind was letting him dream of quantum physics or string theory instead of her. Not because of how I felt, but because he deserved anything that would let his mind rest.

My position sitting up against the headboard started to become uncomfortable hours before, but I wasn’t ready to risk moving and waking him up. When I decided he was deep enough in sleep that I could, I wiggled down in the bed until I was lying normally. I huffed a triumphant breath at being able to rest my head on the pillow when he stirred next to me.

I held my breath and froze, hoping it was enough to not wake him. He took a deep breath in and draped an arm over me, nuzzling his face into my neck.

I took a deep breath in, committing the scent of him to memory and wondered who would put me back together again when it came time to rip the pieces of myself out of Spencer, namely the parts he’d grown and twisted around like ivy.

Tears filled my eyes at my own, sad reality.

That I’d found love where I shouldn’t have– in the sad eyes of my best friend that were filled with tears for another.

I’d found love in the heart of a man who had been so irreparably damaged that he couldn’t tell where his pain ended and began.

I’d found love in the form endless literature had been written about– irrevocable and unrequited.

As I drifted off to sleep wrapped up in him, I pretended that he was clinging to me and that I wasn’t just in his bed to fill the void that Maeve left behind.

For now, and for as long as he needed me, I would be there for him, however he needed me to be. Even if that meant I wasn't myself at all. Even if that meant I had to be her.

Even if this was all a lie, I decided ignorance was bliss. And right now, ignorance meant his arms around me. Ignorance meant a place in his bed that wasn’t mine. Ignorance meant the sharing of his love even if I couldn't keep it. This was as close to bliss as I would ever get.

***

Let’s talk about it!

[millllenniawrites]

fun in the meantime (FO! Poe Dameron x f!OC)

part two of when the stars miss the sun

written with @vampirewithbedsidemanners

words: 2.4k

warnings: dark!ooc!Poe Dameron (if you want specifics, dm me); smut (rough sex, slight dubcon moment, praise, 'good girl' used); prostitution; established relationship (sort of); slow burn (yes the two can coexist leave me alone); redemption arc; Pixar ending; murder; warnings will be added as the series progresses

a/n: i love this story and im so excited to share it with you guys. this one is as cute and soft as it gets before everything gets very very dark (though please do heed the warnings cause it isn't just happy times)

__

Red woke up alone in sheets that still felt warm and soft like his satin skin. Her Admiral… not that she could let him know how ingrained in her mind he had become over the last three years. Just like every time before, he left her with the taste of him lingering on the edges of her senses, keeping her from the biting, harsh reality of the universe they lived in.

The house was beautiful and grand without being over the top, just as out of place as he was in everything. He’d told her the night before that the house was the only thing he had to his name outside of the Order. She believed it. There was something to him that made her believe that there really wasn't anything else out there for her beautiful, lost man.

She left the safety of his bed, padding across the warm floors and out into the hallway that fed a large central spiral staircase. It extended down all five stories to the basement, where they’d dragged out boxes of files the night before prior to shutting themselves in his office to work.

She hadn’t had the chance to see enough of the beautiful house. Later, when she had a moment, she would explore the place that seemed to be an extension of her Admiral. She would let her hands roam over the banisters, the same way they had caressed across the banded muscles in his thighs as she rode him, giving over her body and heart and soul before she realized that she was.

Red crept silently down his stairs. She followed the sound of fingers on a screen to his office, where they'd spent much of the night before. His uniform jacket was still in a ball on the ground where she'd tossed it after ripping it off him. The papers he'd swept off his desk to make room to lay her on it were still scattered all over the room.

Poe was sat at his desk, hair mussed from sleep. The collar of his threadbare shirt was stretched out, and he played with the edge of it as he studied whatever was on the screen in front of him.

Nothing about him appeared like he was a feared Admiral of the First Order.

When he finally noticed her standing in the doorway, he smiled softly. "Did you sleep okay?"

She padded over to him, easing down into his lap. Something about him put her at ease, when everything about him should have sent her running. Quietly, she threaded her fingers through his hair, tilting his head back so she could gaze into his eyes. “I missed you.” Her admission was quiet, timid, sweet... with no hint of the deadly resistance intel Captain that was actually sitting in his lap.

“Just thought I’d get a head start this morning ‘nd let you sleep.” He’d snuck out of bed before the sun had risen, intending to finish up the packaging of intel that he’d neglected the night before before returning to her. If he had the restraint to resist her, he may have finished the work, but he couldn’t deny himself the little temptations that made him feel alive.

Time had gotten away from him in the early morning hours, as it tended to do.

There was so much more to the war now, and he was no longer the young, energetic try-hard Captain, campaigning for what he believed in no matter the cost.

Things were complicated.

“Come back to bed?” She asked, brushing her lips against his in a soft kiss.

He melted into her touch, softer than he should have been. She could ask him for anything when he was like this, his vulnerable soul left barren for her. “Shouldn’t we finish up?” He murmured, a half-hearted attempt to retain control over himself that he no longer had.

“We should.” She sighed, shifting so she could straddle him. “But I only get you like this for a little longer. That uniform has to go back on eventually.”

“It’s just a uniform.”

“A uniform that keeps me from you.” She kissed his neck as her hands slid under his shirt. Every word fell from her lips like a quiet admission she wasn’t sure she could say, or mean. Not without wrecking everything between them.

“We’ll blow it all to hell. Just need a little more time...”

“I need you.” Her whimpers called him home, her deft fingers tracing his abs under his shirt and bringing the forbidden temptation of her skin flush to his. Her lips on his neck and jaw stole his breath, chasing all thoughts from his mind. “Just a little bit. I’m not ready to give you back.”

“You’re coming with me. You don’t have to. You don’t have to give me back.” His voice was breathy, betraying how touch-starved he truly was.

She kissed him to silence the whimper on his lips, tangling around him. “You don’t belong in the Order.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” She tugged him close. “I do, baby.”

Something changed in his eyes as the words left her lips, his vulnerability swallowed in something darker, clamouring for control. He gripped her hair, tilting her head back and kissing down her neck, rough and forceful. He needed it the way he needed air in his lungs. The wall he erected around his delicate heart shattered in her presence, and he couldn’t afford it. Not now.

He carried her up the stairs, distracting her with kisses and tearing through the thin clothing on her body. There was nothing gentle about it. Gentle sex gave her the space to break down his walls. Gripping her thighs, he flipped her over and pinned her down, lips at her ears.

“I need you loud for me, honey.” He growled, pulling her hips up into his lap and spreading her pulsing center open to make space for him.

“Poe!” She cried out, forgetting what they were for a moment. All that mattered were his callous-rough hands on her skin and the musk of his breath on her neck. He slid in all the way, not needing to get her ready for him, fucking her in the brutal but sweet way that made the room spin.

He lost himself in her moans, the way she thrashed in his arms as she neared the edge. He almost couldn’t hear her pleas for a break over the sound of her begging for more.

“That’s a good girl.” He murmured, too soft for what they were now, his praise painting her lips.

“Your... your good girl.” she gasped, “I’m yours.”

*

Red fell back into his arms in the bed, still giggling from the accidental tickles. Twisting so she could see his face, she relaxed, bitting her bottom lip. “Civilian life looks good on you.”

"Y'think so?" He gazed down at her. "This is the first time I've given it a try."

“Lucky me.” She grinned, wrapping her arms around him.

"I think I'd wanna be somewhere warmer. Salient has too much winter." He pulled the blankets up over them both before letting her curl up in his arms.

“Ever been to the old capital?” She hummed, drawing on his chest.

"I haven't been to any of them.” And he wouldn’t have the chance to visit one of them now that the Order had destroyed Hosnian.

“Chandrila is like a never ending summer. If this war leaves it untouched, maybe we can go after it all. Just us.”

"You don't wanna be seen with me." The thought of it was so absurd he snorted. He’d been in enough of the propaganda the Order put out that there would never be peace for him.

“No one has to see us. We can take a boat out to the islands and go swimming and fuck and lay out in the sun.”

She could see it. The warm Chandrilan sun on his tan skin, lighting his eyes. His curls in between her fingers and his lips between her legs. Them, laid out in the open, a far cry from the corners they’d been hiding in for three years.

Poe couldn’t help but indulge her. "We wouldn't even need to bring clothes."

“I think clothes on you should be illegal.” She giggled, scooting over onto his chest and straddling his hips.

"Yeah? I don't think that's part of Pryde's plan. You're welcome to talk to him about it when we transfer, though."

“When I’m done with him, it’ll be his first priority.” She grinned mischievously.

He couldn’t help but melt at how sweet she was. “He would be scared of you, if he saw who you really are."

Her smile softened as she eased down into his arms. She knew he meant it as a compliment, but she couldn’t help but worry. Why she gave a shit what he thought of her, she didn’t know. If it was going to wreck the mission, it would have by now. “Do I scare you?” She asked, her gaze as intense as the pounding of her heart in her chest.

"Yeah," he said softly. "But that's a good thing, right? You're supposed to keep your informants in line?"

“Are you still an informant? I thought we were friends.”

“We are. But you’re here to take down the Order. Same as me.” He poked her forehead. “Agent.” He poked himself in the chest. “Informant.”

She copied him, jabbing him in the chest. “Poe, Red. And right now, we’re just two very hot people in bed together. Naked. Enjoying life.”

“It’d be kinda sexy to call you Agent in bed.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Anything as long as you don’t call me ma’am.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She punched his shoulder lightly. “Poe!”

“Why don’t you like that one? Bad boyfriend?”

“It makes me feel like my mom.” She made a face like she was grossed out by the thought, warm love for her mother radiating through it.

“Gotcha.” He kissed her lightly. “Your whole ‘young and innocent and beautiful’ look doesn’t exactly give off mom-vibes.”

She pouted. “I think I’d make a beautiful mom.”

He smoothed the wrinkle in her brow with his thumb. “You would. Of course you would. I just meant that you wouldn’t attract clients with Mommy kinks.”

She scrunched her nose. “Not mommy kinks. Breeding kinks though. I don’t mind those.”

He was quiet as he thought about it. “I don’t know if that’s my style. It seems pretty... close. Intimate.” He coughed, like that could make him feel less exposed. “I’m never gonna settle down with anyone so I don’t think I’d be able to handle taunting myself with that, y’know?”

She held his face, bringing herself as close as she could to him. “I’m not either. So maybe we can with each other. Right at the end. That’d be one hell of a way to go out.”

This was her job. Her role, for the Resistance. She had to make him comfortable and keep loyal and Poe understood that. But he had no reason to betray her. There was no risk in buying in. In letting her do what she had to. “It would be.”

The bed was more enticing than the rest of the house — or the rest of the universe — as far as they were concerned. A droid rolled in about an hour later, bringing foods that neither of them would see again once they left their little sliver of civilian life.

He drank caf, with milk in it if that was an option. He liked his eggs cooked through and spice with his dinner. Everything was appetizing to him as long as it wasn’t slimy. The more they rolled around and talked and fucked and snacked, the more human he seemed to her. The war was worlds away, set in another time and another life where her and her Admiral were just simple people living simple lives.

He knew what she was doing. The questions she asked and information she gathered, just set her up to move around him as seamlessly as the air he breathed. When they got where they were going.

If.

Her laughter made him dream of quiet afternoons just like this, with a beautiful girl in his bed. Endless summers in her eyes. With her, he almost didn’t need the Chandrila sun.

“How often do you make it out here?” She asked casually, eating a piece of fruit while sprawled out on his bed, her eyes on his bare ass.

“Not often. Less since my promotion. It’s pretty nice though, hey?” He noticed her gaze and tossed a clean sock at her.

“Great view. I could stay here forever.” She grinned, spinning her finger in the air at himself. “Nope. Turn back around.”

Poe twirled around, showing off like he had a part time job at a strip club. He moved from the hips, putting on a show until he caught her eyes.

It was too vulnerable. All of it.

He pulled a face, sticking his ass out and wiggling his hips.

She tossed the sock, hitting him in the ass. “You’re lucky you’re hot.” She giggled, reaching out for him. “Come back to bed. I won’t get to lay around and fuck you all the time when we get back to your ship.”

“It’s not mine. I’m only an Admiral.” He crawled up the bed to her, slotting himself between her thighs. “But I’ll take advantage of this while I have it.” He gripped her hair in his fist, tilting her head back to expose her throat. His gaze trailed down her as he murmured, “So pretty...”

She growled, flipping him over and devouring him. There was something in the way he held her, kissed her, that told her she could ask anything of him and he would. For her, or the resistance, she didn’t care. As long as he was on the right side of the war.

His words echoed back in her head like a problem she had to solve. The ship wasn’t his.

She could fix that.

[touyasdoll]

Ya fuel me with all responses, ya know? 🥺🥰😘

 

NSFW AREA NOW 🚨

 

All the Todoroki’s can make ice spreader bars — Touya doesn’t need to, he can have you spread just right with just an order to bend over something, the right length ingrained in your mind and muscle memory whenever you’re with him, one of the few things that can get an easy praise of “good girl” — and they all have and will use them.

Fuyumi used them more when she was first training you, as you needed the reminders and the help learning how to be good for her. She was making them constantly then; sometimes as punishments, sometimes as training tools and sometimes to hold you for a reward.

When it came to punishments, you always knew you had messed up because the ice just had this different feeling to it — and she would have you spread out farther than usual until there was no mistake that you were exposed in full. Your hands were either spread out too, or sometimes chained together depending on where she had you. Sometimes your limbs were all spread on the same bar in such a way you were practically folded in half and exposed. The bars were always attached to where you couldn’t move and it was during these times that you learned how bad you had fucked up with her. She folded you in half this way so she could have both her hands free. You yelped each time, despite knowing what was coming — firm, ice cold fingers to spread you open (because despite however pissed you had made her she truly did not want to seriously harm you), warmed lube pushed inside, an ice cold dildo thrust into you deep and just staying there making you moan in discomfort as she worked on your other openings. Sometimes when she was mad she would make standing ice stocks and use them to hold you while she took a belt to your ass, turning it bright red and heated, only to switch to a chilled paddle that had you squirming from the change.

As training tools you didn’t hate them, the spreader bars let you learn and prove you could be a good girl for her. They always started off at a smaller length and worked their way up to what she would deem perfect. When you could manage whatever she was teaching you, you would always get a cool nod and praise, sometimes head pats, too. When you stopped needing the spreader bars as an aide, that’s when you often found yourself getting them in another manner. Sometimes Fuyumi used smaller, shaped ones as accessories for you, or even toys. You’ve been on all fours before her, nipples in ice clamps and an actual dildo made of ice spearing you repeatedly as she used her strap on to take you until you begged to cum. She had let you as that time was a reward for good behavior, you having been good for your Mistress. If it hadn’t been, than she would only let you once she was satisfied and if you begged prettily enough. Otherwise you were stuck wanting until one of her brothers demanded a turn with you.

With Natsuo, he used them primarily as bedroom aides. While he could pin you to the wall with his dick alone, sometimes he wanted to keep using it and have you attached by others means. A nice couple of bars to have you spread eagle and facing him, a couple inches off the ground, looking gorgeous, like a piece of art before him. And then he was pounding into your sweet little pussy that stretched and stretched to take him, fitting him finally because you were just that perfect, with a perfect little pussy to have you be able to take him and so deep, too. It left you drunk off the feel of such girth splitting you in half, you couldn’t even mentioning cuming.

He used them to help keep you bent in a certain position in other times, like when he has hogtied you, a gag in your mouth as he used your perfect fitting pussy over and over again, letting you cum whenever you wanted but not letting up until he was through with you. Those times always left you spent, but Natsuo was sweet, kind and gentle when not in his dominance moods. He had the least of them compared to the others, but damn did he still have them.

Shōto was the last to decide on using them and he did it purely by accident, though ultimately followed the same path Fuyumi did in using hers.

You had been in a bratty mood all day to his annoyance, even going so far as to disconnect a phone call he was having with his friend — though that had been purely by accident, you didn’t say a thing so as maybe now he’d give you attention. And he did.

He had made the bar and cuffs before he even realized he had and was midway through putting you in them. Not letting on that he had done it on instinct, he held your gaze with a cold stare of anger before you demurely dropped your eyes to the floor and complied with him manhandling you into your position for punishment. Bars made and attached to the bed, his form of punishment was overstimulation with vibes while he worked in the background. Any noise made meant you had an extra ten minutes added to your time and if you managed to somehow misbehave further, well. He was very good at shaping his ice. He wasn’t sure you wanted to know how good he was just yet. (You didn’t want to know, but you did end up with an extra half hour of painful over stimulation — even if they did give you some very aroused orgasms for the new novelty of the situation.)

You did your time and it wasn’t until later, several days, when you admitted that you hadn’t done the deed that pushed him over the edge on purpose. You knew being a hero took a lot of time away from Shōto being able to talk with his friends like he used to and always respected his time alone to do so. He was not impressed that you hadn’t spoken up, but did use the bars again. This time in holding your knees aside as you were allowed to taste him and him you, 69ing as a new reward you happily earned more than once.

Surprisingly, like children like Mother as when Rei was better and moved back into the house, your place in it explained and offered to her she took it.

And immediately has you in bars as soon as you striped down, a squeak leaving your lips at how fast that had happened. She admitted kindly that she had had a partner who needed a firm hand in their relationship, while another was far more soft and eager to please. She was curious as to find out what type you were and you couldn’t help the heat rising to your cheeks as she pressed against you, gentle dominating your mouth and unknowing to you hooking you up to the way between her main bedroom and sitting area, at least until she ended the kiss.

You were then given one helluva show as she stripped herself and hummed lightly before coming back over to you with a small bottle in hand. Sitting forward in a plush chair she looked up at you with an impish little smile and slowly inserted a finger amongst your folds, rubbing gently until she reached your core and pressed in. You hissed for a moment, which she verbally soothed you with calm praise, before going further. Soon one turned to two that then spread to scissor you open, causing you to yelp in surprise and try to squirm away from the sudden sensation. In response, the restraints tightened and she lightly reprimanded you, scolding you for how she could’ve accidentally harmed you by your sudden movements.

You looked away in shame and murmured a soft “Sorry, Mommy” before turning bright red in surprise. You had no idea where that came from but Rei was delighted and surged up to briefly peck you on the lips. She told you what a good girl you were, telling of how she was so happy you had come around so quickly and was looking forward to being your Mommy. All the while she had moved up until she was four fingers in and about to be well enough to fist you. The first of all the Todoroki’s, though you supposed with the side of Rei’s hands it was less than what Natsuo was packing and therefore you could take it.

You were not expecting Mommy to switch temperature and chill her hand as she slipped her entire five fingers inside. “A-Ah! Mommy,”you cried out trembling. She used her other hand to gentle rub circles against the junction of your hip as she gently shushed you until you were giving off only the occasional soft whimper. “There, there. Mommy has you, Sweet Girl. She’s going to move now, okay?”

Though phrased a question, Mommy didn’t wait as she slowly began to move, another whimper leaving your lips as you became her living puppet as she slowly withdrew before adding more lube and entering your again. There was little talking as she explored your insides like no other had and slowly you began to feel different, good and gave a low, drawn out moan.

Rei chuckled, a light overtaking her eyes as her hand and wrist were taking your body. If asked, she would never deny that being in control made her feel so… good. “Do you like that, Sweet Girl?”

After a brief moment, in which Rei had stopped moving, you realized you were supposed to reply. Another blush overtook your face. “Sorry, Mommy,” you apologized again, before quickly nodding. “Y-Yes, I like it, Mommy! I like it a lot! Your fingers felt so good, and all of them at once feels much more so! Thank you, Mommy!”

As you chirped out your reply, Mommy had begun slowly moving again, going in and out a little easier than before but still catching your breath by surprise. Rei was pleased, particularly so when you remembered your manners. It seems her children had taught you those well and she wouldn’t have to. Continuing to move her hand Rei heard your breath hitch and looked up with that same impish smile from before.

“My sweet girl, is everything okay?”

“Y-yes! Yes, M-mommy, everything is oka-okay!”

Mommy hummed to herself, like Mistress did sometimes, and nodded. She lightly grazed the same spot as before, enjoying the little hitches in your breath, in your voice as she came into contact with those little spots inside. Every time she did, she pressed a little more firmly, again and again and again until you cried out.

“Mommy! M-mommy ple-please!”, you begged, tears starting to stream down your face, barely kept yourself from thrashing, as you knew your Mommy was touching places inside you that felt so good. So, so good.

“Oh?” Mommy looked surprised, “is something a matter, baby?”

“Hnnnng! Mooooommy!”, you gave a small sob as you felt a firmer touch than before.

“Use your words like a good girl.”she admonished, giving you a supportive smile as you looked at her through your tears.

“Please, Mommy…”you began, voice soft as you sniffled. You needed to feel more, firmer good touches! You really, really needed to but your words were getting lost. “P-please more? A lo-lot more? Touches?” Your voice barely came out in a whisper on the last word, trying hard to concentrate on using your words.

Mommy smiled brightly, still hearing you and cooed. “Oh, listen how well you did, my Sweet Girl! Mommy will take care of you, don’t worry. Just relax and leave it all up to her.”

You nodded eagerly, lapping up the praise and promises and pretty soon you began to feel more, the “a lot more touches” that you had tried so hard and asked for. Pressing, caressing, harder and harder and harder until you yelled out, seeing stars as your eyes rolled back.

“MOMMY!”

You didn’t see or feel as you came squirting, your pussy stuffed full. You did see or feel as your new Mommy carefully withdrew her hand from inside you and gave her fingers a curious lick, than suck each one clean with a happy little hum. You didn’t see or feel as you were helped down, cleaned up or settled on the bed, head resting against your new Mommy’s chest. You barely realized you had murmured a “thank you”, or that there was a reply back in “Of course, Sweet Girl. Your Mommy’s now, too, and Mommy will teach you how to behave so she can make you feel good again later. Sleep for now.”, or that you replied to that.

“Okay, Mommy. I’ll make you feel good after a nap”

With a little laugh, a kiss was pressed against your forehead.

“I look forward to it, Sweet Girl.”

- FIN.

 

*flops over* All in one go~ Now it’s time for me to grab a nap! 😂

- InvisibleRibbitch

This ice spreader bar thing is just too good 😩😍

[dramaticsnakes]

The Revived - Chapter 9: Reconnecting

This is chapter 9 of the Dream SMP multichapter fic @rainbowbutterfrosting​ and I wrote together! I hope you’ll enjoy!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Nihachu, Ghostbur

Word count: 2784

Cw: sleep problems, needle imagery, implied desire to get hurt, mentions of guilt, brief mentions of food/eating, discussions of violence, implied trust issues

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

The minutes that followed were awkward to say the least. Niki had held onto Wilbur for a while, as if he would slip out of her grasp and dissolve into nothingness at any moment. She’d let Wilbur go free shortly after, and then she started staying at a distance, her eyes never quite leaving him. In a matter of minutes, she’d gone from yelling at him and punching him, to treating him like a fragile porcelain vase that would break the second she got too close. In a way, Wilbur wasn’t sure which he preferred.

“I’m sorry.” she’d repeated several times, quietly and broken, almost as if to mimic Ghostbur’s words that had echoed in Wilbur’s mind earlier, “Wilbur, I’m so so sorry.”

Wilbur had said it was okay, because really, Wilbur had expected punches far earlier, and perhaps it was about time.

He had the chance to look at his surroundings properly, now that he was no longer blindfolded. What had previously been stairs leading to an unknown place, and a lonely room he couldn’t see, now resembled something much grander. An underground area with high ceilings, and god knows how many different rooms. It was like an entire city, right underneath the ground, and Niki was walking through it so casually, looking at Wilbur instead of the impressive sights. “What is this place?” Wilbur asked quietly.

It took Niki a few moments to realize she’d even been asked a question. “Oh! It’s my secret city.”

Wilbur hummed. “Not so secret anymore. You led me right to it.” he said, trying to lighten the quiet mood. Niki just laughed awkwardly. “Did you build this?”

“Yeah. I did.” Niki said with a nod, “I originally made it to house refugees from the war, but… Well, now I just kind of live here on my own.”

“Really?” Wilbur said, looking at what looked like the beginning to a farm, “That’s… That’s a lot of space.” he tried to dig through his memories, “Didn’t you have a bakery?”

At that, Niki’s face turned pale again. She shook her head. “L’Manberg’s gone.”

“Oh.” Wilbur said, “Oh, right. Sorry, that was stupid.” he facepalmed, accidentally touching a bruise, and he heard Ghostbur wince. 

He must’ve winced too, because Niki gave him a concerned look. “You… I’m so sorry, but we should find a way to treat the bruises. I didn’t mean to- or well, I did mean to, but not to you, I…” she trailed off, and closed her eyes, as if her own words made her cringe.

“It’s okay.” Wilbur said, walking ahead.

“It’s not okay. I should’ve…” She shook her head, and took a deep breath. After a few moments of nothing but silence and the sound of their steps, she stopped walking. Wilbur looked back, confusedly. “Wilbur… How exactly are you back?”

Ah. Wilbur should’ve expected the question eventually. “Dream.” he said, “Dream revived me.”

A range of subtle emotions seemed to flow down Niki’s face in ripples. She swallowed something in her throat. “Oh.” she said, “That’s what they said happened with Tommy, I thought… I didn’t even think he was…” she looked at the ground for a moment, her eyes closed tightly. “But why would Dream- Are you… You were dead right?”

Wilbur scoffed. “What do you mean? Yeah I seemed pretty fucking dead to me.”

Niki started whispering to herself. “Wilbur died. He was killed by Phil. Dream revived him.” She repeated the words again, and looked up again, with a smile that looked performative at best. “Okay, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Yeah…” Wilbur attempted to shift the conversation, “Why did you stop threatening me? Like are you just gonna punch me again? I’ll understand if I look punchable, I’ve gotten that quite a lot.” Wilbur chuckled. He desperately hoped Niki wasn’t going to hurt him again, yet part of him still said it was going to happen. Part of him said Niki wasn’t going to let him leave alive.

Yet, Niki managed to prove him wrong when she spoke, “No, no I’m not-” She took a shaky breath. “I’m not going to do it- any of that again. I… I realized that you were actually you when… When you called me ‘Nix.’ You were the only person that called me that.” The words were fragile in a way that made it look like Niki’s eyes were watering. He might have been the one to wipe away Niki’s tears moments ago, but he couldn’t attempt to rub away the unshed ones.

“Niki are you oka-”

“You look tired.” Niki interrupted, the words sounding sharp, “Have you had some rest recently?”

Wilbur looked at Niki disbelievingly, “I mean, I was just passed out and tied up for some hours wasn’t I?”

Niki looked apologetic for a moment again, and Wilbur almost wished he hadn’t said that. “That’s not rest.” she proceeded to say, “You should… You can borrow a bed, and lie here for a while. It’s the least I can do.”

Wilbur caught a good look at Niki’s face again. He looked at the bags underneath her eyes, and the way she looked as if years had passed. For a moment, he pondered if perhaps Ranboo and Tubbo had lied to him, about how long Wilbur had been gone. He found himself doubting this was the same Niki, Wilbur last saw thirteen and a half years ago. “How long has it been since you last slept.” Wilbur asked, and it wasn’t meant to be spiteful. In fact, he was uncharacteristically concerned.

Niki’s expression hardly changed, as she simply blinked once. “Last night.” she said, and Wilbur had enough experience with her to know that it was a lie, but he wasn’t going to say anything. He didn’t feel as if he had the right.

Soon enough, Wilbur found himself sitting on a bed. She left the room with a promise that she’d return, and Wilbur suddenly felt exposed and off, as if he had been miscast in the role of someone who needed help, rather than whichever role he previously had. Not that he was confused about his previous role, because Wilbur had gone way too far by now, to qualify as a hero.

“Ghostbur?” Wilbur whispered.

“Yeah, I’m here! Are you alone?” Ghostbur asked.

“Yes. You went quiet for a while.” Wilbur said.

“Oh, did I? Sorry. I love talking, but you usually don’t like it when I talk while you talk to others.”

In a sense, Ghostbur wasn’t wrong. Wilbur had expressed little but distaste towards it, or he’d ignored it completely, because really he had to. It wasn’t as if this was something he could explain, when people were baffled at the revival alone. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure what would happen if he tried to explain. While people held tension and disdain whenever it came to Wilbur, people held everything from fondness to mild annoyance with Ghostbur. Wilbur wasn’t an idiot. Ghostbur was so inextricably good and happy, and those were two things Wilbur had little to nothing of. There was a little part of Wilbur, however small, that felt as if people would rush to get Ghostbur back from the place in limbo he had done nothing to deserve, even at the cost of Wilbur. 

Of course he shouldn’t want Ghostbur to talk all the time. Ghostbur was annoying. Wilbur knew that. For so long, he’d had to face that fact. And yet, Wilbur still found himself saddened at Ghostbur’s words, because a ridiculous part of Wilbur insisted that the silence was worse. That the light echo-y tone, was keeping Wilbur just above the surface of the ocean, that otherwise wouldn’t hesitate to suffocate him.

Wilbur’s time in limbo must’ve done quite a number on him, for him to think such things.

“You can talk if you have something to say.” Wilbur said quietly, “I won’t always be able to respond, but you can talk.”

“Oh.” Ghostbur said, sounding a little uncertain, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that. You can do what you want, you know. Not like anyone can stop you in there.” Wilbur said, but he regretted the words as soon as he said them, because they were met with the sound of a harsh inhale. Wilbur took a deep breath, closed his eyes, trying to collect his words. “I’m sorry it’s… How are you feeling there? I left you alone for a… For a while.”

“I’m fine, I think.” Ghostbur said, his cheerful tone apparent, but the words ambivalent. “I-I don’t think I like this place very much though.”

Wilbur nodded to himself, feeling his heart drop slightly. “Yeah, I get that. It’s very quiet and enclosed.” he bit his lip, almost hard enough to taste the blood within.

“It’s okay!” Ghostbur said, “I’ll probably forget it soon anyway. You’re here now.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” Wilbur said, and perhaps the idea that Ghostbur would possibly forget soon enough should’ve been a relief, yet there was something strangely dishonest about the way the memories worked. In a sense, Wilbur related to the way memories seemed out of reach. To the way, certain parts of one's life were muddled. He carried just a bit of sympathy for the ghost, and the way he, despite everything, held on, through the vague fog of remembrance. 

“And you have to sleep sometimes! The living do that when they get tired.” Ghostbur said affirmingly.

“That’s true.” Wilbur said, a small smile on his face as he chuckled. After a moment of silence he added, “Hang in there.” because perhaps he was still cruel enough, to let the ghost fall into the illusion that it was temporary. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. 

But Wilbur had gone way too far, to qualify as a hero anyway.

Just then, Niki entered the room. She was smiling, though it seemed practiced. She was holding a plate with a pastry that was probably homemade. In her other hand, she held a glass of water. Wilbur realized that his throat was a little dry, as he laid his eyes upon it. “I had this. Are you hungry?”

Once again, Wilbur felt miscast as a victim. “Yes.” he said begrudgingly, and Niki approached, placing the plate on a table next to Wilbur. “Still baking without the bakery?” he asked.

Niki looked a little surprised at the question. “Oh, yeah! I uh- I am now.”

Wilbur nodded, feeling that the response was a bit strained and off, though he didn’t find it in himself to comment on it. “How long have you been staying here?” he asked.

“A while.” Niki said, “A couple of months, I think.”

Wilbur hesitated. “Alone?” he asked.

Niki turned visibly uncomfortable at the question. “Yeah.” she said, “Or well, I’ve had visitors sometimes.”

Wilbur wasn’t sure what he’d imagined the world to be like, after he died. Perhaps a part of him had expected a bustling community, with Niki standing tall as ever. With her smiling while trying out a new recipe. Maybe with Tommy front and center, with Tubbo by his side. Everything continuing on, as if death led to blooming rather than decay.

And perhaps another, much more selfish part of him, had expected the world to die along with him. For everything to fall to the ground along with L’Manberg, until there was nothing but a crater in the ground.

Neither of those seemed to be the case. Though sometimes, expectations had to be set aside, in order to keep a goal clear.

He took a bite of the pastry, familiar flavours filling his mouth. “Oh. This is delicious!” he said, “Prime I haven’t tasted cake at all in forever.”

Niki giggled, and for a moment everything felt normal. Wilbur wasn’t sure what normal meant at all, but it was as if no time had passed. The sound of the giggle seemed like a gateway through the past, and their voices seemed to blend comfortably, as they went on to make some more awkward conversation. 

Apparently Techno had gone as far as to make an anarchist group, though Niki didn’t go into much details of its members, or whether they’d even done anything noteworthy. She mentioned a couple of new faces, and briefly went into how Dream was in prison. Pandora’s box. Wilbur knew of it. He vaguely remembered the huge building, and he remembered vague dread that didn’t come from his own memories. Ghostbur’s breathing turned shakier at the mention, though they quickly moved on from the subject.

Wilbur noticed however, that whenever the subject of L’Manberg was brought up, Niki’s tone had a sharper edge to it. Her words became quicker and harsher, as if the topic itself stuck needles into her chest, that made her hiss, as if she was catching breath. “Did you miss me?” Wilbur asked at one point.

“Of course I did.” Niki said, her voice turning a little softer.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“Of course I am.” Niki said, and she grasped her mouth once she realized she’d said it. She shook her head. “No! It’s not that bad, it’s just… You’re back now, it’s fine.” 

“I destroyed it all, didn’t I?” Wilbur asked, though it wasn’t a real question. He chuckled, “I destroyed your home. I destroyed everyone’s home.”

“Stop.” Niki said, “It’s over now. The memories are gone and-”

“And I did that!” Wilbur said, with a slight smile.

“Stop.” Ghostbur suddenly said.

“And I’m sorry.” Wilbur added, “I’m sorry I did that, but you should be mad at me anyhow.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to be mad at you Wilbur!” Niki said, a little desperation in her voice. She suddenly took his hand, and looked him in the eyes. “You left. You were gone, and now you’re back. I lost you Wilbur. We all did. And you betrayed everything you used to stand for.” She said harshly, “But I don’t want to be mad at you. Everyone here has done bad things, and you’re not the only one who has left in one way or another. Betrayals happen all the time, and now you’re here. I’m here, and I’m not a part of any of it up there, so it doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters.”

Wilbur sat in silence for a moment, feeling the heat of Niki’s hand on his, that felt all at once comforting and overwhelming. It shouldn’t be there. At most, it should’ve been punching Wilbur again, because the more he thought about everything, the more he hoped someone would take this all out on him. At least it would make him feel alive rather than confused. He wondered exactly when Niki’s outlook became so somber, and he couldn’t help but feel that he perhaps had played a part. The words hadn’t even seemed planned out, and while Wilbur didn’t doubt that they were truthful, he couldn’t help but feel as if there was more truth to be uncovered. “Okay.” he just said, because what the hell was he supposed to say, with Niki looking at him, as if this was the last second he’d spend within her sight?

“It does matter.” Ghostbur said, “There’s a lot going on, but everyone deserves to be happy. That’s important.”

Wilbur wasn’t sure if the sentiment broke his heart or poorly repaired it with some blue duct tape. “I’m sorry, Niki. For what I did.”

“Thank you, Wilbur.” Niki just said, she smiled slightly, though Wilbur wasn’t sure if his apology had gotten through. “Get some rest, alright? You still look exhausted.”

“I can talk a lil’ bit longer,” Wilbur yawned after saying the words. He caused so much pain to Niki that he wanted to at least talk for a few minutes more. Perhaps make those minutes count more than the ones in his past lives. Cherish the moment in a way.

But Niki only looked sympathetically at him. The pity, saying more than she ever could, “Can and should are two different things, Wil.”

“Aww,” Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll rephrase that. I should stay up a bit longer.”

Niki sighed in a way that could have been considered a melancholic laugh, “You really shouldn’t.” The words were quiet, genuine concern showing through them.

With the waves of exhaustion washing over Wilbur, he laid back in the bed. Although the pillow wasn’t very soft, he leaned into it gratefully, his eyes closing along the way.

“Good night, Wilbur.” Niki sat up from the bed, pulling the blanket slightly more over Wilbur. A small smile came across Wilbur’s face. He thought about returning the good night back to her, but he already fell into a dreamless sleep.

[moonknightly]

Blood In Your Veins : Poe Dameron x Reader (Modern!AU)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Excerpt: “The blood in your veins felt like fire every time you thought of him, and like ice each time a stranger’s hands slid down your body — a confusing and complicated mix that you had grown accustomed to. But tonight, you felt nothing but heat move through you.”

A/N: Yes hi this is an old fic that I rewrote you don’t have to tell me

Warnings: Swearing. Angsty smut but it’s not heavily detailed. Poor writing.

It was quiet. It had been quiet for months now. There was never any music, no talking, no laughter. Your apartment was the complete opposite of what it had once been before. It was no longer a home, no. It was now lifeless, empty, and desolate. A place where you would sleep and, on a good day, shower. The lights were usually off, the TV never on. The neighbors would believe it to be abandoned had they not seen you come and go for work each day.  

Not only was the apartment lifeless, but it was also in complete disarray. Your bed hadn’t been made in God knows how long, and your laundry sat in an overflowing hamper that you had no intention of dealing with anytime soon. Dishes were piled into the sink. Takeout boxes and empty liquor bottles filled your trashcan and littered any available counter space. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a proper homecooked meal. You just couldn’t find the motivation to cook or clean. If you didn’t have bills to pay, then you certainly wouldn’t have the motivation to get out of bed and go into work each morning either.

You had no idea how you had let it get to this point. It certainly wasn’t what you had envisioned for yourself.

No, your plans had always been much different, and they definitely never involved a man being the reason behind the ache that seemed as if it would never leave your chest — the ache that was so intense, it was stripping your life away from you piece by piece. A love life had never even been an option in your mind. Not after watching your parents separate when you were in your teens, and you had to sit by your mother’s side and watch her endure the devastating storm that followed. You promised yourself then that you would never let anyone make a home inside of your chest like she had let your father. His betrayal had already hurt you so deeply, almost beyond repair. No man was worth the pain and the heartache and the sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling and wishing for it to all just go away.

But, of course, he had been the one exception.

From the first time you met him, you knew he was going to be the one to break your heart. And what was worse was that you didn’t mind, you just had hoped that you were wrong. But you still didn’t mind, even as you felt the gaping hole in your chest where he had once lived bleed with the sorrow and the grief he had caused you — the piece of you that he had taken with him the day he left.

He was still worth it. He would always be worth the pain and the anguish simply because you were sure that you loved him more than anyone had ever loved another person. You were sure of it each time he smiled at you, or each time those heavenly brown eyes caught yours from across the room. Each time he whispered your name or moaned it into your ear while tangled between satin sheets. Whenever he would grab your hand and run his thumb along your knuckles. When he would trail kisses along your jaw and the butterflies within your stomach would come alive with a ferocity that shocked you each and every time.

There was no doubt in your mind that you loved him more than you could ever fathom, and you had been so sure that he had felt the same. But love was still new to you, and maybe you had just misunderstood. Maybe you had been too blind by his charm to see what he truly wanted, and maybe he had just spent the last year and a half pretending that the feeling inside of his chest was truly relentless and unconditional love, because that’s what you had wanted, and because that’s what it took for you to let him into your bed each night.

But each time you thought back to the way his fingers traced over your skin in the dark of night, and the way his lips would move against your own, so desperate and craving more more more, you didn’t understand how you could have been so wrong or so blind.

Some part of him had to have loved you. Even if it was just a small corner of himself, he couldn’t have really meant it when he told you that it had all been a lie.

“I just don’t feel the same.”

“I never even loved you.”

“It was just sex.”

“It’s better this way.”

The last one had probably hurt you the most, because it sure as hell didn’t feel better “this way”. Spending your days numb and completely void of any and all emotion was not better than feeling your chest swell with each glance he sent your way. Eating your dinner by yourself was not better than eating it with his company. Laying all alone in your bed at night was not better than finding solace in his arms as they held you tightly into the night, and the nights that you weren’t alone were even worse, because no matter how hard you tried to imagine that it was him on top of you with his lips attached to your neck and his hands pushing your hips further into the mattress, it never was. The brown eyes you would find yourself staring into were never quite the right shade.

Anything was better than the suffocating loneliness that you had felt for the last several months, but there was nothing better than him, or more so, you and him together.

And no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t seem to forget. You were trying so hard to forget it all, and no amount of drunken stupors, one-night stands, and flat-out reckless behavior cleared even a fragment of his memory from within your brain. His voice, his touch, his smell — they were forever ingrained into your mind and you just wanted it to stop.

That was the only moment in which you ever envied him. If he had been honest in saying that he never cared, it would be so easy for him to forget while you were forever stuck with the remembrance of what once was. You wondered if he had erased you from his mind completely, or if you didn’t matter enough for him to do so. Could he think of you and truly feel nothing at all?

The blood in your veins felt like fire every time you thought of him, and like ice each time a stranger’s hands slid down your body — a confusing and complicated mix that you had grown accustomed to. But tonight, you felt nothing but heat move through you.

You could still taste the Grey Goose on your lips (or was it on his?). Your vision was blurry, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the alcohol taking over your every sense or from the tears trailing down your cheeks. For months, you had searched and searched for that complete and utter warmth, even if it was only so you could immerse yourself further into your fantasy of being entangled with him once more, and you had finally found it.

His nails were digging into your hips, and his breath was hot against your ear. The only light in the room came from the soft, faint glow of a candle you had accidentally left burning from before you had gone out for the night, but that didn’t matter – your eyes were screwed tightly shut anyways.

Your hands found his chest, and oh God, you didn’t have to imagine very hard. Sturdy and strong, yet somehow soft and comforting all in one. Familiar.

His teeth grazed the skin of your ear, down the length of your jaw, and then to your throat. Just like he used to do. You felt a shiver run down your spine and your back arched into his touch, and he growled. You could feel him smirk before he bit down on your pulse point, a wanton moan falling from your lips.

Desperate, needy, fast. It was everything that you needed, and you couldn’t remember the last time sex had felt so good.

Actually, you could. It was with him, of course it was, and it felt just like now. You felt whole for the first time in so long, and you couldn’t stop the slip of his name off your tongue like a desperate, futile prayer.

You hoped that the man looming over you had been too preoccupied to hear you moan someone else’s name, and for a moment, you thought you had gotten away with it. He shuddered and continued his movements as if you had simply not spoken, but when he moaned your name back to you, his mouth right by your ear, your eyes snapped open.

That voice. You knew that voice. You could go years without hearing it and you would always remember that voice. Apparently, you hadn’t moaned the wrong name, because you were one hundred percent certain that it was him inside of you, pounding into you like he would never see tomorrow yet cradling you in his arms as if you were nothing but a fragile doll made of porcelain.

You had never sobered up so quickly.

But oh God, you didn’t want him to stop.

You gripped Poe’s raven hair tighter between your fingers, another desperate moan of your name leaving his lips. He lifted his head from the crook of your neck, his forehead coming to rest against your own, and it was then that you knew you weren’t imagining things, because those brown eyes you had craved so deeply were right there, staring back at you.

How had you just realized?

The club had been dark, and the music had been loud. You were dancing with someone, facing them, when someone else came up behind you and pulled you flush against their body. Their lips had immediately attacked your neck and their hands found a place on your hips, pulling you impossibly close as you rocked to the beat of the music.

You had never seen his face, never heard his voice. You had only followed when he pulled you away from the dancefloor and didn’t question when he led you back to your apartment. The alcohol, and the lack of self-preservation that you had only recently lost, were surely the culprits.

Your name flowed from his mouth for a third time, in the form of a breathless whisper. Your hold on him tightened, and you blinked furiously just to make sure that this wasn’t all just a sick, twisted, vodka-induced dream your brain decided to plant in your mind. But he was still there, and then his thumb was against your lower lip, and he was kissing away the tears that were now flowing freely down your cheeks at a greater volume. He continued to move, snapping his hips into yours again and again and again. It wasn’t until you let out a broken, strangled sob that he pulled away from you, and you instantly missed his warmth, his touch.

You could only lay there and stare at the ceiling as your breath completely escaped you, your lungs no longer seeming to work properly, and as hard as you tried, you just couldn’t pull in enough air. You gasped and you gasped until those gasps became silent, your chest heaving with effort. Your mind was returning to a foggy, cloudy state as Poe continued to hang over you, one hand on the side of your head and the other curling around your waist, pulling you as close to his chest as he could without crushing you underneath him. His hand gently smoothed over your hair, and his enticing moans were replaced by gentle reminders to “breathe, you need to breathe sweetheart”.

Breathing had never been so hard.

His arms held you tightly, and you never wanted him to let you go. Not again, not ever.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby please. Please, just breathe.”

Your broken plea wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud, but your embarrassing begging was the last thing you were worried about.

Poe removed his hands from your body, and you scrambled to stay close, only stopping when both of his palms gently met your cheeks, holding your head still so that you were forced to look him in the eye.

“Breathe.”

Brown eyes, so full of concern and worry and love.

You had always looked at Poe as if he hung the moon in the sky himself each and every night, and now, he was looking at you as if you were tearing it all down, piece by piece until there was nothing but crumbled rock surrounding. It was love, because he wouldn’t have looked so completely wrecked, so completely devastated in that moment if it had been anything else.

“Goddammit, breathe,” he instructed, panic starting to settle into his tone.

You couldn’t.

There was only black.

[writingsbychlo]

heart under construction (02)

word count; 4842

summary; sam can’t handle how you make him feel, and so he takes the easy way out.

notes; this gets angstyyyyy, I’m sorry in advance.

warnings; none, nada, zilch.

Sam was finding it harder and harder to deny just how much he looked forward to your visits. They were well into month two of construction now, and seeing you bringing them coffee and smiles in the morning had become a vital part of his day. He knew when you would arrive, how long you would stay for and when you’d go back past in the afternoons upon finishing at the school.

If asked, he would deny that you were the reason he started taking is lunch breaks later, and he would deny that he was definitely packing extra food each morning before Jake was picking him up, just on the off-chance that it might be one of the days you would join him for his lunch break. On an occasional day, you did choose to sit with him, and he’d listen to you talk happily about the school, the nursery kids and how much each one meant to you. 

He knew about Zach, who was a pain in the arse, but still somehow one of your favourites. He was fond of Lexi, who reminded him of his own niece, and he hated Connor with a burning passion, because the kid often came up in the stories that ruined your day, and so he naturally chose not to like him, whether he was four or forty. 

You were becoming more and more ingrained in his life, and he was doing nothing to stop it.

He didn’t want to do anything to stop it.

You knew more about him than almost anyone, when he spoke to you, he couldn’t help the words that would just start pouring from his mouth, the questions following. He didn’t just want you to know about him, he wanted to know about you. He wanted to know everything, from your favourite colour to your deepest fears, he wanted to hear your most embarrassing stories and he wanted to know what your thoughts were on every topic he could think of. He wanted to know if you believed in aliens, and which conspiracy theories you thought were true, and which vines were your favourite. He wanted to know you, through and through.

It was as though the more he learned, the more he needed.

You knew about his niece, Jake had proudly shod you pictures of his husband Roger and his daughter Alice only a few days after meeting you. He’s boasted about his daughter’s accomplishments, and he’d told you the story of his proposal to the man he loved. Sam had watched with pure joy the day you had dished out advice to his brother when he was panicked about Alice, just to see you put him at ease with only a few words.

He could no longer picture a day without you in it, without you passing through in a whirlwind of cute smiles and stupid jokes for him.

The day Sam had realised just how much he needed you was the day you’d made the same stupid ‘Uncle Sam’ joke he made on every date he went on, his eyes wide and jaw dropped as you teased him about being Uncle Sam and asked him if he would do his best impression of the propaganda posters, only to giggle incessantly as he pulled off a very poor attempt at a recreation, unable to hold his face in the same stern look.

Since that day, he hadn't been able to bring himself to make the usual joke on his dates, because he knew he wouldn’t get the same joy from seeing them laugh as he did when you had.

As the weeks went on, he was finding it harder and harder to deny that you might be exactly what he wanted. You might be perfect for him, and he had to consciously stop himself from thinking about you, as you started to take up a permanent residence to linger in the back of his mind. He couldn't stop, he would be shopping and be reminded of you in something he thought you’d like to try, and he’d definitely put it in his basket before moving on. He’d be on a date and a girl would remind him of something you would say and he knew the joy filling his system wasn’t from the girl before him but from the idea of you being with him instead.

As they neared the summer, you had started wearing lighter dresses, and fewer coats, and Sam couldn’t forget the day you’d come by to see them on the weekends, a light summer dress swishing around your midthighs, a stark contrast to the work-appropriate trousers he’d seen you in before that point. You had eaten lunch with him that day too, and he had struggled not to let his eyes trace over the skin revealed to him when your dress rode up as you sat down, or the way your leg felt pressed up against his. 

He had spent hours resisting the urge to reach out and discover just how soft your thighs would be under his fingertips, and how they might feel trembling under his grasp, or scratched up and red from his beard. 

You were off-limits. You were too nice for him to ruin it, because he didn’t settle down.

He didn’t do relationships. He doesn’t. He won’t change for one chick, not with all that could go wrong, not with every hope he could build-up, only for one person to bring everything around him crashing down. Not again. Now, the only person he relied on was himself. 

He wasn’t snapped out of his thoughts until your voice was calling out to him, not from inside his own mind but from the street below, his eyes scanning over the area until he saw you, hands cupped around your mouth as you called out to him, waving happily and the smile he sent you back was instinctual, he was unable to hold it back, stop it from breaking free. 

He was waving you up the ladder before he could think about it, and you were quickly completing the climb. Taking a seat beside him, you huffed out happily, nudging him with your shoulder and giving him a laugh, his eyes rolled fondly, your feet carrying you quickly across the now stable floorboards to greet his brother, and he trailed behind you slowly, the work he had been doing now completely forgotten as he followed after you.

You were complimenting them on the house, telling them just how much you admired the amazing work they were doing and his cheeks flushed, an idea suddenly coming to mind for him, his hand taking yours absentmindedly as he lit up with all new kinds of excitement.

“We finished the balcony!”

Before he could stop himself, he was tugging you along, guiding you up the mended staircase to the top floor as he swiftly undid the catch on the ceiling to floor doors, pushing them open as the low sun flooded the room, and you awed at the space, your hand gripping his tightly as you stepped out cautiously onto the small patio space. The fences had yet to be put up, the bolts and supports put in place, but the old-fashioned style railings were still sitting in a stack in the corner, and you turned to face Sam with a lazy on your face.

“Classic style railings to match your oldies theme, yeah?”

His eyes widened, nodding slightly as you crouched, running the fingers of your free hand over the warm metal, tracing the swirling patterns. The rays of the lowering sun cast a golden glow over your skin, making you seem almost otherworldly as you admired the sights around you, your breath practically knocked from you each time you looked out over the beautiful scenery. 

The sun was dipping, not quite hitting the edge of the horizon yet, but it was getting close, the distance seeming to dance lowly as the heat died down, the pale yellows and oranges of the lower sky fading away into barely present pastel pinks and purples, soon to fade to royal blues and ebony blacks as the night was ushered in.

“I bet the sunset would look amazing from here.” 

Sam wasn’t even sure if you were aware that you had spoken the sentence, the dreamy way you had sighed out your words made him question whether it was just a thought you had accidentally let slip as you stared longingly at the distant sky. He squeezed your hand, tugging you closer to him a little as you turned your head, eyes soft and a small smile gracing your features as he looked at you, the urge to lean in and bump his nose against yours almost overtaking him, and he cleared his throat, giving you a shy smile as he spoke up; “You should stay and watch it. I’ll stay behind, and lock up after.”

“Wait, really?”

Your excitement was already leaking through, your fingers gripping his, your other hand coming up to hold his between both of yours as you practically bounced in your place, your body now facing him fully and he laughed gently at your enthusiasm, his chest filling with warmth and his heart racing as he studied the joyous look on your face. “Yeah, ‘course. It’s going to be a great sunset tonight, it’s been warm all day, and it’s a clear sky. I think-”

“Sam, your phone is ringing an- oh, shit, sorry. You want me to just send it to voicemail?” Jake gave him a knowing look as he reached the top of the stairs, waving the buzzing device to him, a knowing smirk on his face as he looked over the two of you, your hands clasped together between you, almost chest to chest in the rays of the setting sun. 

It was far too romantic for Sam. Nope, not at all.

“No, no it’s fine. I’ll answer.” He took his hand from yours, pressing his thumb down on the green answer button and stepping away from the two of you as he heard you begin to tell his brother all about the sunset he was planning to show you, a small smile twisted on his face as he greeted whoever has called him. 

“Ye’llo? This is Sam.” He jogged down to the bottom of the steps, glancing back to see you beaming, your arms spread wide as you joked with Jake, the sight of you getting along so well with his brother just warming his heart.

“Hey, Sam? It’s Jess, from the other week?”

His eyes widened and he spun away from the scene, remembering the fiery red-head he had been out with the week prior, a smirk tugging on his lips. “Hey, Jess. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’re free tonight? I have no work tomorrow, and my roommates out for the weekend, so I am just all alone over here with takeout food and vodka?” 

Her tone was teasing, and Sam knew exactly what she was offering. Licking over his lower lip, he rubbed a hand over his jaw and scratched at the scruffy beard that had built up, glancing back at you once more, something he wasn’t used to feeling twisting in his gut as he made his decision. 

The sun did set every night, there was always more opportunities to watch the sunset, right?

“I can be there at seven, text me the address, beautiful. I’ll see you soon.” With a cheeky grin, he ended the call, taking the steps two at a time back up to the top floor and tucking his phone into his pocket, feeling it buzz only a second later with what he assumed to be the address from ‘Jess’. “Sorry, new plan. Can I raincheck on that sunset? I have a date.” 

Sam had not anticipated how much it would hurt to watch the smile fall from your face, even just momentarily, and no matter how hard you tried to fake a new smile, he’d seen the sadness flicker across your features, his heart feeling as though it had frozen over and turned to stone in that split second, plummetting to his stomach. 

He offered you a few more dates, more dates in the upcoming week, the sudden regret of the choice he’d made coming back to bite him in the ass as he pulled his phone out, offering to search to find which day would be best, checking for the best temperatures, but your enthusiasm seemed to have seeped away as you dismissed him, telling him it was ‘no big deal’, despite the fact he could clearly hear from your tone that it had saddened you.

The chance to spend time with you was quickly slipping through his fingers, his heart shattering as he watched you fasten your coat more firmly around yourself, building yourself up to excusing yourself and he grasped at straws, trying to work out how to backpedal from the situation he had gotten himself into, how t-

“I’ll stay. I love watching the sunsets, I’d love to watch it with you.” His eyes hardened, gaze narrowing as he looked over at his brother, trying to ask him what the fuck he was doing, but the happy squeal you released in response only caused his heart to sink further, your face lighting up once again as you turned your back on him, to face his brother.

“Really? You would?”

“Yeah, I can tell you more about my daughter. I have some stories you’ll love.” Jake glanced over his shoulder as you wandered further toward the edge, the sun getting lower and duller in the sky, and Jake fixed him with a harsh and judging look, shaking his head as if to dismiss him, and Sam felt his jaw drop, no chance to respond as his brother turned for him, beginning a story about Alice as you sat on the edge, your legs swinging over the edge of the balcony.

He considered saying goodbye, he considered just texting ‘Jess’ and calling it off, so he could sit on your other side. He could get the blanket from his truck and wrap it around your shoulders to keep you warm, and if you wanted, he would stay with you until night set in, the moon shining brightly so you could watch the stars without the light pollution of the city or the blockade of clouds, thanks to the clear night.

And then, Sam caught himself.

Snapping back from the sappy thoughts, he shook his head, turning on his heel and focusing on making sure he was looking good in the front camera of his phone as he made his way toward the street, pulling up the app to book a taxi as your voice faded away behind him, the front door slamming shut as he stormed from the property.

Instead, he was going to drink and fuck his troubles away with a hot redhead.

The cab pulled up for him, and Sam was quick to dish out a handful of notes to the driver, checking his hair in the reflection of the mirror before he was hopping out, striding into the lobby of the apartment building with confidence. Scrolling his finger down the list of numbers, he found the one he was searching for, pushing his finger against the buzzer for a second. Instead of getting a verbal response, the grated gate across from him humming as it opened for him, slamming shut behind him as he jogged to the elevator.

The second the doors shut and he had pushed the button, he studied the flicking of the lights above his head signalling the floors climbing, and he pushed the thought of your smiling face from his mind, quickly chasing the disappointed look on your face from his thoughts as well.

He was in the elevator, on the way up to the apartment of a very hot girl who wanted to spend the night with him, so why was he thinking about you?

The second the ding of the elevator sounded, the doors sliding open, his mind blanked as he looked at the sight before him. Popped in the doorway, a wicked grin on her face as the red curls framed her face, a pale blue lacy nightgown falling to her mid-thighs, he was dashing the distance of the corridor and the open door across from him, his hands finding her hips and giggles filling the apartment as she swung the door shut behind them.

She took one of his hands in both of hers, a wide smile on her face and he tried to ignore the feeling of wrongness creeping along his spine, tried to ignore how much he preferred the feeling when it had been you. Instead, he leaned down, bumping his nose with hers before pressing their lips together carefully and cautiously, the way he had wished to do with you as he tried to replace the ideas of you in his heart.

Hold on, heart? 

Swallowing thickly, he broke away from the girl before it could go too far, choosing instead to comment on the smell of the food in the house, and she guided him through to sit on the couch. The conversation between them flowed, but it was strained. It was small talk, and he hated small talk. It was nothing like the conversation he had with you when funny and easy-going chat would flow between you so fluidly and comfortably you’d think you had known each other for years.

He chose instead to distract himself with his food, letting the girl slide closer to him at their meals finished, the layers of clothing slipping from his body as he let himself get comfortable. His shoes were toed off, kicked away across the room, and his jacket slipped from his shoulders. The overshirt he wore was stripped away, and so was the belt around his waist, the buckle having been digging into him.

Jess had inched her way across the couch, she had started on the other side of the couch, and now, her legs were slung across his lap, his hand stroking the skin of her upper thigh gently as she giggled, pouring a new set of drinks for them as he kissed and nipped at her jawline teasingly.

Taking a deep swig of the poorly mixed and very strong drink he’d been served by the girl before him, he downed the entire thing, a wide grin on his face as the warm haze from this one, and the previous ones, already taking effect in his veins. Gripping her leg tightly, he plucked the glass from her hand, adding it to his own empty one on the coffee table before him, to lie with the discarded boxes and plates.

Pulling the girl over his lap, she squealed in joy as he leaned back into the couch cushions, her eyes boring into his as her hands wove into his hair and his hands slipped around to palm at her ass, her lips slanting over his wetly, their touch not nearly as intoxicating as they had been the weeks prior, but he was willing to try. Instead, he focused on the feel of her body pressed to his, the way she moaned above him as he groped at her and the way her hips were starting to roll down into his.

Finally, the image of your beautiful smile burned into his mind each time he closed his eyes faded away.

Sam was royally fucked.

His head was pounding, his muscles were aching, and he was late.

He was so late that all the missed calls from Jake, all the texts that had asked him where he was and how long he was going to be had all be replaced with one passive-aggressive ‘nevermind’ and then it had gone silent. He had barely mumbled a goodbye to Jess when she had dropped him off as he dashed up the steps of his own home, bursting in through the front door and straight up the stairs to the second floor as his eyes landed on his brother.

The man was painting possible colour samples onto the patches of walls that were leftover, the fill-ins still having to be completed. “I missed going to get carpet samples! I know! I am so sorry, but-”

“Oh, hey!” Sam was panting as he reached the top of the stairs, his hands coming to rest on his knees as he tried to regain his breath, his hungover body not thanking him for the sudden exertion, and his brain was muddled, the lecture he had expected to receive from his older sibling having never been sounded out. “Don’t worry about it, it’s all good.”

“Uh.. right.”

“How was your night?” Jake’s question only confused him further, and Sam stood up straight, scratching the back of his neck as he looked or his brother, who had turned back to painting his sample patches. Jake never asked him about his ‘dates’.

“Yeah, it was fine. She was fine.. I guess..” The man only hummed in response, and Sam couldn’t help but feel like his brother was just a ticking time bomb waiting to explode, no matter how calm he was being right now, and he just couldn't take it anymore. “I am sorry, Jake. I know you wanted an opinion on the samples, and I should have been there, so, it's not okay.”

“Dude, it’s fine, really. I’m glad you had fun.” Wiping his hands down on a rag, he finally turned to face Sam and he took a step toward his brother, Jake’s hand clapping down on his shoulder as he smiled at him, widely. “I, er, I didn’t go alone, actually. (Y/N) came with me.”

Sam had spent the night trying to push you out of his mind, and he had succeeded. In fact, up until this point, he had yet to think about you today, and suddenly, it’s like the weight of your presence had come crashing down over him once again. “What?”

“Yeah, I was texting her this morning.” Jake shrugged, as though it was no big deal, and Sam felt rage flood his system. Not at his brother, but at himself. The same feelings of guilt from last night came clawing back at him once again, and the regret of how he’d spent the night curled up with another woman in an attempt to forget you. His head was still pounding, his stomach was twisting with nausea and he was confused about how he was feeling. “When you weren’t around, she offered to come with me. She actually chose some really great samples, they-”

“Woah, texting? Since when did you have her number?”

He could physically see the way his brother recoiled from his harsh tone, his jaw dropping and Sam almost felt bad, but the puzzling mix of emotions swirling within his mind and heart were masking it out entirely. “Uh.. well, since she told me that her nursery group is having an event to welcome possible new parents and kids to the class in September, and that she thinks I should go.”

They must have been talking about it the night before, and Sam was kicking himself knowing the fact that she had such a good time she had deemed them close enough to have her number, and that he’d been too busy fucking another girl to have been here to get her number. “Right, fantastic..”

“Dude, what is your problem today? It’s no big deal, it was just carpet samples, stop beating yourself up! I took (Y/N), and it went f-”

“We’re just letting strangers make decisions about our house now, then? About my house?” He knew it was unfair, but his mind was buzzing, and he wasn’t himself, and once the anger that was festering within him at his confusion had found a way to start leaking out just couldn't stop it. “Good to know! Great idea, Jake! Maybe, I’ll start bringing all my dates over here to pass their opinion, too! At least I had a fun night with them, so their opinion must be important, too!”

He took a break, pacing up and down as his brother stared at him, slack-jawed and brows furrowed, and Sam was so caught up in his own world and thoughts that everything around him felt like it was beginning to slip away, like it was of nothing important or worth taking in. 

“I mean, if we’re going to let one total stranger give their opinion on my house, might as well be all of them! Let’s just invite the entirety of this random neighbourhood to pass their opinion, may as well make it city fucking hall while we’re at it!”

The silence around him was overwhelming, his breath panted out as he dropped his hands to his sides from where they had been held out in exasperation, and his shoulders sagged, face relaxing as he felt all the irrational anger he’d built up bubble over and escape, calmness and tranquillity seeping back into his body. 

“I am so sorry. I totally invaded, didn’t I?” Sam felt like he had turned to stone with how fast his body tensed. He had never heard the footsteps, never even knew she had been here, but how could he have when he’d been so caught up in a screaming match with himself. He practically gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned around, his eyes wide as he took you in. Comfy and casual wear, a devastated look on your sweet face as you avoided looking at him entirely, and cold pangs of sadness moved through his chest more and more prominently with each beat of his heart as he watched you back away. “You’re right, it really wasn’t my place.. I mean, I just came all up in here, I’m not sure what I was thinking. I’m going to go, this is your house, I’m not welcome. Got it. I.. I’ll see you around, I guess?”

Placing down the handful of small carpet trimmings you had been holding, each word you spoke felt like a stabbing wound added to his conscience, and he gaped like a fish, panicking on what to do as he watched you make your way down the stairs. He whipped his head back and forth between where you had been stood, and his brother, the sound of the front door slamming shut upon your exit snapping him from his reverie as he scrambled to get tot he stairs and follow you.

When he finally made it out onto the street, tumbling down the driveway and onto the street, he found it empty, no movement or even a hint of your presence to show him which way you might have gone. He knew which way you always walked to and from, but when he reached the street corner, he had no idea which way you may have gone and how he would find you. 

Trudging back to his house, he could barely lift his feet as the severity of what had transpired dragged him down, his toes catching on the step as he dragged himself back up to face his brother. A tense silence sat between the two men, thick ad palpable in the air, and he distracted himself by picking up the collection of thick fabric samples you had left behind, a small smile flicking on his features.

Shuffling through them, he ran his thumb over each one, evaluation the colours and textures as he thought deeply about each one. He loved each and every one, he couldn’t fight that they were all truly terrific samples, and he probably wouldn’t have chosen any of them any differently if he had been there himself, and the thought only made him feel worse.

“I like the dark grey and speckled one.. for the stairs and the middle floor.” His words were mumbled out, and Jake let out a sigh, the first real sign of disappointment his brother had shown since he’d returned and it sent chills shooting along Sam’s spine at the thought.

“Yeah, that’s what she said.” With a shake of the head, Jake sealed up the paint pots he had been using, dropping paintbrushes into a pot of water to soak. “Said she thought they would look best. Something about thinking that they would give us maximum opportunities on the furniture we chose, because that carpet was a pretty neutral colour, but also made a statement.”

“Yeah..”

“That doesn’t matter, though.” Jake’s voice had hardened, the disapproving older-brother tone only adding to the sombre mood in the building. “I mean, it was just a complete strangers opinion. Not like she’s a friend. We don’t really know her.”

“I fucked up, I know that.” With a heavy sigh, Sam palmed at stinging eyes, choking down his emotions. “Don’t make it any worse.”

[anotherkpopvictim]

When Insecurities Get the Best of You (We’ll Be There) - Namjoon X BTS Littlespace Drabble

(Gif Source: jinseas)

“anonymous asked: Hiii my favorite trope is joonie being insecure but ot6 comforting him and loving him hbnskskh i feel like i haven't read one of these in a while it'd be great if u wrote smth like that 👉🏼👈🏼”

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting this! I really liked the idea, and my last little!joon X caregiver!bts fic I wrote for Namjoon’s birthday was really well-liked so obviously others want to see this relationship again :)

So here it is! Enjoy!

Relationship: Little!Namjoon X Caregiver!BTS

Rating: G

Words: 4146

Hurt/comfort, fluff

PLEASE NOTE:  This fic is a collection of short moments over the years when Namjoon felt insecure about himself and the others were there for him. Some moments were based on actual events that happened in real life, while others were completely made up. If it really happened, I will link the moment I based it on.

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As the leader of Bangtan, Namjoon was no stranger to being the unfortunate target of the brunt of embarrassment. He had taken a “class” of sorts back in the day, where he was taught exactly what it meant to be a leader. One of the main points that Namjoon spent a lot of time working on, was that a leader needed to be able to take charge when any public conflicts or awkwardness overwhelms the atmosphere of any concert, interview, or award speech. BTS had gone through their fair share of public humiliation, and it was Namjoon’s job to keep things stable and calm during those times.

Fortunately, Namjoon was really, really good at this. He’d been the one to keep Yoongi from punching that asshole B-Free in the face during that one interview near the beginning of their career that none of them would ever forget. He was the one that could seamlessly take over when any of the members got choked up at a particularly invasive question.

Namjoon was also extremely good at hiding the complicated slow burn that was the members’ romantic relationship.

It started out way back in the day with himself and Yoongi, who were both wound up from the frustrations of trainee life and frankly just horny teenagers. What began as helping each other get off every now and then developed into something more romantic as Hoseok, Jungkook and Seokjin were added to the group line up.

Then Namjoon and Yoongi became Namjoon and Yoongi and Seokjin and then as debut finally rolled around, Hoseok joined in as well. Hyung line’s relationship was confusing for a few years as they figured out the dynamics within it.

BTS’ debut also brought about the start of maknae line’s romantic relationship. The three youngest had been close since the day they’d met, but it remained platonic until the night of their debut stage, where the high of emotions made them braver and they shared tender kisses and cuddles between themselves.

Then the two separate relationships (hyung line and maknae line) began to blend together until it was one unit.

Throughout all of the developments of their relationship and even after, Namjoon constantly had to keep an eye on everyone when cameras were rolling. It was Taehyung and Jungkook that had the most difficult time holding back the lingering touches and stares and it hurt the leader that he needed to separate them so much, but it was necessary.

So, yes, Namjoon was an amazing leader, and though it wasn’t easy, he was able to put his own emotions on the back burner for his group - at least, most of the time.

Because he was human and he was far from perfect, he too had those moments where things were too overwhelming for him as well. The company could forget that sometimes, but never his members. His members were always there for him.

-------------------------------------

2013 (based on this moment at 1:05)

The first time Namjoon really felt incapable of handling a situation was shortly after their debut. Coincidentally, this was also the first time Namjoon ever fell into littlespace.

BTS was lucky enough to be able to perform not only the title track of their second album but also the special concept trailer performance that fans loved so much.

It started out great, the hype of the screaming crowd giving them all the confidence in their performing. It got to the point in the choreography where the back-up dancers helped pull off their outer shirts, leaving them all in white sleeveless shirts. They’d all rehearsed it a million times, but that, unfortunately, didn’t mean that it was seamless every time.

It took a moment for Namjoon to realize that both of his shirts had accidentally been ripped completely from his body, leaving his torso on display for all the people in the audience and millions through the television to see.

A numbing panic like no other went over Namjoon like a wave, his face draining of all blood beneath the bit of BB cream he had on. Then, like flicking a switch, his professional side that had been ingrained into his brain took over.

He finished off the performance while holding his shirt feebly against his exposed chest. Namjoon didn’t dare to look into the audiences’ eyes as he bowed and hurried from the stage.

The next few moments were a blur, but suddenly Namjoon found himself in their dressing room bathroom, leaning back against the closed and locked door. His breathing was coming harshly and his heartbeat was pounding in his ears so much that he could barely hear the knocking on the door behind him.

“Joonie,” came Seokjin’s comforting voice from the other side, soft and soothing. “Joonie, open the door for me, love.”

But Namjoon couldn’t. How could he open the door and reveal his weak state to the rest of his band members when he was supposed to be their fearless leader?

“Yoongi’s taken the maknaes and left for home early, so it’s just us now,” Hoseok said, making the leader aware of his presence outside the door as well. “Please, Namjoon-ah, let us in.”

With sudden desperation for comfort that he couldn’t explain, Namjoon got up and unlocked the door shakily. Jin and Hoseok came in and immediately pulled him into a tight embrace.

Namjoon felt overwhelmed with emotions - embarrassment and panic and shame being the most prominent. “H-Hyungs-” he choked out.

“Let it go, baby,” Jin encouraged, kissing the side of his head, “I know you want to cry and it’s not good to keep that all bottled up inside.”

“We’re right here, okay?” Hoseok added.

The confirmation of their support was enough for Namjoon to listen. He let the tears that he had been keeping at bay slip from his eyes and make trails down his cheeks. He heaved out a sob that was followed by another and another.

His two hyungs were there for him through his whole breakdown, holding him in their arms and whispering words of comfort into his ears.

“T-They all saw me,” Namjoon choked out, “They all saw my body. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

“We know, love,” Hoseok replied, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down the leader’s arm. “It was an accident and we know it hurt you, baby.”

“J-Joonie embarrassed! Joonie don’t want fans to see his ugly tummy.”

The sudden change in the leader’s tone and his switch to speaking in third person gave his two hyungs pause for a moment and they shared a look of confusion between the two of them. Namjoon had never acted so...childish before.

Both of their minds were running a mile a minute, trying to register and adapt to this new situation.

“Namjoon-ah,” the eldest began slowly, pulling away from the other enough that he could look him in the eye, “You don’t have an ugly tummy, love. Your tummy is super cute.”

The younger glanced up timidly and looked at them with glossy eyes. “R-Really?”

Jin and Hoseok shared another look before the older returned his attention to Namjoon. Seokjin smiled gently, “Of course, Joon-ah.”

The leader slowly sat up a bit, “E-Even if Joonie doesn’t have abs?”

“Even if you don’t have abs,” Hoseok confirmed, his expression soft and fond. “Even if your skin was purple, even if you had an extra nose.”

That elicited a soft giggle out of the leader, quiet but there.

Hoseok and Seokjin felt unimaginable relief. It was hard to see their leader, their friend, their boyfriend, hurting so much.

Namjoon tossed his arms around both of their shoulders, “T-Thank you, hyungies.”

“Of course, baby.” Jin and Hoseok replied simultaneously before smiling at each other.

“Jinnie-hyungie?” Namjoon began rubbing at his drooping eyes with a fist, his lower lip pouting out cutely. “Tired.”

“Go ahead and sleep, love,” Seokjin said, adjusting Namjoon so the younger could rest his head on his shoulder. “We’ll carry you home, okay?”

“M’kay.”

Just as Hoseok finished closing all of their bags and slinging them over his shoulder, Jin appeared back in the dressing room from the bathroom with Namjoon curled around him like a koala. He looked much better than an hour ago as the oldest had gently cleaned the tears from his cheeks.

The two shared another smile and began making their way to the car waiting for them outside.

The car ride itself was uneventful other than the fond glances their manager gave them in the rearview mirror. Namjoon had shifted into Hoseok’s lap in the backseat and was attempting to curl up in a ball.

Once they’d returned to the dorm and Namjoon was tucked comfortably under the covers of his bunk bed, Hoseok and Jin snuck out from their shared bedroom and sat down together in the living room.

“So...” Hoseok began quietly, “Namjoon’s a little.”

“Namjoon’s a little,” Jin confirmed, “Can’t say I saw that one coming.”

Hoseok hummed in agreement, “This must have been the first time it happened because we both know Namjoon wouldn’t be able to keep something like this from us.”

I think so too,” Jin said, biting his lip in thought. “Should we tell the others?”

“We need to talk to Namjoon once he’s out of his headspace, I think it should be his choice.”

“Alright, but Hoseok?” the lead dancer locked eyes with his hyung’s fierce ones, “No matter what happens, we need to show Namjoon how much we love him, whether he’s in littlespace or not.”

Hoseok nodded firmly, “Always.”

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2015

The leader of Bangtan had broken countless things over the years, whether it be objects or bones, having inherited his clumsiness from his mother. Meaningless things somehow breaking into pieces once his hands touched it, they were easier to get over, but sometimes Namjoon would cause damage to something important and he would have the overwhelming feeling of embarrassment take over him.

One such time was when Namjoon was with Yoongi in his studio, working hard on some songs that they hoped would be approved by their boss for the next album. Yoongi excused himself to go to the bathroom after having been staring at the computer screen for a good five hours.

Namjoon himself was fighting sleep, his eyes closing of their own accord and his head falling forward. He had a cup of hot coffee clutched in his hands (his fourth or fifth that night) that wasn’t really doing all that much to keep him awake anymore.

As he nodded off once more, his grip on the coffee unintentionally loosened. He felt the paper cup slip from his hands and his eyes shot open just in time to see it hit the top of the desk. The lid popped off and steaming coffee went flying everywhere, most notably all over a bunch of cords just to the side of Yoongi’s computer.

He heard a couple sizzling and popping sounds and then Namjoon watched in horror as Yoongi’s computer screen went black.

“No,” he whispered, suddenly much more awake than he was just a minute before. “No, no, no!” his voice got louder as his panic grew.

“Joon-ah?”

Namjoon’s head snapped towards the studio door, where Yoongi was standing, looking on with shock at the scene before him.

“I-I...I didn’t mean...”

Yoongi saw his friend’s slip into littlespace moments before it happened. He was at Namjoon’s side and pulling him into a comforting hug in a flash.

“It’s okay, Joonie,” he insisted, his voice soft. “It was an accident, baby. It’s okay.”

“B-But it’s gone! All hyungie’s hard work. Joonie so sorry.”

“I know you are, sweetheart,” Yoongi pulled back so he could look the younger in the eyes. “Accidents happen sometimes. Luckily, I backed up all my work last night, so I probably only lost what we worked on today.”

That didn’t really make Namjoon feel any better. In fact, it only made the guilt in his heart even heavier. The little’s eyes widened, “B-But hyungie has been working for long time! L-Like eight hours! Joonie made hyungie lose so much!” Namjoon’s shoulders sagged and he pouted down at the ground. “Joonie stupid. Joonie clumsy.”

“Hey now,” Yoongi tapped under Namjoon’s chin to get him to look at him again, “Don’t be calling yourself mean things. You’re not stupid, baby. A little clumsy maybe, but your clumsiness is cute.”

The younger perked up a bit, “Joonie cute?”

The cold-faced rapper let out a fond laugh, his eyes squinting shut for a moment as a gummy smile appeared on his face. “Yes, baby,” he replied through chuckles, “You’re the absolute cutest little one I’ve ever seen, yeah?” he leaned in a bit, “But don’t tell Jiminie that, okay? He’ll get jealous.”

The little still had tears in his eyes, but they had stopped falling. Namjoon let out a giggle, his adorable dimples that Yoongi loved so much showing themselves.

So, of course, no one could blame Yoongi when he poked at one of those dimples, which somehow led to a tickle fight on the couch, followed by a much-needed nap.

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2016

Namjoon was overall pretty confident in himself - not in a cocky way, but a self-assured way. He knew he had a true talent for rapping and producing, not to mention his natural capability to mediate any bad situation. Even his dancing, though nowhere near Hoseok, Jimin or Jungkook’s ability, never seemed too bad.

The one thing about being an idol that really made Namjoon insecure was his singing voice. Hoseok and Yoongi also didn’t have the greatest singing voices in the group, but they had accepted that fact long ago, while Namjoon just couldn’t seem to bring himself to.

So to say that he was anxious about singing a verse on an actual album song would be an understatement. Bang PD had asked him to, and perhaps it should have been assuring for Namjoon to know that the big boss felt he was good enough to sing, he couldn’t get past his apprehensiveness.

Jimin and Taehyung accompanied him to the recording studio to meet their boss and a few other producers to begin recording. Both of them could easily tell that their hyung was nervous, though he tried his best to hide it from them.

Bang PD greeted the three of them brightly when they knocked on the recording studio’s door. “Right on time, boys. That’s what I like to see.”

“Of course, hyung-nim,” Namjoon replied, hoping that the smile on his face made up for the slight shakiness of his voice. “We’ll always do our best to be on time.”

The boss gave him a pat on the shoulder and then got right to business.

Taehyung and Jimin went in to record first, each able get their parts right without too much trouble. Namjoon tried not to be envious of the ease with which they sang, tried not to let the harsh insecurities swirling around in his head drown him.

“Namjoon-ah,” Bang PD said, gaining the leader’s attention immediately. “It’s your turn. You only have half a verse so it shouldn’t take too long. I know you’ll do well.”

The leader had to gulp against the lump growing in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

Namjoon entered the recording room and moved to stand in front of the microphone. It was funny, he had stood before this microphone countless times in the past, and yet, Namjoon had never been so terrified to approach it.

“Alright,” Bang PD’s voice came through the speaker, “Let’s start with just the first line.”

Namjoon nodded, feeling the familiar dampness of sweat beginning to form on his trembling hands. When the music started in his ears, he leaned forward and sang into the microphone.

He sounded terrible.

Even to his own ears, he was flat and sounded like an amateur.

He winced and bit his lip, eyes shutting in shame. “Sorry,” he blurted out before one of the producers could say anything. “Let me try that again.”

The second time was better, but not by much.

The producers were endlessly patient with him as they gave him direction and tips in an attempt to get the right sound out of him. It wasn’t working, that much was obviously clear after an hour with little progress.

Namjoon was fighting the panic rising up within him, his damp hands now clenched tightly into fists. He knew that it was his nerves getting to him, that he could sing the line just fine. He’d practiced enough to be sure of that, but of course, the one time it really mattered, he just couldn’t get it done.

“Are you okay, Namjoon?” Bang PD asked, genuine concern coloring his tone.

Namjoon found himself unable to answer, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth.

He heard the door to the room opening and footsteps heading towards him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up.

First, he felt the touch of a hand on his arm and moved his gaze down to see Jimin’s small hand holding onto him. Then he looked up to meet Jimin’s gentle eyes and felt like he could get lost in them.

“Bang PD-nim said to take a fifteen-minute break,” Taehyung’s voice came from Namjoon’s other side, “They left to go get some lunch.”

The leader, even through his panicked haze, could understand the underlying meaning in the second youngest’s words. They were alone. Namjoon could break down if he wanted to.

“W-Why can’t I do it?!” he began, the words starting to pour out of him before he could stop them. “I was okay during practice. Why can’t I do it now?!”

“Hyung,” Jimin replied softly, “I think you’re just too nervous. It’s making your throat too tight and affecting your vocal cords.”

“I know,” Namjoon moaned, “I can’t help it.”

“Why are you so anxious, hyung?” Taehyung asked.

“Joonie isn’t a good singer! Joonie sounds bad!” Namjoon exclaimed, his tone getting higher in pitch as he fell into his headspace. The other two couldn’t say they hadn’t expected it. “ARMY will hate Joonie!”

“Agioo, that’s not true,” Jimin furrowed his eyebrows as his arms naturally wrapped themselves around his hyung’s shoulders. “I think your voice is very nice, love.”

“Me too,” Taehyung added, bopping the little’s nose, “Just because you might not be able to hit high notes or do a bunch of runs doesn’t mean that you’re a bad singer. And you’re really good at being on key, unlike some of the people that like to go to karaoke.”

Both Jimin and Namjoon huffed out a little laugh at that. It had become clear to everyone in the group that the easiest way to calm Namjoon down from his panic attacks was to tell the truth and add a bit of humor to keep the atmosphere light. They also made sure to never just sugar-coat their words.

Taehyung didn’t tell him that he was the best singer ever because that wasn’t the truth, but Namjoon certainly wasn’t a bad singer by any means either.

“You have to remember, Joonie,” Jimin said, “Bang PD-nim and the other producers think that you’re good enough to sing on an album song. Trust them on that, okay?”

Namjoon could feel himself calming down slowly but surely. He was still pretty far in littlespace, but his head felt clearer now. “Okay,” he nodded, taking their words to heart. “Joonie’s sorry he got scared.”

Taehyung waved it off, “Eh, we all get scared every now and then.”

Jimin and Taehyung spent the next ten minutes bringing Namjoon out of his headspace so he could record his lines when the producers returned. This meant they had to fight the urge to cuddle their hyung, which was difficult considering they were probably the two most cuddly members of their group.

When Namjoon went to try his lines once more, he kept his eyes on his two dongsaengs through the little window and sang to them. He was encouraged by the proud smiles on their faces and it helped him to relax enough to sing.

Bang PD was happy with the results and praised Namjoon once they finished an hour later, leaving the two ninety-five liner’s to finally take their hyung back to the dorm to cuddle.

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2018 (based on this moment at 2:19)

When it happened, Namjoon couldn’t help but be brought back to that moment just after debut where something so similar had happened to him.

It was during a live performance of Fake Love that Namjoon’s innate knack for breaking everything he touches showed itself once more.

Yoongi started his verse and the six behind him began their chain dance. When Namjoon reached over to Jungkook and put his hand on his chest as the choreography went, he gripped the material too hard and was unable to release his hold before he jerked away in the next dance move.

Just like it had when it happened to Namjoon five years earlier, the leader watched in almost slow motion as the top three buttons of Jungkook’s shirt ripped off completely. The maknae’s chest was left exposed.

Namjoon saw Jungkook’s eyes widen in panic momentarily as he registered what had happened before the maknae regained his professional composure.

The rest of the performance was a blur to the leader, who couldn’t stop the insistent replaying of the panic he’d seen in Jungkook’s eyes. It had been the exact look that he’d had in his own eyes all those years ago.

Before he knew it, they were back at their dorm and someone was calling out his name.

Namjoon blinked and forced himself back into reality. He was in his bedroom now, sitting on the edge of his bed. Jungkook was sat beside him, eyeing him with a worried furrow in his brow.

“Hyung, are you okay?” he asked.

Namjoon took in a deep breath, trying (and failing) to will his anxiety away. “I’m so sorry, Jungkook.” he blurted before he could stop himself. “I’m so sorry about ripping your shirt earlier, it was an accident.”

“Oh, that’s alright, hyung,” Jungkook replied, his eyes softening. “I know you didn’t mean to do that.”

“B-But...” Namjoon stuttered, his voice quivering along with his lower lip. “But...”

Jungkook saw his leader’s slip into littlespace before it happened, so he pulled the older into his lap and wrapped his arms around him comfortingly. “I won’t lie, it made me nervous for a moment -” Namjoon whined and hugged Jungkook close to him, burying his face in the maknae’s neck, “- but it’s okay. Accidents happen, yeah love? Don’t worry about it anymore, I’m okay.”

“P-Promise?”

Jungkook guided the little’s head away from his neck and then held up his hand, his pinkie finger pointed out. “Pinkie promise.”

Namjoon linked their pinkies together and felt a wave of relief go over him. “Sorry Joonie so clumsy.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jungkook shook his head, “We all love clumsy Joonie, okay?And we’ll tell you that as many times as it takes for you to believe it.”

“Okay.”

“Now,” the maknae said, “How about the two of us go gather everyone up and we can have a sleepover tonight?”

Namjoon’s eyes lit up in excitement and he hurried to scramble off Jungkook’s lap, nearly falling into the corner of the bedside table in his haste.

The maknae caught him before it could happen, thankfully, and shook his head fondly. “Careful, love.”

Namjoon probably didn’t hear it, however, as he was already halfway out the door and screaming to the rest of the house their new plans for the night.

...

“Why do we always do this? It’s such a bad idea.”

“Stop being a party pooper, Yoongi-hyung. You know you love the cuddle pile.”

“But we don’t even all fit properly on here.”

“Shh!”

The bickering between Yoongi and Hoseok was brought to an abrupt halt when four of the other members squished together in bed with them quieted them harshly.

“Enough you two,” Jin said, his voice low, “Namjoonie’s sleeping and we don’t want to wake him up.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to take pictures,” Jimin added, body positioned awkwardly so he could get his phone to properly face the little curled up in the middle of them.

Namjoon was dressed in his blue dinosaur onesie and had a rainbow tie-dye pacifier between his lips. He looked so content pressed between his members, the hand not under his head clutching at Jungkook’s t-shirt as he mumbled a little in his sleep.

“Send those to me,” Taehyung croaked, half-asleep on the other side of Jungkook as he glanced over at Jimin snapping a few too many pictures.

“Me too!”

“Me three!”

“Me four!”

“...”

Jimin rolled his eyes and turned to the one member who hadn’t said anything yet. “Yoongi-hyung, you don’t want the pictures?”

The eldest rapper grumbled under his breath.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said they’d better be of the highest quality!”

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A/N: So this one was focused more on when littlespace comes into play for Namjoon when he’s insecure, of course, so there weren’t many littlespace activities like I usually have. I hope that this was okay still, let me know!

[accidentally-a-writer]

a dangerous game

Hello! After a much waiting (we’re so sorry) here is chapter 2 of Part II of the Past Patiently Waiting Series; the end for which we live. 

written by: @stegekay and @accidentally-a-writer

Read it on A03

tw: non-consensual drug use 

... 

Alexander storms away from the general and his quarters, taking the stairs two at a time despite the fire it sends up his side to do so.

He needs to find those notes, he’ll show Washington… he’ll prove that the error wasn’t on his part. He slams the office door a little louder than he’d intended but it doesn’t deter his anger any, Hamilton can still feel his fury burning through his veins.

The desk drawer rips open with a satisfying thud, his fingers leafing through all his saved papers at an unprecedented speed. He finally sees the bound stack of scrap papers where he collected the notes he used to draft his missives. Good. This is the proof he needs, he’ll annotate all his supposed mistakes and show Washington, he’ll force him to listen.

But he certainly won’t do it in the general’s own office; it’s been made perfectly clear that he’s not welcome at the moment.

Hamilton nearly crashes into Laurens as he rips out of Washington’s office. He doesn’t feel like explaining what’s just happened, even though Laurens probably knows to some extent - he was most likely woken by it - so he shoulders past his friend in favour of getting the Hell out.

“Alexander, wait! Slow down!” Laurens calls after him, easily catching up to the boy and grabbing his arm, forcing the younger officer to face him. He lowers his voice so it’s just for them two. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hamilton mumbles.

“Frankly, I don’t care what you feel like doing; you’re upset. Come, we’ll find somewhere private to talk.” Laurens expects more of a fight, but Hamilton deflates and nods.

“Not your chambers, I won’t- I want out of here.”

“We needn’t stay here, there are plenty other places.” After a quick nod Hamilton rips himself from Laurens’ hold and marches himself towards the front entrance. Laurens grabs both of their cloaks and follows, wondering what the Hell could have happened that was so volatile so early in the morning.

The door slams before he reaches it, and Laurens cringes internally and spares a glance up the stairs. There’s no shouting, no one questioning what’s going on, but when Laurens follows Hamilton out, he makes sure the door doesn’t close so loudly behind him.

…

“Is that all he said? That Congress called for your discharge?”

“After accusing me of carelessness? Yes.” But Laurens sees it behind Alexander’s eyes, there was something else, something he doesn’t want to divulge even to his closest friend.

“Is that all you said?”  

“Of importance to this conversation? Yes.”

“How little our friendship must matter, for you not to disclose what hurried you away from Washington’s quarters in such a speed I thought your hidden affliction cured.” Hamilton scoffs and averts his gaze, but still he feels the rush to his cheeks at his friend’s sardonic words.

“You’re rather forward today, Colonel,” Hamilton says instead. “First rejecting my wish to keep the matter undisclosed and then scolding me when I turn out to be, in fact, uncomfortable in broadcasting the details of a private conversation.”

“Is it forward for a man to wonder after his friend?”

“When his friend makes it known the matter is a private one? Perhaps. You’ve yet to tell me what the general sends you riding out at all hours of the day for; do not speak in haste and discover yourself a hypocrite.”

It is Laurens’ turn to blush. Hamilton is right, he has no right to demand the boy’s secrets with the general when he keeps such an enormous one to himself.  He utters a short apology and follows Hamilton to the nearby stables.

They don’t ride for long, it can’t be more than an hour, if that. It’s a quiet place where Alexander finally stops, and it seems to pass whatever requirements Hamilton could not find in the camp. He dismounts, tying his horse to a nearby tree. Laurens follows without a word.

Hamilton retrieves his portable writing desk and shifts himself into a sitting position, though he can’t hide the wince as the movement pulls at his side.

“Alexander?”

“I’m fine,” Hamilton hisses in sharp reply. “It’s not that bad.” He glances up quickly enough to see Laurens open his mouth, and an instant later close it. With no more hesitation Laurens sits on the ground next to him.

Hamilton settles his desk against his knees and removes two bundles of papers from his coat, tossing them in the space between he and Laurens.

“Explain to me exactly what we’re doing?”

“Congress blames me for the mistakes in my reports,” Alexander bites out the words and snorts at the end. “That’s why they want the general to remove me. But all of the information from the reports came from these notes, you see?” He hands the stack of reports to Laurens and takes the notes for himself. “The mistakes here aren’t mine.”

Any other man Laurens might doubt at such an arrogant sounding statement, but not Hamilton.

“Alright,” he says, “so we find the mistakes in the letter and the information in the notes, and match them.”

Alexander sighs in what could be relief, nodding gratefully as Laurens separates the bundles from two into four.

“The general will have my head for missing a day’s worth of work,” Laurens mutters, eyes already scanning the document. “And for riding out here with you.”

Alexander hums, ingrained in his work already, “When standing next to me you can rest assured his ire will not fall to you. Besides, you’re protection enough, oui?”

“Neither of us have our pistols Hammie,” Laurens grins. This is harmless disobedience, surely. Washington will indeed reprimand them when they return but for now it is worth it to see Alexander look at him and wink, at ease in the world at last.

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to work quickly.”

John shakes his head in amusement, returning to his task. Congress has done them the convenience of underlining all of Alex’s alleged mistakes, making it a far easier job to find the mistaken information in the notes. Hamilton is right, he didn’t make any of these mistakes. His dictations were reported back incorrectly, he doesn’t deserve to be expelled or even suspended.

It’s nearing suppertime when Laurens finally sits back from the bundles, charcoal and ink staining his fingers.

Alexander scans his final document furiously before making a definitive angry underline and throwing it onto their pile of stacked correspondences.

“He’ll see now,” the boy announces, “he’ll see that I’m not at fault and I’m not being arrogant by not accepting fault.”

“He does not think you an inept worker Alexander, even now, he merely thinks-”

“The general thinks that my encounter with Samuel Davies has left me so broken that I’m unable to complete my tasks to a standard of his office,” Hamilton spits. “That is not the case, if anything I feel Washington is the greater affected, the way he obsesses over protection and guards and control-”

“Alexander there was a great deal of time where we thought you dead or hours from. So do not chastise the general for now being protective, when he spent weeks wondering how he might have failed at the task so severely that you were left injured and dying in his care.”

Alexander flushes and looks down in shame. He breathes a moment and then- “Forgive me.”

Laurens also averts his gaze. “And I as well, I was harsh. Just- try to remember that what Washington does he does out of concern, out of care.”

Alexander nods wordlessly and Laurens takes it as a good moment to end the conversation.

“Come, we must return while we still have the light.” He stands, offering Alexander a hand up which for once the boy accepts. Laurens gathers the letters back into their bundles.

“Might you put those on Washington’s desk for me?”

“Alexander, I am not afforded the same leniency as you, I cannot just walk into the general’s study-”

“Please? I… I’m not quite prepared to meet him yet.”

Casting his friend a disapproving glare, John mounts his horse. “I’m not getting in between any of you and Washington’s domestics.”

“I’m not asking you to, I’m asking you to set them on his desk.” Alexander mounts his own horse. “Please.”

John breathes a long sigh. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Hamilton’s face is that of a spoilt little one, and Laurens would daresay he is. “You ride first, I’d like to collect my thoughts for a moment.”

“More like you want me to take the brunt of any ire our disappearance has caused.” Alexander grins and quirks an eyebrow. He neither denies nor accepts the accusations. Laurens shakes his head and spurs his horse, casting one last remark behind him. “If I am discovered I’ll have your head!”

All he hears for a reply is Hamilton’s laughter.  

…

Laurens doesn’t stay half-asleep for long. At the general’s clearly growing panic he blinks a few more times, harder, chasing away the rest of his sleep. “Sir? Is there something wrong?” He sits up, uncaring that his commanding officer will see him in his bedclothes. “General Washington?”

Washington is pale, his breaths coming too fast and too short to be anything but panic. He’d asked Laurens about Alexander.

“Sir? Is something wrong with Hamilton?” No reply. Washington isn’t looking at him, he’s looking through him. “General Washington? Where is Alexander?”

“I-I don’t know,” Washington finally gasps. “He’s not- are you sure he did not sleep here last night?”

The desperation in the man’s voice pains Laurens, especially because it will do nothing to change his answer. “Yes sir, I always wake up when Alex comes in, he didn’t last night. I thought he was with you.”

Worry gnaws at Laurens’ stomach, he’d been sure that Hamilton returned, he’d only left him alone for a moment...

As if just realizing where he is Washington snaps away from John’s bed like he suddenly realized it was on fire. “This is improper. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“If you cannot find Alexander that is ample reason to rouse me Your Excellency.” Washington nods and meets Laurens’ eye, and the general sees the guilt hidden within them.

“Laurens,” he starts slowly, “you left with Hamilton yesterday morning. You two were absent for hours, where did you go?”

Although Hamilton had been placed on leave Laurens had technically still been on duty, he was meant to report to Washington that morning and hadn’t. When he reappeared that evening he and the other men expected him to get a thorough tongue lashing, but Washington hadn’t done anything to punish or even chastise him - the other men rolled their eyes and whispered of more favouritism.

“I... we-”

“John.”

“We didn’t go far outside the camp’s boundaries sir!” Sitting up in bed, dressed in little more than his nightshirt and hair sprawled over and around his shoulders, Laurens looks every bit his few twenty-three years, like a child pleading innocence to their schoolmaster. “Alex needed- he was going to leave on his own anyways, he was upset… I went with him.”

“On horseback?” Washington knows his tone is too harsh as Laurens jumps in place and refuses to meet his eye, but he cannot rectify that now.

“Yes sir, only to the halfway point between here and the town sir.”

“And what time did you two return from this halfway point?”

Laurens meets Washington’s eyes and the general immediately knows what he’s about to say. Those eyes are filled with guilt and worry and confusion. “A little after supper? Alexander gave me those letters to deliver to your office and said he’d join me in the evening, he was supposed to be right behind me. I heard someone come in and I thought it was him and that you two had merely resolved your… row. I thought he slept in his own bed.”

Washington is angry at the situation - no he’s terrified about the situation - but that terror manifests as anger and there’s nothing for that anger to direct itself at except the poor boy confessing in front of him.

“You left him alone?” The general’s voice comes as a dangerous hiss which Laurens can do naught but flinch at.

“No! He was meant to be behind me, he only asked for a moment alone to collect his thoughts. He needed to be alone-”

“No, he wanted to be alone, he needed to be kept safe! For God’s sake John you of all men should know why he should not be left alone outside the camp’s boundaries!”

“I’m sorry,” Laurens whispers. He watches Washington carefully, muscles taut in fear he knows should be unfounded. “Your Excellency, what’s happened?”

“The incorrect notes, they’re in Davies’ handwriting.” Laurens gapes at that revelation. But then that would mean-

“He was waiting for Alexander to be expelled for his mistakes.”

“Evidently.” There is nothing but fury in Washington’s eyes, nothing but ice in his voice. Laurens bows his head again in response. “And yet I did not expel him, he would have been fine if he’d not left the camp grounds!”

It’s his fault. Washington clearly thinks so. Laurens should have stayed with Alexander, despite the fit he would have thrown if his friend were to persist. “I’ll take a horse and search for him, just give me a moment’s time-”

“Never mind Colonel, I’ll send other men to search for Colonel Hamilton.”

Laurens stares up at him and Washington can see the guilt in his eyes, how crushed he looks. He blinks quickly - forcing away tears Washington realizes - and Washington feels a jab of guilt in his own gut. He’s almost made this boy cry, whose only crime was indulging his brother.

“Please allow me to accompany the search party.”

Washington’s remorse does not show on his face, but he does not shout at Laurens again. Washington nods stiffly and jerks out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a resounding thud which reverberates far longer in John’s head.

Laurens lets out a breath and then is scrambling to dress himself; this is his fault, he was the last to see Alexander before he was- he knew that Davies is still alive- he knew and Alexander didn’t…

Now his best friend, his brother, might be in a living Hell that he was unaware still loomed over the horizon.

…

Beer tastes vile, Alexander has always thought so, but he drinks it anyways. Men don’t drink beer for its pleasantries after all.

Right now it gives him something to do to escape, and as long as it takes to finish his second he does not have to return to the camp. After this one however he will return, he’s had plenty. Any more and he’ll be on his way to drunk.

Well actually… perhaps he ought to stop before then. He might be well on his way to drunk now. He’s not eaten all day, he realizes, Washington will be even more displeased with him if he returns to camp roaring drunk.

Someone sits across from him and Hamilton does not want company right now. He lifts his head to tell the stranger so and feels himself go absolutely rigid.

Davies.

How-

How is he alive? Washington told him that he was dead. He saw him fall to the general’s bullet-

Hamilton pushes away from the table, trying to put as much distance between him and his tormentor, but the man catches his wrist and pulls him back. It’s too easy. Hamilton’s limbs feel weighed down by a force outside his own body, unnaturally heavy and compliant.

“Don’t scream now,” Davies grins. “Sit down, let’s just talk.”

Sit? Hamilton does. He’s not sure why. He… he should want to leave. He does want to leave. But sitting makes sense right now. So he sits.

“I’ve so missed you Colonel, these past few months,” Davies’ tone is far too casual, but it still has that sadistic quality that Alexander remembers from their encounters and his nightmares thereafter. Hamilton wants to run. Why can’t he run? “What have you been up to, pet? Keeping busy? I see that nasty wound never properly healed, shame.”

Davies smirks at the unsaid question in Hamilton’s eyes. “Your general is a fine shot,” the man reaches for his shirt collar and pulls it back, revealing a jagged scar against the side of his neck, “but he’s not the best. He missed the vital regions of the neck. And true, most men die anyways from a shot like this one, but I had very good doctors.”

Hamilton grunts, his limbs are so heavy and he can’t understand why. He only had a few-

His eyes dart to where his beers sit, and then back to Davies. In his hand Davies fiddles with a vial, flipping it up and down and around his fingers. It’s empty.

“Just something to help us along, pet,” he explains.

How? How did he… And then it strikes Hamilton's muddled mind. Davies has been watching him, following him. Whatever substance had been in that vial was in his drink before it ever got to him.

“You still look thirsty. Go ahead," Davies prompts him out of his head. "Finish it all in one go.”

Hamilton doesn’t want to, he knows it’s drugged Davies has just told him it’s drugged but- he drinks it until he chokes and even then he gulps down more. It’s like a compulsion, like he can’t say no.

Something lights up in Davies’ eyes as he watches Hamilton struggle to finish his drink. By the end he reeks of alcohol and everything around him has gone fuzzy. His ears ring like they do when a pistol is fired and the world sends tingles through his skin.

Davies stands and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in tight against his side.

When Hamilton stands he expects the sharp pain of his wound, but it doesn’t come. It should hurt, he knows. There’s a lot of things that should be happening but aren’t, he can’t remember what they are.

“My poor friend I think has had a few too many,” Davies says distantly. Or right next to his ear. Hamilton doesn’t know. “I’ll get him to his bed safely.”

This is wrong. Alexander can feel it deep in his soul; something is wrong. But… but he’s not sure what it is. He’s not sure what… what’s happening right now. What anything is.

Words. He doesn’t know what the words are.

Davies pulls him along and he stumbles, breathless mumbles of “No…” and “Stop” slipping from his lips, though he doesn’t know why he says them. Nobody spares a second glance, this is a common scene coming from the pub.

When Davies disappears into the night with him no one sees anything out of the ordinary.

…

The words fall from Washington’s mouth easily, orders for men to ride immediately to search for Colonel Hamilton.

There’s confusion, of course there is, but he is in no mood to explain himself. His men should obey anyways.

The small group of soldiers return, Hamilton is not to be found in any nearby area or surroundings, not even where Laurens points them to, the clearing they spent the previous day in. His horse is still missing from the stables, by all accounts it is likely he did not return to the camp.

The terror Washington feels is familiar now, how it clutches at his heart and suffocates his lungs. It’s all too coincidental… Davies handwriting in the notes, Alexander’s disappearance, Washington knows something is wrong he knows.

What if Davies had been waiting for this? That must have been his plan, to wait until the mistakes he forced onto Alexander’s head roused Congress to demand his suspension.

Whether or not he thought Washington would truly expel him, Washington doesn’t know, but he must have known it would be enough to prompt Alexander to leave the camp. Foolish, stubborn, boy.

Foolish, stubborn, boy who Washington cannot bear to lose.

Please be safe, please, please, please be safe.

Washington hears Davies voice near every night in his sleep, promising and threatening all in one, describing how he’d make Alexander scream, holding the boy too close and too tightly.

Washington still does not know what possessed him to take the shot, but he knows that in the following hours when it was still unsure if the war could proceed due to the false orders he had looked at the sleeping boy, safe and sound in his bed, and decided it’d been worth it.

Why didn’t Washington go after him? He was upset, they both were, why did he let the pair of them leave the camp when he could have so easily called Alexander back. He doesn’t care what was said anymore, he doesn’t care if Hamilton made the mistakes himself or not. He just needs to find his-

“Your Excellency, Colonel Hamilton might be anywhere. Perhaps he took it upon himself to deliver the early morning missives himself, maybe he did return after all…”

Washington says nothing of Hamilton’s suspension. He won’t, it was made under false circumstances anyhow.

“I am almost certain that this is not the case. Keep looking. We all know how dangerous situations such as these can become, I’ll not have a repeated history. We cannot afford to lose Colonel Hamilton, if the British were to question him for information I’m sure he would not willingly give it up, but I worry if they were to try and use more aggressive means.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The man salutes and rushes away.

Torture. Washington is talking about torture. But he knows that if that is truly the case then it will not be the British administering it, no, it would be someone far worse. And there’s nothing in Heaven, Hell or the Earth that Washington would be able to do to stop it.

The sudden severity of the situation becomes apparent to the men, and they rush to organize themselves in a broader, more thorough manner. Washington is not questioned again, until he orders his own horse brought to him.

“Your Excellency, you mustn’t ride out yourself,” one of the other aides urges him. “It’s too much of a risk if you are not to be accompanied.”

Before Washington can object that his orders are not to be argued with another voice interjects. “His Excellency will not be unaccompanied.”

Laurens leads two horses, his own and Washington’s. He salutes, and then hands Washington the reins to the stead. Washington takes them gratefully, too aware of the angry words he’d spat at the boy earlier; Laurens must be exhausted, he’s been riding hard all day.

“You heard the general, he will be assisting the search parties while others are to be organized and dispersed, now.” There will be grumbling later, that Laurens orders these men as if he were above their station, but they move to obey him and to Washington that is all that matters.

The boy bows his head to Washington, waiting for something Washington himself doesn’t know how to give.

“Mount, Colonel,” Washington orders instead, “we ride hard for the town.”

“Yes sir.”

Laurens rides first, for his duty is to take any bullets that might wait for them first, instead of the general. Washington follows not far behind, his thoughts clouded with guilts and regrets and what-ifs, enough to drive a man mad.

As he watches Laurens’ back he comes to one of many conclusions; of strategy and war and literature and language Washington was well taught, but apparently, how to properly communicate with young twenty-something men in his care he was not.

Laurens and Washington search, but just like all of Washington’s efforts to do the right thing their efforts are useless. They find nothing. The barkeep mentions he perhaps saw a young man matching Hamilton’s description earlier in the evening. Perhaps he left with an older man dressed as an officer, but he can’t be sure.

...

“Your Excellency, sir!” Washington’s just barely dismounted his horse when a soldier jogs up to him, saluting stiffly before dropping his hand into his messenger bag. “A letter sir, marked urgent. I recognized it as Colonel Hamilton’s handwriting.”

Washington is quite sure he can feel his heart stop. But that’s impossible, for it thunders just as noticeably in his ears. “Give it here.”

The messenger passes him the missive, and sure enough handwriting he knows better than his own decorates the page.

Urgent: For the desk of General George Washington the inscription is simple, standard, and yet Washington feels something insidious behind it.

“Thank you Officer,” Washington barely glances from the letter to address the messenger. “Please inform my guard I’ll not be seeing anyone for the remainder of the evening.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The man salutes and rushes away, and Washington is left staring in his wake.

Does he know what he’s just delivered? Does Washington?

…

The room he’s in barely sees the light of day. Alexander knows by now the sun should be coming up, they travelled for hours.

It’s comfortable, it reminds him of his room back home, or… Washington’s room anyhow. But darker. The candles spread throughout it cast an orange glow against the expensive furniture and velvet blankets on the bed. The window is so small that hardly any light gets through, and even though this room is furnished almost exactly like Washington’s it doesn’t feel like… home.

Davies pulls him towards a desk and pushes him into the seat. His hands linger against his shoulders, an ever present pressure warning him from trying to stand.

“I want you to take a letter,” he murmurs, too close to Hamilton’s ear.

Alexander nods, this makes sense. This is what he does. The hand on his left shoulder pulls away and opens the desk, producing ink pot and quill. Hamilton is quick to trim the quill and set a piece of parchment at attention; this is what he does.

“Dear General Washington,” Davies starts, lips curling into a satisfied grin as Hamilton’s hand moves immediately. “I know you are wondering where I’ve gone, and more importantly worrying about who I am with.”

Davies is quite satisfied with himself, he’s mastered plenty of things in his lifetime and his concoctions are one such substance, but to accurately estimate the exact amount needed to get his pet behaving exactly as he wants him - obedient, subservient, but still there - is a true indication of his genius.  

“I write to you today to tell you that your worry is perfectly founded. I’ve been reclaimed by my rightful master and am in his care now. He wants to thank you, for your carelessness, marksmanship and stubbornness; without all three I would surely still be safe within your camp.”

…

Washington hand trembles as he holds the letter, and his knuckles turn white as he clutches it in an iron hold.

You’ve known for weeks now that Samuel Davies lived on, and yet when I was caught I was caught unawares. But still, you should count your blessings, Your Excellency, that my dear friend John Laurens was not at my side when my master came to retrieve me, for he knew and would have had to die for it.

He can’t breathe, there’s a pressure against his chest and it is pressing against his lungs. Air won’t fill them, no matter how hard Washington tries.

As for the marksmanship, if you had checked Davies’ wound you would have seen that it was not an immediately fatal one. You should have understood that your fear of hitting me would throw your aim to the side, even unconsciously. I shall take your penance for delivering a wound against my master, and he wants you to know that it will be agony.

You had to have known that you could never be enough to protect me.

This couldn’t be happening, how could-

Washington doesn’t recognize the sound that comes from his throat as he drops into his chair like a stone.

…

“I’ll be sure to update you often as to how I’m progressing, or rather, my master will. He’s certain you’ll be interested to know.”

Davies paces the floor behind him, and as easily as the words roll from his tongue, Alexander copies them to the parchment. At last he stops, and then his hands are back, fingers curling around his shoulders.

“That should do it, pet. Sign your name.”

Alexander does, with his natural flourish.

Then Davies moves again, rounds the desk and takes a seat on the other side. “Fold and seal it, and address it to His Excellency.”

Alexander does.

“He’ll recognize your writing, won’t he?”

“Yes,” the answer comes before Hamilton can stop himself. There is no stopping whatever this is, it seems. He can’t think, can’t run, he can’t even bring himself to move.

Because he wasn’t told to.

Davies takes the finished, folded letter and carefully sets it aside to allow for the wax to dry.

His hand slithers from Alexander’s shoulder to rest against overtop his wrist, he feels the boy’s pulse beat against his fingertips.

He snaps his wrist. It’s easy.

“Well, you won’t be needing that anymore, will you, pet?”

Without so much as a flinch, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle, Hamilton looks at him and shakes his head.