#(and this always reminds me of this one line from i think an anne of green gables novel can't remember which one where someone says:

[sbrn10]

It has been approximately 1.5 weeks since I admitted that maybe I have a problem in the form of (primarily) Alicent Hightower constantly rotating in my brain nonstop, and I would really like to apologize to CR fandom for ever thinking it's crazy.

[cozymoko]

Wild, Wild West 𐚁

Introduction fic for my cowboy OC idea. I hope you guys like this. This was in my drafts for at least half a year, haha.

Pairing: Yandere Cowboy x City Girl! Reader

Format: Short fic; 1.4k words

WARNING(S): Yandere themes, possessive, minor insecurity from reader.

Synopsis: Jealousy, Jealousy, read all about it! When in a new environment, insecurities are bound to surface. Why don't you go get you a drink to simmer down a bit?

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

The old Texas sun was relentless, harsher than usual, beating down on the skin of those poor townspeople just going about their day. Its temper reminded you of your late grandmother, always nagging and pestering like there was no tomorrow.

You found refuge near the large clumps of hay by the stables. The smell was familiar—unpleasant, sure, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

Why the hell were you out here? Damn you for wanting to tag along, keeping that big oaf company. He couldn’t stop poking fun at you, pushing you past your limits. It was like he knew you inside and out, from the surface of your pampered skin to the depths of your fluttering heart. For a man who wasn’t too fond of school, he sure seemed to study you a lot.

And speak of the devil. He wiped dirt and grime off the worn denim that hung low at his waist. “What’s the matter, darlin’?” he called out, glancing over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “You don’t look too hot.”

Hell, that was an understatement.

He sauntered over, slipping his hat off his head. His long strides had him at your side in moments, staring down at your seated position. Pushing his deep auburn hair from his damp skin, he squatted next to you. “What’s the matter?” he asked, placing the hat back on his head.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, torn between telling him and keeping your annoyance to yourself. You weren’t even doing any heavy lifting, just spectating, but somehow, that made the heat even worse.

“It’s hot,” you mumbled, swallowing your pride.

“Then take your shirt off.” He grinned, raising a brow. “It’s just you ‘n me today, and it’s not like I haven’t seen you without it anyhow—”

“Stop!” you shouted, hugging your knees to your chest. If not for the heat, you’d have flushed even redder.

“Alright, suit yourself.” Jamie smirked, planting a kiss on your temple before rising to his feet in one swift motion. He turned back to his polished truck, the one he treated like gold. Sometimes, you swore he loved that hunk of metal more than anything, but you’d soon learn that his world revolved around you.

Your eyes followed his back, tracing the way his muscles moved with each twist of the wrench. Jamie was a tease, but damn if he wasn’t easy on the eyes. Your gaze drifted to the tattoos scattered across his tanned skin, lingering on the intricate, slightly faded markings near his jugular—your name, carved right there. The sight of it made you hot all over, and you found yourself popping open a few buttons.

You had told that stubborn fool not to get it, warning him that tattoos were permanent and took hours of pain to remove.

“Why’re you sayin’ something like that?” he’d chuckled back then. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get this baby removed, sugarplum.”

The memory made you want to laugh. Jamie was as stubborn as a bull—and as big as one too. Too bad all that stubbornness would be the death of him. Not literally, of course.

“You wanna help me with the cattle? Think they need some lovin’, too.”

You tilted your head, a spark of hope flaring up. Maybe he was serious about wanting your help, about spending time together—maybe he was letting you be part of this place, tending to your shared home. But then he shrugged.

“Or I could get Mary Anne to come by. She’s always good with ’em—knows her way around horses like she was born with ’em.”

Mary Anne. Just the mention of her name made your blood boil. You’d seen her—all soft curls and sweet smiles, the kind of girl who fit right in here. Unlike you.

Your lips thinned, the jealousy rising like a rattlesnake. “Oh, is that so?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even despite the bitterness creeping in. “Mary Anne this, Mary Anne that—why don’t you just go on and ask her, then, since she’s not a ‘city girl’?”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “Hey now, what’s got you so riled up, sugar?”

“What’s got me riled up?” you snapped, rising to your feet. “You know damn well, Jamie. You think I don’t notice how you bring her up every time it’s my turn to help?”

You took a deep breath. “I know I’m not as capable as the others, but this is my home too. I’ve been here for over a year, and you still don’t ask me to help.”

He rolled his eyes, sighing as he straightened up, towering over you. “Aw, hell, [Name]. You actin’ like this ’cause you’re on the rag or somethin’? Ain’t no need to get all hot ’n bothered over nothin’.”

The words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, disbelief turning into a wave of fury. “You think that’s what this is about?” you hissed, your voice sharp as a knife. “You think that just because I’m upset, it’s gotta be because of that?”

Jamie shrugged, unfazed, and that was the last straw. You spun on your heel, the dusty ground kicking up beneath your boots as you stormed off. “Go on and call her, then!” you shouted over your shoulder. “I’m sure she’s just itching to help you!”

You didn’t wait for his response. You marched across the sunbaked field, fists clenched tight. You needed to get away—somewhere he wasn’t. The barn blurred into blobs of red as tears stung at the corners of your eyes. But you weren’t about to let him see you cry. Not now, not ever.

This is not where you wanted to end up. An old, run-of-the-mill saloon on a Friday night, surrounded by drunkards and divorcees, the air thick with the stench of stale tobacco. Voices murmur, glasses clink, and the laughter around you is harsh and grating. To hell with it all. To hell with them.

The whiskey settles in your veins, warm and familiar as you lean against the sticky bar. Neon lights flicker, casting a red glow across your half-empty glass, and you blink to clear your vision. You know you’ve had too much, but the night’s long, and the noise makes it easy to drown out everything.

"Fuck," you mutter, rubbing your temples.

You’ve never been much of a drinker. After moving to the countryside to be with Jamie, life on the ranch demanded your focus. Jamie hated liquor, practically despised it.

Dammit, [Name], forget about him. You shake the thought away.

“Now, darlin’, looks like your glass is ‘bout empty,” a smooth, slow drawl cuts through your thoughts. The man tilts the brim of his hat back just enough for you to catch a glint in his eyes—cold, calculating, like a snake. “Why don’t you let me get you another?”

Oh, right. You weren’t exactly alone.

“Sound good?” he asks again, his voice dripping with intentions you’re too drunk to untangle, coaxing you with the rough pad of his thumb tracing over your knuckles.

You hum. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you try to recall his name—Michael? Richard? Ashton? Danny? None of them sound right. Nothing about him feels familiar. Just another face in the blur. You decide he’s irrelevant.

"You don’t want it to get cold now, do ya?"

A voice in your head tells you to stop, to head home before you cross a line. Something about him makes your stomach churn, but you blame it on the alcohol. It doesn’t take much persuasion before you reach for the glass.

The liquor is bitter but good. But once it slips down your throat, the room spins. You blink hard, trying to steady yourself.

The barstool creaks as you sway, gripping the counter for balance. The stranger’s grin stretches wider, eyes watching you like a hawk. You know you shouldn’t have taken that drink, but it’s too late. The world starts tilting.

You turn, ready to brush off the man beside you, when you hear the heavy boots. They echo on the old floorboards, slow and deliberate, each step sending a chill down your spine. Then, a hand rests on your shoulder, the grip firm, possessive.

“Takin’ drinks from strangers now, sugar?” His voice is low, a whisper against your ear. “Why’d you go and do that for? You know better.”

Jamie.

His breath is warm, almost too close, as his fingers dig into your shoulder just enough to keep you anchored. The stranger’s hand pulls back, and you catch the flicker of fear in his eyes.

Jamie’s fingers tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to warn. “Ain’t polite to drink without me, darlin’.” His tone is calm, but there’s a tension in it, like a leash pulled too tight.

You look up at him, the soft light catching the curve of his grin. The cowboy hat sits low, loose curls brushing the nape of his neck, his button-up shirt hugging the broad stretch of his shoulders. His forearms, tanned and strong, are exposed as his sleeves are rolled up. His eyes, though—dark and unreadable—pin you in place. There’s a hunger in them, one that makes your skin prickle.

He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping off the smudge of your lipstick. His grin widens, revealing sharp canines that peek between his lips. It’s friendly enough—too friendly. Like the way foxes smile when they’re circling prey.

“Mm, you’re drunk.” He says it like it’s a fact he’s already known for hours. “How much you had tonight, sugarplum?”

You stare at your glass, pretending you don’t know. You don’t want to admit to your carelessness.

Jamie chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “So, quite a bit, huh?”

His laugh is loud, and it feels like a warning. He leans in, his hand settling on your hip, fingers curling possessively. “And flirtin’ with some nobody at the bar. That’s new.” His eyes narrow. “So, you gonna tell me who he is?”

The stranger shifts uneasily, glancing between you and Jamie. His bravado fades, and he mumbles, “Look, I didn’t mean no harm. Just thought she could use some company.”

Jamie doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked on yours, sharp and unyielding. “Ain’t that sweet?” he says, his voice soft, but his grip on your hip tightens, like he’s claiming a prize. “But I think she’s got all the company she needs.”

The man hesitates, looks like he’s weighing his options, then backs off with a muttered apology, disappearing into the crowd.

The world tilts again, and you’re struggling to stay upright. The bar fades around you, the noise drowning in the back of your mind. The room swims, and your vision blurs, the faces blending into nothing but shadows.

Jamie’s presence feels suffocating. His eyes linger on you, dark and intent, like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s testing you. And you know, deep down, that he doesn’t just hate you drinking—he hates you here, surrounded by people who aren’t him.

“Let’s get you home, darlin’.” His tone is almost gentle, but there’s an edge beneath it, something possessive and unyielding.

Before you can protest—before the room spins again—he’s there, pulling you into him, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing. His arms wrap around your waist, and the world blurs as you’re hoisted over his shoulder, carried out the bar like a prize he’s claimed.

The night air bites at your cheeks as he strides through the darkness, the cold wind cutting through the haze in your mind. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and sure beneath you, and his fingers grip your thigh, possessive and unyielding. He’s not letting you go.

Everything in you says to fight back, to push away, but he smells like home—like honey and oak. The world narrows down to him, the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his touch.

“Man, you’re gettin’ heavy. Eating too much pumpkin pie, huh, sugarplum?”

“Fuck you,” you manage, but it’s weak, and the smile he gives you is sharp and satisfied.

You close your eyes, the world tilting again, and for a moment, you let yourself sink into it. Maybe this isn’t so bad.

Maybe this is just how it’s meant to be.

⠀⠀𐚁

⠀. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

©CozyMoko, all rights reserved. Don't repost my work on other platforms.

[seeingivy]

ribbons release

actor eren x f!reader

**part of my method acting series

content: happiness for once. until it is not. ronnie's love for foreshadowing strikes again.

an: not a fan of this chapter, but we digress. read it and do not kill me if you don't like it.

song: not explicitly mentioned, but this chapter reminds me of about you by the 1975. ratty healy, I hate you but you ate on this one thing.

previous part linked here

--

“I ju-just sent my loc-location, Eren.” 

“I got it, Y/N. I just need you to hold on for ten more minutes, okay? Can you do that for me?” 

“Y-yes.” 

Seattle is famous for rain. You understand that all too well now. After what you’ve counted as twenty-seven minutes - from when you went to take the trash out to the mailpost you’re hiding behind now - you’re all but soaked. Drenched. 

Your phone is blowing up with texts, the rain is only getting harder, and the mini black dress and ribbon in your hair do no favors to keep you warm. You slide out of your call with Eren and quickly scan through the messages, buzzing so loud they’re blocking Eren’s voice. 

reiner: so, so proud of you always!!! stop being a big famous pop star and go back to being the little twerp who needs my help killing spiders on set :/ 

levi: I love you too, kid. And on a real listen, we really do love the album. 

armin: ann and i are smelling a triple threat on the horizon. love you to the moon and saturn <3

connie: i was accidentally pooping while i listened to dorothea for the first time and i think the combination of those two things at once gave me like a really visceral reaction. im not ok. u are amazing. 

mikasa: u are givg me aneurysm. pls don’t forgor to call me the scnd ur okay. 

erwin: Call me ASAP. 

erwin: Not urgent. Just feeling emotional about my little Canadian reaching hearts all over the world. 

king of bitches (maybe: ryomen sukuna): Fluff shit indeed. Blow me a kiss when you beat James for Album of the Year. 

danny: where is the album release post? it’s almost been half an hour. 

You have bigger problems at the moment. Like the frozen piece of fabric you’re wearing. You should have named the album sweaters or scarves or something. Then at least you’d be warm. And blend in with the paparazzi. 

Fuck.

“W-wait, Eren. Y-you ca-n’t b-be the one to get me.” you murmur, shivering through your teeth.

“Do you want to stay with someone else? I know nice people here. My neighbor is in her late forties and has like two middle school aged girls that are really nice. They’d take care of you, I promise you can trust them and-” he rambles. 

“N-no. I want to st-stay with you. But pa-papara-zzi. S-send ss-omeone e-else.” 

“Paparazzi? Why are-?” 

“Er-eren.” 

“Would it be that bad if it was me? Like it has to be someone else, Y/N?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“I have someone in mind. She’s leaving right now, okay?” 

Eren’s sound is muffled over the line now, which has you digging your phone into your ear to catch the ends of what he’s saying. 

Blast the heater….butt warmer on before she’s in the car….bring it up and I will kick your freeloading….

“Y/N?” 

“H-here.” 

“Good. I’m sending her. Don't get upset, this is the best I could do, okay? I-I promise she’s actually nice. You can trust her and-and I’d never send someone who would do something bad.”  

“O-okay. I t-trust you. J-just get me ou-out of th-this, please.” you whimper, praying to god the rustling behind you is a rabbit and not the group of them finding you. 

“I’m trying sweetheart, okay? She’s speeding. She’s on Main and Third, three lights and she’s there.” 

That’s when you see it. The flash of the camera. And hear five consecutive clicks right after. You look around the periphery, before you see two of them, two tall guys speed walking closer to where you’re hiding. 

So you do the only thing you can. Stand up and run instead. 

You scramble up off the pavement, hiking your dress down, and keep running down the block. Climb up the gates, knock over trash cans to block the way, anything to stop them. And when you look back, after who knows how long, you realize they’re gone. 

And sit flat on the messy pavement, finally lifting the phone back up. Only to realize Eren’s no longer on the line because your phone is dead. You drop it straight into your lap and dig your hands into your head, covering your ears to stop the pounding sound of the rain from getting any louder. 

God. Just breathe. Whoever is coming to get you is on the way. They’ll come get you and then you’ll be out of this mess. 

You hear three resounding clicks and a flash of a light to look up at two different paps, two girls this time, getting a straight on picture of you. And all you can do is put your head down in your lap and cry. 

They already got the picture. There’s no point in trying to run out of it anymore. 

“Y/N.” 

“Pl-please. I’m b-begging you. You already got your picture and can ss-spin it into whatever you want. I-I’m still a person, please. Just let me go.” you respond, the tears blinding your sight of vision. 

You feel a towel being wrapped around your shoulders and soft hands lifting you up by your arms. And then all of a sudden you’re in a warm car, being sped out of the neighborhood past the groups of paparazzi in between the houses, and not directly across from them having your picture taken. 

You’re in a car. You’re okay. You’re leaving. You’re okay. 

You lean back and breathe hard, phantom sobs still racking out of your chest, trying to register that you’re almost there. Safe behind closed, triple locked doors. 

“D-did you tell Eren?” 

“Yes. He’s not far, we’ll be there soon, okay?” 

“Okay. T-thank you. I’m Y/N.” 

“Lana.” 

You turn your head to actually take in the driver this time, to be met with the Lana you feared. Ricky’s ex-girlfriend, Lana. She has short brown hair - entirely different from her long, beachy waves from the Girlfriend incident - a pointed nose and a very clenched jaw. 

“Th-there are more blankets on the floor. I pumped the heater pretty hard, but I’ll turn all the fans your way. And anything you could possibly need is being rushed to the house for you, so just don’t worry, okay?” 

“I appreciate it. Thank you for coming to get me. I-I” 

“Please don’t thank me. I just-” 

She takes a harsh intake of breath and turns to give you a look, her mouth upturned. 

“He locked you out, didn’t he?” she whispers. 

“Yeah.” you respond. 

“What did you do?”

“I told him I didn’t like him back.” 

She turns her head towards you, a look of confusion on her face. 

“It was a PR thing.” 

She snorts. 

“Your managers must hate you.” 

“I’m starting to think they just might.” 

“Well. Don’t feel bad. Not for a fucking second. Just because he likes you, doesn’t mean he’s entitled to you reciprocating back. You like who you like. And if I were you, I wouldn’t stop liking a guy like Eren for a skeeze like Ricky either.” 

You lean against the glass, hot air blowing in your face, as you take in her expression - so enraged, so exasperated, so furious that it gives you a chill. But when she looks over and gives you a halfhearted smile, you see the pained expression there too. 

That’s when you pinpoint it. Lana reminds you of Historia. 

“I’m sorry.” you respond. 

“For?” 

“You knew he locked me out. He must have done it to you too, no?” you whisper, the tension in the air delicate. 

She swallows hard and clenches her knuckles on the steering wheel, eyes laser focused on the red light shining on her face. And beyond the original striking features - her sharp jaw and nose - you see the softness too. The dimples, the wrinkles near her eyes, the light brown freckles. 

“I wanted to take time off from acting. It-I did a role that was really traumatic and I just needed a break. And he was just about to go on tour and he wanted me to come to support. Like a little cheerleader.” 

“So he locked you out?” 

“For two days. He-he’s just. A lot of the fame stuff got to him when he was really little. And now he’s got this convoluted sense of self-image and it just- I don’t know. He’s got problems.” she responds. 

“I’m sorry. Really, that’s-” 

You stop talking, words failing you. And maybe it’s the way your head was frozen ten minutes ago and it’s being melted now, or that the picture they took is going to leak soon, or that there is no good thing to say to something shitty like this. It only took him three months to turn on you, which you’re guessing is generous now. She must have infinite patience for putting up with it for an entire year. 

“In a weird way, I’m glad it’s me and not Eren. You- this does something for me. Making sure you’re not out there for two days, it-it helps me.” she whispers, looking over to give you a smile. 

“I really appreciate you, Lana. Thank you. And I-I’m not mad at you for the Girlfriend thing. You had every right to do that.” 

“Y/N. I have every right to drag Ricky James’ name through the mud. But not yours. And I- shit. Please don’t tell Eren we talked about this. He’s going to kill me.” 

“Why?” 

“He told me that if I brought it up, he’d kick me out of his house. I kind of stay there because I-I hate living in our townhouse on set because of how toxic it is and he was nice enough to offer. And he made it very clear that I have to pick you and make sure you’re okay, not make you uncomfortable or anything. We’re here to take care of you and-” 

“I brought it up. I’ll deal with him if he gives you a hard time. I used to be really good at that type of thing.” 

“I know for a fact that you could tell him to twirl in the air like a show pony and he’d do it.”

“I’ll test the theory and let you know.” 

She laughs, giving you a smile which you warmly return. Your phone buzzes in your lap, finally revived, and you send a quick message to Mikasa and Jean before shutting it off. 

“I-I didn’t know that it was going to go that far. I knew the song and that we were just going to sing it. Let people speculate it was about you. I-I didn’t know they’d have a girl who looked like you OR bring Eren up on stage. And Eren didn’t know anything about the song or the performance at all - they, they set him up.” 

“Why would they do that? I mean, they got horrible backlash in the entire thing.” 

“They thought people would like it. And they severely underestimated how much people love you. And they did it because, Eren- he. He doesn’t follow rules and-” 

“Follow rules?” 

“I’m saying too much. He-he’s going to get mad. Ju-just rest, okay? You’re okay now, we’re two minutes from the neighborhood..”  

You give her a questioning look, which she returns with a dismissive shake. Stubborn - she’s Historia alright. You lean back in the chair and reach for the music nob, twisting it on. Only to be met with the Teletubbies Theme blasting through the car and a very flustered Lana turning the knob off. 

“Fuck.” 

“Teletubbies?”

“I-I can explain.” 

“Please. I’d love to hear it.” 

She drums her fingers on the steering wheel as the silence hangs in the air. 

“Okay. Maybe I can’t explain.” 

“No need. I appreciate versatile music taste in prospective friends. Especially classics like this.” you respond, cranking the music back on. 

“Friends?” 

“Don’t be silly. Not exaggerating, but I think you quite literally saved my life a few minutes ago. You’re like the La-La to my Dipsy.” 

“Lame. You’re more of a Tinky-Winky. And anytime. We girls stick together, right?” she responds, reaching for your hand and giving it a squeeze. Like Eren. 

Did she learn the hand squeezes from Eren? Is he squeezing her hands? They live together so …are they dating? 

“We’re here.” 

You nod, appreciative of Lana more than maybe any person on god's green Earth, as she pulls into the driveway and helps you out of the car. It’s only after sitting that you’re realizing your legs are so bone dead tired that you’re barely moving on your own. 

You move past the hood of the car as Eren walks into the garage, immediately beelining towards you. His hair is long again - it’s always changing every time you see him - and he’s all wound up with tensions sitting in his shoulders. His hands are warm and cupping your face, yanking the cold towel off and replacing it with a warm one. 

“Hey. You-you nicked your face, Y/N. And you’re freezing, you-” he whispers, brushing his fingers across the skin near your eye that stings on touch. 

Lana holds the door open as he leads you in, arms aggressively moving up and down your shoulders and his face all pinched up in concern. 

“You’re good to go? I put your stuff out by the door.” Eren says, gesturing to Lana. 

“Is she leaving?” you ask, looking up at Eren. 

“Yeah. Don’t worry, it’ll be just us. And I’m sure Mika and Jean will drop everything to fly out for you tomorrow, I can tell them if you need me to and-” 

“Well, don’t make her leave. She shouldn’t stay on that stupid set just because of me.” you respond. 

Eren looks over and glares at Lana, who is now wide eyed and giving Eren a sheepish smile. Fuck. He asked her not to talk about that. 

“Lana.” he says, in a warning tone. 

“Eren. Chill out. I didn’t even-” 

“You’re so full of yourself, you know that? You- she got drenched and the rain and you were talking about set?”

“It’s not like that! It just came up and-” 

“Oh, for sure. You just happened upon it like you were a villager walking in a town square. Ooh Y/N. You just got drenched in the rain and chased by paparazzi, but more importantly, the girls I work with are super bitchy.” he responds, mimicking her voice. 

“You-it wasn’t like that! You’re so aggravat-” 

“Eren. Leave her alone.” you ask, looking up at him. And you’re sure you must look horrible because he immediately stops when he looks at your face again and signals for her to leave, which she’s receptive to. 

“Okay. Lana, text me when you’re there. And check if you were followed on your way out.” Eren says. 

Lana stops and holds both of your arms at your biceps, hands soft on your skin. 

“Do call me if you need anything, okay? Especially Ricky related. Whatever you do, I’ll back you up, Tinky-Winky. ” 

“Thank you, La-La. I’ll take you up on that.” you respond, giving her a warm smile. 

“Oh god. No. No, you don’t get to be friends now. Fuck no, Lana. Please stick to the geriatric grandmas you play Scrabble with.” 

“You’re just mad they beat you at mahjong last week. Because you’re a prissy loser.” 

“And you’re-” 

You jab Eren in the side, signaling him to stop, as they both nod and she slides her way out. From the way he’s arguing, the look on his face is so similar to the one he gives Connie when they argue, you know they could go on for years if they got the chance. 

“Fuck you, Eren.” 

“Eat shit, Lana.” 

She flips him off as the door clicks shut behind her, the lack of her presence making you suddenly aware of your breaths. And of Eren, warm Eren rubbing into your shoulders and concerned green eyes staring into yours. 

“I like her.” you whisper. 

“Me too. Don’t tell her that though, she’s got an ego problem.” he responds.  

You laugh, which has him smiling at you, and suddenly you’re sobbing. And on cue, Eren has his arms around you, his touch warm and his voice oh so soft that it kills you. That you haven’t seen him in two months. And haven’t talked to him for longer. 

“Eren.” 

“Hey, hey. Don’t cry, it-it’ll be okay. I- we’ll fix this, okay? I’ll call Levi and Hange, whoever you want, they’ll all come and-” 

You reach up, tangling your arms around his neck as he keeps nervously talking, trying to hold you closer even though it’s not physically possible. And he’s just so- 

So familiar that he feels like home. 

“You’re breaking my heart here, Y/N. Please stop crying, I-I’ve got you, okay?” he murmurs, straight into your skin as you nod, trying your best to even out the sobs still leaving you. And slowly but surely, the stream slows and your breath evens out enough to get at least a few words out. 

“Okay. Okay, okay. I’m okay.” 

“Y/N?” 

“Hm?” 

“As much as I like holding you, you’re freezing. Take a shower first and we can do this all you want, okay?” 

You pull back, wiping the tears off your cheeks and giving him a nod. He gives you a small smile, before placing his hands on your shoulders and leading you down towards the bathroom. And you don’t miss all the posters and pictures he has on his walls - one from each season of Attack of Titan, a few of him and Armin, and even one of him and Lana flipping off the camera together. 

He pushes you into the bathroom and immediately turns on the shower all the way to the hottest setting, before turning around and putting his hands on his hips. 

“Towels, clothes, shampoo. There’s soap in there already and take as long as you want. Sit in here for three days if you have to just- do-do whatever you have to do and-” 

You pick up the bottle of shampoo, the lavender scented Pantene, the one that you’ve been using since you were fifteen. And you know, you know that Eren’s atrocious ass uses a three in one hair and conditioner so it’s not his. 

“Eren.” 

“Hm?” 

“Did you just happen to have the brand of shampoo that I use?” 

“N-no. Those are Lana��s.” 

“Then why are they unopened?” you ask, giving him a smirk. 

He glares at you, before rolling his eyes and holding your face. And now he’s leaning so close, so close that your lips are only a few feet away from yours, when he talks. 

“You know why you can’t make fun of me for keeping a spare of your shampoos in my house?” he whispers, green eyes burning in yours. 

“Why?” you whisper back, stomach lurching. 

“Because you’re actually here. I knew you’d come back to me.” he responds, giving your cheek a pinch before walking out. 

And when you watch him walk out, giving you one last smile before he shuts the door, you can’t help but roll your eyes. Typical Eren. Funny, irritating, and soft all in one. 

He’s the same as you left him. 

--

You pad out of the shower, Eren’s hoodie and sweatpants ridiculously huge on you, as you follow the sweet smell into the kitchen. Eren is leaned over the counter, sliding vegetables into two bowls of ramen as you walk in. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi. Took a while. Thought you died in there.” Eren responds, pressing his hands to your skin to test how warm they were. 

“I almost wish I did.” you respond, laughing. 

Except Eren doesn’t find it funny and instead he’s dropping the utensils and standing at your side. 

“Y/N.” 

“I was joking!” 

“Nothing about that was funny. Don’t ever joke about that.” he responds, rummaging through the drawers at your side before pulling out a little tube of gel. 

Eren taps the top of the counter, which you jump onto, before he takes his place in between your legs. His hands are focused on reading the instructions, forehead all scrunched up in concentration.

“What’s that?” 

“It’s like this…scar ointment or whatever. Helps things heal better, I want to use it on that cut on your pretty face.” he responds, twisting it open and squirting some on his finger. 

He brings his hands to your face, eyes intently focused on your cheek. You hiss the second his finger makes contact with your skin, the tingling sensation catching you off guard. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I know it hurts.” he whispers, smothering the cold gel down the side of your eye. 

“I-I fell on the pavement. My knees are pretty bad too, Eren.” you whisper, which he nods at. 

After he finishes, he’s carefully sliding the ends of your pants off and carefully placing the ointment on each of the jagged marks on your legs. And you eye the bowls of ramen at your side - knowing instantly that the one without mushrooms is yours - and reach for the food. The broth is so warm it soothes the aching feeling in your throat, still seasoned to perfection the way Eren always makes it. 

“Eren.” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I ask you a weird question?” 

“Sure.” 

“Are you and Lana dating?” 

He looks up from your leg and gives you a devilish smirk. And then starts laughing. Like full on, crouched over, tears from his eyes laughing.  

“Okay. It wasn’t that funny.” you murmur, rubbing your hands against the warm bowl and frowning. 

“Oh god, Y/N. Jesus-” 

“It’s a normal question! She lives with you, you trusted her to come get me, and you guys have a picture together in the hallway.” 

“Are you jealous?” he asks, standing up and leaning straight into your space. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Are too.” 

“Am not.” 

“You don’t need to get all embarrassed. Watching you kiss Ricky James made me want to break something, preferably his neck.” 

You swallow hard at the mention of Ricky again, the thought of him and what happened was so far away because you were with Eren. In his space, in your shared bubble, after so long. And he catches on too fast because he’s already profusely apologizing. 

“Hey. I didn’t mean to bring him up, I-I’m not trying to push you into telling me what happened it’s just-” 

“No. No, Eren. It’s okay. I know. I-” 

You breathe in hard and put the bowl of ramen down and reach for his hands instead. You keep your eyes focused on them - on the little mole on his left hand, the feeling of his knuckles underneath your fingers, and on him squeezing your hands three times before you start talking.  

“Ricky and I were faking the relationship for PR. Since London Boy and all that, it was Danny and Sareen’s idea. That-that’s why I stopped talking to you, I-I felt bad. And I was ashamed that I was even doing it, I-I don’t know. The Little Women press and all that, it would just get people to stream and talk. Make me a triple threat. And then today, I- He told me he liked me. And I said I couldn’t do that right now. That I don’t like him back. I went to take out the trash because it was so awkward and then I was going to go home but he- he locked me out. And when I asked to come back in, he repeated the same words to me. That he couldn’t do that right now.” 

Eren lifts your hands, still locked with his, and presses a kiss to the top of your knuckles, as you continue. His lips burn your skin, still. 

“I was out there and it-it was cold. And then I heard the cars and I saw seven paparazzi trucks, right on the porch. Ricky, his address isn’t leaked. No-no one knew I was there or that he was but they all showed up, right when I was out there and-” 

“He called them, didn’t he?” Eren asks, his tone so harsh, so unyielding that it almost doesn’t sound like him. 

“Yeah. And I ran, for so long. I- they got a picture. A few, I know they did and I was just so, so scared that I was going to be out there forever, that I was all alone and they were just going to-” 

Eren reaches forward, wrapping you in his arms for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight, but you welcome it. Focus on his heart beating under your ear, running your fingers over his fish tattoo on his bicep, and on his soft, steady breaths. 

“Eren.” 

“Hm.” 

“You didn’t say anything. What are you thinking about?” 

“What I’m thinking isn’t productive for you to know right now.” 

You look up at him, giving him a questioning look. 

“Drop it, Y/N.” 

“No. Tell me. I’m sure you’re mad and all but-” 

“Mad? I’m fucking furious, I’m livid. That he fucking locked you out and left you in the cold. You-you could have been seriously hurt. You are hurt. And not only that, the fucking paparazzi. You-you ran in the cold, you fell, you can’t stop crying and-and- I’m going to kill this asshole when I see him next because it’s his fault you’re feeling like this.” 

“Eren.” 

“No. Shut up, Y/N. I’m being serious. I-I don’t like seeing you like this and don’t tell me not to. He hurt you. It’s that simple.” 

You deflate, knowing Eren too well to know that he won’t drop this. Especially when he’s overly passionate, deep in the feeling right now. 

“Okay. But can you just be here for me right now? I need you here and not all….tense and mad. B-Be soft. And warm.” 

He stops, the frustration in his forehead dissolving as he takes a breath and smiles at you. Not fully, but it does the job. 

“Okay. I can do that. Let’s watch Fruits Basket. And then go to bed.” 

“You hate Fruits Basket.” 

“But I love you. Enough to watch your weird bestiality adjacent show and pretend to like it.” 

You smile and he reaches forward to pinch your cheeks. 

“Look at that smile. There she is. There’s my sweet girl.” he whispers, voice all tangled in his throat. 

--

You wake up to an empty bed, Eren’s side cold. And you pull his hoodie on before padding downstairs to find Eren’s phone pressed to his ear. He gives you a wave and points to the plate - a mix of eggs, french toast, and fruits - perfectly placed to perfection. 

You give him a smile and he walks off, taking the phone with him. You frown as you watch him disappear, jabbing your fork through the cantaloupe. 

What is he talking about that’s so important he doesn’t want you to hear? 

You jump off of the stool and quietly pad towards the direction he walked, hiding in the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, staring at the picture right across - one of Levi and Hange kissing your cheeks at the vow renewal - and angle yourself to hear his words. 

“Is he okay?” 

“I’m glad. You tell me if you need anything else, okay?” 

“Okay, Coco. I missed you too, yeah?” 

Who the fuck is Coco?

He hangs up and you immediately scramble back to the kitchen, trying your best to stay inconspicuous as he comes back and gives you a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, the expression on his face almost tired. 

“Hey sleepyhead. You okay?” 

“Mhm. Food is really good, Eren.” 

He gives you a smile as he sits at your side, eyes focused on you as you eat your food. He places both of your phones in front of you, and you spot yours with nearly a hundred notifications. But when you reach for it, Eren grabs your hand in the air and locks it on his own instead. 

“Just-wait. Eat first.” he says, his tone hollow.

You turn your head to the side and take in Eren’s expression, downtrodden and uncharacteristically unexpressive. The complete opposite of Eren yesterday - moony eyes and soft smiles. 

“Eren.” 

“Y/N. If I ask you to do this for me, can you trust me and listen?” 

“No. You-what’s wrong? You’re being weird.” you ask, reaching for his hand. 

He looks over, the look indiscernible, as he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. 

“You-I took care of most of it, okay? Levi and Hange are coming. Just, don’t panic. You-it’s okay.” 

“Eren. You’re scaring me. Just tell me.” 

He takes a deep breath, cracking the knuckles in your hand as he nervously talks. 

“You-your pictures leaked. The ones of you running last night. And-and people started speculating really fast - wondering why you were running and crying on the night your album released instead of celebrating it. And-and then Ricky, he tweeted a bunch of things.” 

You pale. And reach for your phone, which Eren stops again. 

“They’re lies. Obviously. You don’t need to read them, not yet. And Lana told me she’s ready to back you up, whatever you want, when you need it. But, that’s not-” 

“What, Eren? Just spit it out.” you respond, frantically. 

“They- Ricky’s fans are mad at you. They’re sending you death threats.” 

“Oh.” 

You deflate, staring at the cold mess of breakfast on your plate. Death threats. Hate, you’re no stranger too. Of people commenting on your looks, how bad your singing is, how lame you are. But wishing you were dead? Full on, unbothered and cursing your existence? 

“And not just you, but your family too.” he whispers, watching your face fall. 

Your family. Your parents, Colt, Falco-

“Excuse me. What did you just say? 

Eren doesn’t respond and the tears fall immediately from your eyes, hot and angry as he reaches forward, immediately swiping them away. His expression's pained, he knows this all too well.

“I sent your family a security detail. Don’t worry. Colt was only minorly injured and-” 

You stand up and grab Eren’s shirt, bundling the fabric into a fist in your hands, as you glare at him. 

“Injured? What the fuck do you mean injured, Eren?” 

He sighs, lifting his hands to move yours, and hold them. You’re still clenching hard, so hard you’re sure you’re drawing blood, but he’s doing his best to uncurl your hands as he talks. 

“They threw a brick through the window. And the glass, Colt was sitting right there. I was just on the phone with Falco, he said he’s doing better. The security detailing has medical so you don’t have to worry about that again and they’re both okay and-” 

“No part of this is okay, Eren! Quit saying it’s okay when it’s not! They almost killed my brothers.” 

“Y/N.” 

“No. No, this is horrible, Eren. They-they don’t do any of this stuff. Falco’s barely thirteen. And Colt - he’s going to college. He’s not a celebrity, he’s not a singer, he’s just a student. How is he supposed to go out after this? Why- how is it supposed to be normal? And now, they’re going to be like us. They’re going to feel like they’re trapped in this fucking suffocating ass fish bowl and everyone’s watching and laughing at them and they just-” 

“Y/N. Stop. It’s not going to-” 

“Falco’s too soft for this. He’s just a kid, Eren. I can’t- no. This isn’t fair. Eren, they didn’t even do anything. They’re literally just related to me, they just love me and they’re getting hurt because of it. You- you’re probably getting dragged in the mud too. Everyone who helps me gets subjected to this, loving me comes with this big thing behind me and I can’t even keep people who get it with me. I let you go when you were the only person who understood and I messed it all up and got myself involved with Ricky James of all people and-” 

“Y/N. Stop. Please."

You sit flat on Eren’s floor, head in your hands, and cry, teardrops falling straight onto the floor. And Eren’s sitting there with you, with your big mess of jumbled feelings and mistakes, and trying his best to help you with it. 

That’s how Levi and Hange find you two, after pocketing the spare key Eren told them about. After he insistently called them and payed for a private jet, going on and on about how Y/N needed them. And here you two are, despite their original conceived notions that you two were fighting, on the floor, in each other’s arms. 

“Some things never change, huh?” Hange whispers. 

“Yeah. They keep fucking crying every time we see them.” he whispers back. 

--

Between Levi and Hange - Jean, Mikasa, and Connie who make it out that night - and Eren and Lana, they fix things. Most things. 

Ricky’s narrative about you is clear cut - half-true and half-fake. Your team forced him to date you and defend you for PR purposes, after the Girlfriend incident. There was an agreement that you two would write certain songs, make certain appearances, and support each other. 

But then Ricky turns the gate. Says that you’ve deeply, severely hurt him. That you led him on, that you used him to boost your own ego, and that you were dangerously obsessed with fame and not him. That you were all things - heartless, fake, that he doubted if you were even a real person. A glorious pop-star, empty and hollow on the inside.

And people jump on it fast. Citing the fact that you would throw away your friendship with Historia to be famous, that you stopped dating Eren when he stopped being successful, that you can go to tours but not to Mikasa or Jean’s birthday parties. 

The worst part? Ricky lied, but the things they pointed out were true. Every mistake you make is on display and that people make it a point to draw attention o it. That you really were in too deep, too deep into pleasing Sareen and Danny, and being a triple threat that you forgot that they were all there too. 

Eren, especially. Sweet, sweet Eren who saved you, who held you when you needed him. 

You look over at him and Lana, the two of them very aggressively debating how to use their last turn of their daily Wordle, and feel your heart deflate. 

You dropped the ball. You’ll never make it up to him. 

Lana, in her infinite kindness, has chosen to share her own story, as a corroboration for yours. That Ricky taunted, mocked, and harassed her the entire time they were dating. That you're anything but the things he says. Because she’s had enough and she’ll do it to help out her Tinky-Winky. (Much to Eren’s dismay, he hates that you’re both becoming closer as time goes on.) 

And to complement the announcement, Lana asked for one thing. To go out in style. You wrote a song with her and promised her that she was going to be the lead actress in the music video. A girl rage moment, like The Man. Danny and Sareen approve the move, making no comments or concerns about anything else that happened, and ask to be involved when the time comes. 

You sit on it for a few days. Till you’re ready. But where you are now - with these people - needs to stay for a little longer. Before you brace everything again. 

“Yo.” 

You smile, opening up space for Connie on the couch for you. 

“Hi Con.” 

“Deep in your thoughts there, princess. Thinking about how your album is about to go Multi-Platinum?” 

“No. Just the entire thing.” you respond, frowning. 

Connie rolls his eyes, reaching forward to squish your cheeks way too hard. 

“Ricky, when I catch you, Ricky-” Connie says under his breath, 

You snort, reaching forward to push Connie off. You focus back on Eren and Lana, who are now pulling each other's hair and a nice string of insults, as Mikasa and Levi brew their tea, entirely unbothered in the back. 

And when the screen in front of you flashes, when your third album goes Multi-Platinum after a week of being released, they’re all climbing on you. Jean and Mikasa are hollering in the back, Connie and Lana are jostling you in the air and pressing kisses to your cheek, and Eren, Levi, and Hange smile at you, the three of them enveloped in their own hug, across the way.

You split your separate ways at the end of the week, when you’re ready. Connie, Jean, and Mikasa return to set, Lana and Eren are gone with the wind, and Levi and Hange disappear again. 

When you sit on your plane back home, it sits in. How lonely this entire thing is. How a week full of your friends who love you only happened because of this sickening thing. That it's not a given, that they're presence is only in the bad times and almost never the good.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you pick up your phone to read the notification. 

eren: don’t be a stranger. fish like to swim in schools, not alone. 

It’s something that rings in your mind, time and time again. When everyone else wins the war, when you keep performing and letting them take and take, for the sake of the work. For the art, for your dream.

And when you give up acting, singing, and dancing at the end of it all and make zero intentions to ever do any of this again, the question still bothers you.

If fish like to swim in schools, why did Eren push you so far away? Why was he so intent on swimming alone? Where you couldn't follow?

eren: I'm not saying that for you. and I know that this is selfish but...

eren: I need you just as much as you need me.

.

.

.

Fucking liar.

--

next part linked here

taglist:

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[chaoticloving]

new years, new family

harry styles x reader (SOH masterlist)

summary: y/n meets anne and gemma for the first time, and harry's just happy. || w/c: 2.2k

a/n: felt i should post a bit more before im back to class, enjoy and have a good new year!

Anne was an amazing mother. She was kind, empathetic, and had the strong will that helped her do what was right. Harry loved his mum too. Despite all the arguments and the fame, he has always had faith in her. He truly felt the love and comfort that a mother should give any child—and he still does to this day as an adult.

Anne prided on being someone her kids could go too if they needed an ear and always gave her kids space, but that didn’t stop her from being curious about their lives. She would sometimes sneak in a “do you like someone” or “when do you think you’ll have kids” every now and then, but they knew she just had their best interest at heart.

Anne was very careful about what she asked Harry though, not to say that she would be blunt with Gemma, but there were certain questions that would sound too much like a TMZ journalist asking questions. So, Anne would turn to Gemma to maybe slip some detail about Harry’s life.

The last time Gemma came around her mothers though, she did tell Anne that Harry’s got a crush that sort-of, maybe, turned into his girlfriend. “But don’t quote me on this. I don’t know for sure.” Gemma reminded her mother.

But Anne was bubbling with excitement. She knew the girlfriend in question is Y/n, the women Harry might of suitably alluded to having a crush on, and she couldn’t be more excited for her boy. She reminded herself though that she can’t be too pushy, but she can watch the young actresses movies.

After just under six months of dating, Harry decides he wants to tell his family.

“I know my mum won’t tell and Gemma will just make fun of me, I just don’t like keeping you a secret from everybody important in my life.” Harry confessed, kissing his lovers face all over as a way to win her over.

Y/n had a habit of overthinking, but seeing her boyfriends puppy dog eyes she just couldn’t say no.

“I believe you.” She kissed him back. “Just don’t embarrass me when you tell them.”

The next morning Harry was practically jumping from excitement, yet feeling like he needed the bathroom every five seconds from nerves. Harry knew his family wouldn’t hate Y/n or everything of the sort. It was just the fact they would be one of the first to know and their secret relationship wouldn’t be a secret anymore. He knew Y/n wasn’t just in it because of the the secrecy, but the fact still didn’t make him feel any better.

Harry powered through, and made the call.

The line rang a couple times before the cheery voice of Anne rang through. “Hi Honey, so good to hear from you!”

Harry laughed, walking around his London flat aimlessly. “It’s nice to talk to you too. Been feelin’ so busy from work that I think I’ll go crazy.”

“Oh no, well remember to take breaks and focus on you.” Anne thought this was her chance. “Do you have someone you can talk to or someone you feel comfortable with? Go out with them and forget about work.”

Harry blushed, he was in the kitchen and he could see the back of y/n. He thinks she is getting her morning coffee all ready as well as a cup for him.

“Yeah, actually, I’ve met someone.”

The pure joy running through Anne's body was something she last felt when Gemma told her about her last boyfriend.

"And is it who I think it is?"

"Have you been talkin' to Gemma recently?" Harry ask, false annoyance slipped through his voice. "But uh-" He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I think so. "

Anne practically screamed through the phone, excitement radiating though.

"But we are talking about Y/n, right?"

"Yes! Yes, oh my goodness, you finally are together! You two look so adorable together and I know to never buy into something TMZ or Daily Mail says but I saw your little photo and then when Gemma finally told me that you told her that you were talking to Y/n I started watching all of her movies so far and she is very talented, although, i have to admit, when she kissed that other boy in the movie I kept thinking how you would been feeling and--"

A couple seconds into her rant, Harry put Anne on speaker phone and was suffering from the adrenaline rushing though him. He was coming down from the high of fear and going into a tired yet happy state.

Y/n handed Harry a cup of coffee, half cream with a ton of sugar added in, then sat down next to him with her own coffee in hand. Y/n was trying to hide her smile through a look of embarrassment, but the actress couldn't quite hide her emotions from Harry.

Harry nudged Y/n, a smile on his rosey face. They look at each other with such adoration that it was sickening to anyone single.

"Harry? Harry, you still there?" Anne's voice snapped Harry from Y/n's trance on him.

"Yeah, I'm here mum." Harry chided, clearing his throat. "Just got a bit side tracked. What did you say?"

"When are you two coming over then? I know Gemma is coming round for new years so six could work, maybe five, or is that too early for new years?"

Y/n's eyes went wide with shock as she heard Anne's words then she could've sworn her heart stopped beating when Harry replied, as nonchalantly as ever, sure mum.

"Six'll work." Harry said, saying his goodbyes. He hung up his phone and smiled at Y/n. "You excited?"

"Definitely."

...

Y/n was not excited. Not in the slightest.

Y/n and Harry spent the holidays with their own families. They called each other, constantly; and much to Annes delight, and Gemma's partial annoyance, they've been hearing all about Y/n constantly. But a few day's after the holidays, they both met up at Harry's flat to make the journey to Anne's.

Currently, they were in Harry's Range Rover, close to Anne's house. They left a couple hours after Anne's call, knowing the drive is long and traffic would most likely be a nightmare. Harry has made the long drive quite a few times since he has moved to London, he knew it like the back of his hand; Y/n, while she hasn't made this specific drive, has gone on plenty of long trips in her life.

Yet, this drive, was pure torture.

She didn't want to tell Harry thats she is scared. She knows Harry would turn the car around and say it's no big deal, but he would be disappointed.

It wasn't like she didn't like what she has heard about his family, the opposite in fact. It's what they have heard about her.

Currently, the media is portraying Y/n as a serial dater, using someone for a night, or weekend if they're lucky, then dumping them and repeat. And poor Harry is the unconfirmed boyfriend that Y/n is dragging along for a long time.

They got all that from one group photo at a party last month.

It's not true. She knows it's not true, Harry knows it's not true, but does Anne and Gemma know it's not true? Anne invited her when there wasn't too much drama going on, but now? She was terrified for what would happen.

Y/n is just glad that it is just Gemma and Anne tonight, as much as she would want to meet Robin or Desmond, she can't deal with anymore people in one night.

"Okay so a couple tips." Harry started, turning down the volume of the song on the radio, Fleetwood Mac obviously. "One, don't ask Gemma if she is dating someone unless you want her to give you a silent treatment."

She nodded.

"Don't mention fame or anything too out of touch. Not really specific, just general advice because my mum always scoffs at people who flaunt their money."

"You say this in your custom two-hundred-thousand car." Y/n joked, trying to keep her cool.

"I got teased a bit." Harry shrugs, flipping the indicator and turning down a neighborhood. "But that's just teasing."

Harry sighs as he pulls to the side of the road in front of a nice house. It was cozy, yet big enough for a couple and a guest or two. "Ready?"

"Nothing else?"

"Not really sure." Harry fidgeted. "You're the first they would or could meet so..."

Y/n just nods as Harry's voice trails off, it's all she can do. Their thoughts mimic each other.

She's meeting her future in-laws.

I'm meeting my future in-laws.

The only difference was the tone. Excitement and fear.

Harry walked round to the other side, opening her door and holding his hand to help her out. Y/n felt like the paparazzi was watching her, but instead of flashing lights it was curtains suspiciously moving.

Harry knocked on the door, hand in a death grip with Y/n's. "Deep breaths. They're going to love you."

"Harry!" Anne swung open the door and smiled, when she looked over she saw Y/n, causing her to smile brighter and nearly bring tears to the women's eyes. "Y/n! I'm so glad you're here. Come in come in!"

Y/n had her red carpet smile on. She was carful to not make her smile look too obnoxious, but not like she was not excited to be here.

"Ms Twist you're house is beautiful." She complemented, earning her first awe of the night.

"Please, call me Anne." She blushed. "And thank you sweetheart."

"Where's Gem?" Harry asked, taking his shoes off and brushing his hand on Y/n's.

"Living room. She's on the phone with someone." She winked and walked into the house. "Come in, I've got some nibbles for you two."

Y/n mouthed, someone?. Harry just rolled his eyes and mouthed, "ex." She nodded and followed Harry into the the house.

"Gemma get off the phone." They heard Anne yell. "Say hi to the couple."

Gemma’s jaw dropped as she hugged Harry. She saw Y/n and her smile grew. "You're the famous Y/n we've been hearing about!"

Y/n nervously laughed but nodded, excepting the hug happily. Harry sighed thought, face turning a shade of pink. "It's so nice to meet you!" Y/n was smiling. Their first impressions were so far good. They seemed excited to meet her, and Y/n was able to breath finally now.

"Not long until midnight, so I've got to get going on the dinner." Anna decided.

"Let me help!" Y/n jumped at the opportunity to get to know Anne and get in her good graces. Following her to the kitchen and leaving the siblings behind.

"Mum's going to love her." Gemma whispered to Harry, shoving his shoulder. Harry just blushed, happy that his girlfriend is getting along with his family.

~

Midnight struck, cheers and hugs were done, and a sneaky kiss between the two young and in love celebrities were shared. Anne was tired, so the rest decided to retire to their rooms for the night. Harry took their two bags up to the stairs and revealed the small room that housed talented singer: Harry Styles.

It had grey walled with posters hung all around. As Y/n looked closer behind the records and old CDs tapped to the wall, she found a poorly covered up dent in the wall. "What's this?"

"Something that will definitely give my mum a heart attack." Harry smiled, dropping the bags. "Was playing with some of my friends and one "accidentally" threw a nerf gun at me."

"Sounds fun." She mused, continuing to look around the room. "Seems like your music taste has not changed." Y/n noticed the Joni Mitchell collection, right next to the Stevie Nicks one.

"Nope." Harry sighed, standing next to his girlfriend, but she could sense the smile forming on his face. "I'm glad I threw out all of those porno mags."

"So thoughtful." Y/n pushed Harry away as he laughed. Harry grabbed her and threw themselves onto the small, twin sized bed that had superman sheets on.

"Superman? At sixteen?" She asked.

"Hey, don't hate on superman." Harry defends. "These sheets are too comfy to get rid of."

They laugh a bit more, settling slowly into the silence that the small room gives them. They can hear Gemma talking to someone through the wall, though they don't mind--they're too wrap up in themselves to care.

"Think your family likes me?" She asked.

"Oh definitely. You're much better then any guy Gemma brought round." Harry remarked. "Plus mum loves you loads, it's really easy to see. She doesn't just offer her special margaritas to anyone."

"I'm glad." Is all Y/n says. She's tired now, a long stressful day of nerves really washed her out, but thankfully, she's got an amazing boyfriend to sleep next to.

"I'm glad you got to meet them." Harry admits. "No way you can break up with me now. Mum'll miss you too much."

"I'd miss her too. Not that I'd ever want to break up with you."

Harry kissed her sweetly, "Good, because I'd never do that too. Wouldn't even think of it."

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter VI : Sisyphus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Blood and Gore; Explicit description of injury; Use of misogynistic language; Threat of SA but none occurs; Ass play; Anal sex

A/N: It's all downhill from here, baby!!!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VI : SISYPHUS

DEATH: Why the bow, if you’re breaking no laws?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

You’re in the dark again, warm and sated, together. He’s propped up on one elbow, practically half on top of you while you lay on your belly, pressed into the soft blankets and the blistering heat of his body; your cheek, smooshed into the ball of his shoulder while you let him explore your skin at will. He’s been biting and licking and kissing all over for what seems like hours after having fucked you halfway to delirium, and you can do nothing more than hum and whimper when his teeth get too hungry, his bite too sharp, listening to the sounds he makes. Low rumbles of appreciation deep in his chest that you feel vibrate into the bones of your back, breathy huffs where he takes in your scent, mingled with the flavor of his own sweat and come. You’re damp and sweaty and a little sticky in the soft crevices between your limbs, and maybe it should be disgusting, but he tastes you everywhere anyways.The tip of his nose dragging down the line of your spine, a soft nip to your waist, a sharper one to the inside of your bicep, that vulnerable and ticklish swell. He rolls you slightly further towards him to expose your breasts to his explorations, and you feel the tickle of his armpit hair on your cheek where your face is tucked into his side. He sniffs below the damp line of your hair at the nape of your neck, mouths wetly at the satiny skin, and you drag your fingertips up his arm, barely there, pulling a shiver from him and a soft moan. “What’s your favorite place in the galaxy?” Your voice barely a break in the silence, the soft song of your breathing.

A wet suck to your nipple, “Balls deep inside of you,” entirely serious in that monotone way of his.

“Disgusting.”

“Nuh uh, delicious,” a long swipe to the other nipple, pad of his thumb brushing over the dip of your navel. A whine of his name, and he gives you a laugh, the sort of laugh that changes the trajectory of a person’s life, the sort of laugh that is so real it could almost be confused as imaginary. He moves up, lets you savor the sound of it, and there is no better taste than this: someone else’s laughter in your mouth. You twist your fingers in his curls, run your tongue behind his teeth, belly pressed to belly. “I’m being serious,” you remind him.

He buries his face in your neck, a soft hum, “Here, on the ship.” With me? You want to ask. “What about yours?”

“I like water.” You always had, had always been a swimmer when the moment allowed.

“Then we shall have to find some water for you, won’t we?” His fingers have snuck down to your bottom, and he kneads your soft flesh, the line of his once again swollen erection trapped between your bodies. Yes, you’d like that, you think, to be in water with him. You dig your fingers into the rock hard muscles of his shoulders as his mouth resumes its explorations.

“I want a loth cat,” you tell him next.

Mhmm.

“Din?” His mouth is once again latched at your breast, and his cock has begun to thrust and grind against your belly, sticky tip drooling against your skin.

“Please, be quiet,” he says with your breast still in his mouth. “I’m very busy.”

You ignore him, twist your fingers tighter in his curls, arching your chest further into his mouth. “Will you get me a loth cat?” Voice all soft and breathy and breaking as you lift your thigh around his naked hip.

Distracted: “A what?”

The man really, really does not listen. “A loth cat. Will you get me one?”

Finally, he pulls his head back. “No. What is that?”

“You’re saying no, and you don’t even know what they are!”

“You’re not bringing any animals on my ship,” and even though he can’t see it, you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s a pet. Not an animal.”

“Explain the difference to me.” He bends his head to your breast again, all teeth now.

“A pet is fluffy, and I will love it.” But he brings his cock back into the mix then, and there are no more allowances for ridiculous requests for quite some time after that.

-

“Now you’re going to be good and stay here like I’m asking you to this time, right? Where you’re safe.” He’d landed the Razor Crest a conservative distance away from Niima Outpost; didn’t want you too far isolated in the sand dunes while he left you to go out and fetch his bounty, but not so close you’d be easily noticed.

“Oh, you are soooo stern,” you pout up at him from where you’re curled up in your bed.

His only response: a long suffering sigh, hands on his hips. You roll your eyes at him, nuzzling into the pillow that smells just like his hair. “Yes. I promise I’ll stay on the ship this time. Where it’s safe.” He comes to one knee beside your shared bed, he’d never crawled back into that tomb of a bunk again after that last time together, this was your shared place now. He brushes a gentle thumb over the pout of your bottom lip, tipping your chin up to the dark tee of his visor, “What a good girl you can be… when you set your mind to it, little one.” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him again, but feel your cheeks heat and your lower belly go tight and fluttery. Your pussy clenches with a slight twinge, and you feel the slow thick drool of his come seep out of you. He’d taken you hard earlier, savage and rough and without restraint – like he was angry at having to leave you and taking it out on your cunt.

“Only when I try very, very hard,” you tell him. He dips his chin once, and then unfolds to his great height above you, another nod, another paused moment to take one last, long look at you, and you want to beg, so badly, for him not to go. It feels like the first time he’d left, all those weeks ago. Your first experience staying on the Crest without him while he went out to hunt his bounty, and at the same time, all the worse. You know him so much better now, you need him, you… You what? No, you can’t think of it now. It’s a non possibility, something you aren’t capable of. But a pesky, perilous corner of your mind whispers, like the Force healing? A non possibility of that sort? You want to ask him to take his helmet off and kiss you before he goes, you want to beg him to stay, you want to ask him why he’s not called you that sweet name again since that last time, the only time, in the heat and damp darkness of the fresher when he’d whispered it into your skin, cyar’ika, and you want to cry, just a little bit, if you think on it too much. On the fact that he’d not repeated it, at the possibility of it having been a mistake or a slip in the heat of the moment. But you say none of those things, and ask for no kiss, and look after him with regret and an inkling of unsettled trepidation as the broad expanse of his back lumbers down the lowered plank and then disappears with the closing of the hatch into the scorched badlands and marching dunes of Jakku.

The hull is left dark and serene with his departure, quiet, and yet it sends a small shiver up your naked spine, bare and wet beneath the warm covers like he’d left you. He keeps the space meticulously clean, but now it’s littered with small signs of your presence in his life, of your life together. Your tunic thrown over the lone stool where he forces you to sit when you take your meals with him crouched at your feet, obsessively watching to make sure you have your fill, strange and lovely man that he is. He has a complex about the food you consume, as if it’s imperative to him that you eat as much as you can, that you’re always satisfied in the ways he cannot, or will not allow himself to be. He doesn’t eat enough, never as much as you know he’d probably secretly like to, and for a man of his size and brawn, surely not enough as he needs to, and it’s slowly fostered an angry kernel of resentment within you. He should always have all the things that he needs and wants, as much food as he desires, always, and anything that would keep those things from him you’re bitterly coming to detest. It even, in a strangely convoluted way, makes you angry at yourself, that your presence here with him prevents him from freely and comfortably discarding his helmet to take his meals. If you weren’t here with him he could eat as much as he wants whenever he wants without worry of being seen, and sometimes, try as you might, you can’t let go of the thought.

He’d left the pair of his thick socks you’d appropriated for yourself draped over one of the steam pipes that are warm to the touch, so that when you’d put them on they’re nice and toasty for you. The sight of them makes your heart kick and flip and burn in your chest, and you turn over to face the other way, towards the wall so that you’ll not be forced to look upon the empty hull and the warm socks and the Din-less space and remind yourself how much you hate when he goes away. He’d said he’d be back quickly, only a few hours he estimated, and you comfort yourself with this as you tuck your hands beneath your cheek and slowly drift off into a restless sleep.

-

“Hello, beastie.”

You’re thrashed into wakefulness by an agonizing grip twisting in your hair trying to rip the very strands from your scalp. You screech, disoriented trying to kick out, get your bearings, but the hull is still darkened from the way Din had left you. You feel another pair of hands trying to grasp at your ankles, and you kick out savagely, bracing yourself against the cold floor, and then the sickening crunch of the bones in your hand as a heavy boot slams down on your fingers, agony, agony, what is happening? An alien dialect in a language you can’t discern, rough and grating is spit back and forth between several voices, and then the first voice comes again and an old, hunched female steps into the dim light from the shadows. You recognize her reptilian Thalassian aspect immediately, and your heart drops into your stomach. Slavers. You double your efforts, kicking and screaming and trying to claw at the hands in your hair, to rip yourself away while your crushed hand screams in agony. The old female comes closer, beastie, beastie, we’ve caught ourselves a beastie, she sing-songs in a hollow voice. Another boot to your belly, kicking the air out of your lungs, sending fire through your ribs and bile up your throat, but when you turn your head, you make eye contact with one of the old crones henchmen, another Thalassian, and with a single thought you send him slumping to the ground, brains oozing out of his ears in a melted, bloody mess.

“Murderous little beast!” the female screeches, and she’s unraveling a whip from around her forearm, and before you can even brace yourself, snapping it at you so that it’s splitting open the meat of your cheek. Searing agony spreads across your face, your vision goes in and out, and you try and shake it away, but then more of that guttural unknown language and an order from the crone, and your arms are being jerked forward so harshly it feels as though your bones will be wrenched from their sockets, and they’re clamping something around your wrists. Something cold and sucking and terrible. You slump forward, tangled in the soft blankets of yours and Din’s shared bed, still naked beneath, and you try to reach for the Force, for your strength, for Din’s mind out there in the desert, but there’s nothing. Acute silence, unbearable nothingness. All your strength zapped and stolen away in the blink of an unguarded moment, like an amputated limb.

The female is hunched over the body of the one you’d killed, leaning heavily on a thick walking stick, spitting hissing sobs, and when she turns back to look at you, you can see there are tears marring her ugly, wrinkled face. “You killed him! Creature! Dark creature!” She spits. “Pull her back, let me look at the little whore’s face.” Unforgiving claws in your hair again, and your head is ripped back and angled towards the weak light of the fresher, the blanket covering your modesty slipping to reveal your nakedness beneath. Fear and shame and fury curdle and burn within you like acid. If he comes back and finds you gone, or worse dead, he’ll be devastated, so hurt, so angry, he’ll blame himself. They can’t – they cannot put him through that. You have to think, calm yourself, get out of these binders they’ve put you in, some sort of Force suppression technology at work. The things glow a sickly purple color, nothing like the lovely warm violet of your saber. But before you can even get a firm grasp on your thoughts, collect yourself, the woman slides the walking stick in her grip, and pulling it back behind her shoulder, swings it forward with all her might to hit you in the face with the heavy, bulbous end of it, right over the split from the whip. You feel the very mass of your brain jostle within your skull, a sickening crunch, the vision in that eye going completely dark. Maker, they’re going to kill you if they’re not careful. A terrible sound rips from your throat, something worse than a mere cry, going slack jawed, whacked further into the pit of unconsciousness. One of the others says something to the old Thalassian and turning away from you, she hisses something back. She goes still for a few moments, leaning on her stick heavily once again, the sound of her wet panting breath, and when she seems to have finally collected herself she turns back to you again. In basic she says, “I know what you are. I’ve heard what they’ve been trying to do to your ilk. How they mine you for that sweet little nectar that runs through your veins, through all of us – the Force. There are rumors of you circulating the Outer Rim, did you know? We heard of you and came searching. Received word from our Huttese friends, whispers of a Mandalorian mercenary and his dark pet roaming about the dunes of Jakku, an old gunship spotted lurking where it should not be. We’ve been searching for you, beastie,” she whispers, coming closer to inspect you, voice maniacal with cruel glee. The pain in your face, your head is a numb throb sharpening to acute fire, vision fading and then glowing bright white and burning. Your head, Maker, they’ve knocked it clean off your neck. “There are many clamoring to get their hands on you. Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? The Force,” voice contemplative and disgusted, all the same. “To be worth nothing more but that unseen ether flowing through your veins. How does it feel to be nothing? Look at you – playing the whore to some Mandalorian brute. Pretty thing…” She pushes back at your shoulder with the butt end of her stick, “Before you went and made me angry. Hmm… perhaps, I shall sell you with that same offering, as well? Would you like that? I wonder what will fetch a higher price, your blood or your cunt.” She laughs and her thugs join around her. You can feel the wide split in your face drooling blood, throbbing in agony, the sound of their raucous and cruel laughter creating a painful symphony above the pounding of your blood in your ears. “A magical whore!” She cackles, flashing her rotting grimace. “Yes, I quite like that idea. Stealing you away from that murderer – mercenaries, the lot of them, those Mandalorians. They hide behind the conflated righteousness of their Creed and their failed history, but they are nothing but another murderous cog in the wheel that would subjugate those of us they deem lesser.” The laughter leaves her suddenly, going serious, and you feel such fear in that single pause of silence. He’s going to

be so angry when he finds you gone, and you– you cannot be enslaved again, you can’t, you won’t. You’ll kill yourself before you allow it. “Monster,” she hisses, “This is nothing worse than what a thing like you deserves after the sort of evil your ilk spread. Imperial slut,” she spits at you, and her saliva lands like a glob of acid on your bare chest, burning. “Grab her. We’re going before her Mandalorian brute returns and kills us for taking his pet.” Her underlings say something in that unknown language, gathering to grip you under the arms and around your ankles, and a frenzy ignites in your heart. Through your broken and torn face you begin to howl, writhing and kicking your legs with as much strength as you can muster despite the broken ribs. “No, no! I will not go!” You screech, getting one in the face. He jerks away and lets your bottom half hit the hard floor with a harsh thud. “Let me go! I will not– I will not go!” You won’t be taken from him, you won’t, you won’t. The one holding your upper half shoves you painfully to the ground, your poor, battered head slamming once again, and another brutal kick lands to your ribs. Maker, you’d not missed beatings like this. The crone begins to scream at them, garbled sounds you can’t make out, and you lay your head on the cold floor. You just need a second to breathe, that’s it. You can endure much, much more than this, it’s only the binders stealing your strength, you just need a moment, and then you’ll fight again or break out of these terrible things and kill them all, but your head, Maker, your head feels as if it’s been split open down the middle. Their yelling reaches a crescendo, an added shrillness to it that was not there before, and then one of the henchmen is toppling painfully over your prone form, a heavy knee to your spine as he lands diagonally over your body, but his weight is instantly ripped away from you. More screaming and oh, the sound of blaster fire, the piercing screams of the old Thalassian, you turn your head slowly, slowly to the side and there, through the bloody and matted strands of your loose hair, that bright and familiar gleam, a flash of burnt red. You bring your manacled wrists slowly up to your chest, hunching into as small a ball as you can make yourself, cradling your broken hand to yourself. 

He’s here. 

He’s here, it’ll all be okay now. 

You let your eyes flutter shut and listen to the Thalassian’s screaming reach a crescendo, and it sounds a little like that long ago familiar sound of flesh tearing from flesh. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see him commit atrocities in your name. It’s a funny thing, you think, the nature of his violence. He is a Mandalorian, and like the Thalassian had said, yes, perhaps, mercenary, and so it would stand that he is a man who commits violence, but you’d found – Maker, you hurt – you’ve found… that a thing that commits violence is not always also, or at once, a violent thing by nature. The moment makes of us what it needs us to be, but that does not always indicate our true selves. Violence committed in an instant of necessity, the peril of threat, does not always mean that we are bad or violent in our hearts, and Din… your Mandalorian does not have a violent heart. Beneath all of that uncompromising beskar is a soft heart, a good heart. It’s why you–

The scream stops.

-

No, no, no, no, no– “Look at me, look at me, cyar’ika. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here now. They’re gone, it’s okay.” You’re a crumpled, bloody, broken heap on the ground. He’d left you. He had left you here alone for this to be done to you. There is something hot and terrifying crawling its way up the inside of Din’s chest, searing his throat, turning it to char. He turns you over with all the gentleness he can muster, his shaking hands slippery with blood, the broken, dead bodies littered around the two of you as he pushes your bloody hair from your face and takes in the way they’d savaged you. 

And Din– Din feels a fury the likes of which he’s never felt before in his entire life. And in the wake of a sort of fear he’d never experienced previously either, not even at the sight of his child self watching his mother and father murdered, the image of their crumpled and broken bodies becoming smaller and smaller as he was taken away into the unknown by the Mandalorians who’d saved him, it leaves him unbalanced and of tremulous control as he pulls you into his arms. You’re cupping one of your hands strangely in the other, and when he takes your manacled wrists you let out a painful, garbled sound. Your hand is mangled, fingers darkening already and bent sickeningly in incongruous angles, and he wants, very badly, to look away from the sight of your pain. It causes a physical ache inside of him, nausea and fire and thunder, like a blaster bolt to the belly, a knife to the lung. “Look at me, cyare,” and your eye blinks open, the darker of the two, the one that whispers silently at him when he looks at it too long, the other, the bright one like a scream, is too swollen to open, but you, miracle of miracles, for you are a miracle wrapped in the shape of a girl, give him the tiniest of attempted smirks; something like the creation of myth unfolding before him. The side of your face not broken and bleeding, lifting into a crooked little half moon, and bloody smile full of sharp, menacing teeth you croak, “I knew you’d come.” 

Din knows in this instant that he is going to love you for the rest of his life. It is not a question, or an uncertainty. It is simply fact. Truth like his Creed, like The Way. 

 “I’m here. I’ll always come for you,” he tells you in lieu of saying that which sits heavy on his tongue now, which is that he’d let you eat his very heart out of his chest if you so desired it, that he belongs to you intrinsically. “I’m so sorry. I’m here now.” The hand not mangled grips the fabric around his throat and Din feels a sob in the shape of your name build in his chest. The Mandalorian, on the verge of tears. He gently presses you closer, tries to breathe, tries to swallow his howls. They were slavers, he’d marked them from the moment he’d spotted them through the open hatch of the Crest, dropping the long dead bounty he’d found half buried in the sand to sprint towards you. He’d worried about the possibility of this for some time now, the threat of someone coming for you, recognizing what you were, thought he’d prepared for it. Rumors were difficult to avoid or quell and despite his attempts to keep anyone from getting too close to sniff you out, you attracted attention. It was inevitable. Too beautiful, too alive, too alluring. He’d been afraid of something like this happening, and he’d thought the best way to keep you safe was to keep you here, hidden away on his ship, security system set and impenetrable. He’d been a damned fool.

He takes in the sight of your bare limbs, the beginnings of nasty bruising over your naked abdomen. The idea of someone taking you from him, severing his claim, keeping you away from him… and like this, when you were supposed to be safe here in this place the two of you’d made a home of together, while you were bare and waiting for him as he’d left you, when you were still full of his semen, potentially full of his– 

He swallows the thought. There are certain things you believe about yourself that Din is doubtful to agree with just yet…

“Take them off,” you whisper up at him, “I’ll–” a pained swallow, “I’ll heal. It’s okay, Din. Don’t be afraid,” you say with such earnestness, a tiny life of an eyebrow, but he is anyway. You shouldn’t be the one telling him not to be afraid right now, split open as you are, but you do anyway, and Din is deathly afraid – of this, of you, of everything, of not being fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you, to keep you. Din feels more afraid now than he has ever felt in his entire life.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay. It’s not that bad,” and at the same time, your words make him so angry. At what life had made you believe, at what the galaxy had made you believe was okay. This is not fucking okay. Seeing you hurt like this is not okay. He moves to gently, as gently as he can possibly be, disengage the binders from around your wrists, careful to not jostle your broken hand too much. 

“It’s not okay.” He looks at your mangled face, the blood running into your hairline, your swollen eye, that lovely and luminous eye that makes his heart feel split into a million different pieces, all engraved with the etching of your name, “This is not okay.” And then his gaze lands on the blood splattered gem of your earring. This sight he must close his eyes to, he cannot bear it. That tiny sparkle, the significance of your relationship made material, covered in your own blood and his failure to protect you. 

He opens his eyes again to take in your wet gaze, unseeingly staring up at him, dark and fathomless. It shutters closed, long lashes clumped together in the sticky mess of your blood and tears. “It will be. I’ll heal soon. This is not the worst that’s been done to me,” voice thin and reedy, as if you’re embarrassed, ashamed to say the words out loud. As if you recognize them for the travesty they pose. He has to look away, swallow another sob. Din can’t remember the last time he cried, the last time he felt like crying, but he feels it now. Eyes hot and pinched and uncomfortable. 

He should have never left you. He will never leave you again. 

Wrapping you in the blanket, he makes sure your modesty is covered, and with as much care as he can, takes you in the cradle of his arms and moves you back into your bed. 

“Where’s your bounty?” You croak.

“That doesn’t matter now. Rest. I’m going to–”

“Of course, it matters. It’s–” a pained swallow.

“Don’t talk, cyare. It’s okay. We can–”

But you press on, cut him off. “That's the whole reason we came here. We’re not going to let this be a waste.” This being your savaging, split open, almost stolen. Din feels his heart drop down into his stomach. He nods once, swallows, tries to cough up the knot of agony lodged in his throat. 

“I dropped it when I saw them. They did something – fucked with the system and deviated the signal so I wasn’t alerted when they broke in. The bounty was already dead. Beacon signal still going. I found him and came straight back – saw the open hatch and knew something was wrong–” You give a soft, pained moan, brow folding into an agonized frown. Maker, he’s not going to survive this. He feels like a fucking coward. Terrified, sick to his stomach, angrier, weaker than he’s ever been in his entire life. 

“Slavers. Thalassians,” you whisper, resting your head against his chest plate, broken hand clutched against your chest. “I need you to reset my fingers before they heal wrong.” Fuck, he’s never had a panic attack before, but he worries he might be having one now. He tries to swallow the scream for you, thinks he whispers something like, alright. Shifting you in his lap, he pulls his blood soaked gloves from his hands, and when he reaches for your hand he takes in the tremor of his own fingers, feels a humiliating wash of shame curdle inside of him. He’s a Mandalorian for Maker’s sake, a warrior, and yet the sight of your pain, your hurt, leaves him unraveled, as frightened and green as a child. He has never experienced the dilemma of having someone he– someone that matters, hurt. Carefully propping your back up against his bent knee he pulls you in close so that your hip is tucked up against him, he grasps your wrist tenderly between his fingers, soothes the pad of his thumb against the soft inner slope of your wrist, the webbing of blue beneath the thin skin is comforting somehow, you’re alive. He made it in time, he’s going to fix this, take care of you. “It’s okay, Din,” you whisper again. 

A sharp jerk of his chin, “I know. I’m going to make this right.”

He smooths his thumb up the base of your palm, trying to settle, comfort you, the both of you, he rubs a gentle circle into the center, feels you tremble and jerk against him, and he hums low in his throat, a deep sound to remind you that he’s here, he’s got you. “It’s alright, little one. It’s alright, it’s alright,” keeps murmuring low reassurances in your ear, unsure whether they’re more for you or for himself, as his fingers slide up slow and light and grip your ring finger first, grasping it at the base to hold it securely and pulling on the tip to straighten it out, quick and efficient movements, a muted snap. There’s one. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”. Moves to your pinky next, so tiny gripped between his own large, rough fingers. He has to grind his molars together, bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He holds the base of that vulnerable little finger, the fine bone almost nothing beneath his touch and straightens that one too, listens to the hollow pop of the joint righting itself back into place. That one pulls a swallowed screech from your throat, you turn your face sharply away, and he sees your legs shuffle and kick in his periphery, your breathing fast and shallow. 

“Hurt– That one hurt,” you choke, and he watches a single tear squeeze out of your swollen eye and make a slow, devastating track down the slope of your mangled cheek, losing itself to the shredded gash. 

“What did that to your cheek?” He grits at the same time that he rights your index finger into place, tenses his knee to keep you steady and upright as you jerk. Panting wet breath hiccupping, trying to swallow back your cries for a moment, he cradles your bruised hand in his, wishes he wasn’t wearing this fucking helmet so that he could kiss the back of it, lick your wounds. He feels like screaming. 

“A w– a whip.” You don’t turn back to look at him, and Din feels his blood turn to frost. Something so painful moving through his chest he struggles for breath.

“They whipped you in the face?” He looks at the pieces of Thalassian surrounding the two of you and curses himself for killing them so quickly. He should’ve been smarter, more patient, drawn it out. Made them suffer. 

“It’s okay–” voice short, tense. “I’ll heal.” Face still turned towards the open hatch and the hot Jakkuian night, he watches another tear fall. 

“It doesn’t matter–”

“I’ll heal. I’ll–”

“That doesn't matter–they hurt you. You can be hurt. Just because you can heal, just because you don’t care about what happens to you doesn’t mean that I don’t.” He cups the back of your head, begs you to turn back towards him with his touch. “You being hurt hurts me, do you understand me?” Voice soft as he can make it go, trying to make you see what he’s saying in the only way he thinks will penetrate the fog of your painful history. 

And you do turn back at that, finally, thank you, thank you, he can see the edges of the wound start to knit themselves back together. A girl and a miracle and a myth all woven into one. “Do you understand me?” He asks again, cupping your chin, gathering the wet of your freely falling tears now, pressing the pad of his thumb to the corner of your eye.

“No, no, I don’t understand,” face crumpling, you press your forehead beneath the edge of his helmet. They hurt me, they hurt me, you cry over and over, and Din knows that you don’t only mean the Thalassians. He wishes he possessed the hand of the Maker. That he could reach across to the far corners of the galaxy, the most shadowed depths, the blackest pits, and wipe away any speck of darkness that’s ever touched you, anything or anyone that had ever done you harm. He wishes he could give you his very heart as an offering, anything that would settle the sound of your anguish. But then he thinks that an impossible sort of thing, for his very heart is held right here, sobbing in his arms, living on the outside of his chest. 

-

After he insists on you allowing him to spread bacta along your cheek and hand, despite your protestations that it’ll close on its own, that you’re fine, you remind him that his bounty is still lying dead and forgotten out in the sand sea beyond the ship. He goes out to retrieve the pitiful thing, felled by the wrath of Jakku, most likely, and you make an agonized attempt to stand and dress yourself. Your ribs and back ache, the line of your spine feels on the verge of fracture from the last blow you’d taken, and you shuffle about slowly, trying to force yourself to hurry and get yourself covered before he returns, not wanting him to see the extent of the damage done to your ribs and back. You manage to get on a pair of underwear and one of his shirts before he’s stomping back up the gangway, dead bounty slung over his shoulder. He bends to shuck the thing off, the limp body hitting the durasteel with a harsh thud that snaps your mind into focus for a millisecond so that you’re taking in the carnage surrounding you. The release of gas from the carbon freezer sounds around you as you find the old Thalassian – her head seems to have been ripped clean from her neck somehow, you cock your head slowly, taking the sight in. He’s moving about, dragging the pieces of the bodies and chucking them out the hatch, and your mind feels like a piece of elastic snapping far out and away from you, and then shooting back in a painful reverberation, vision going hyper focused, too bright to bear, and then murky, as if viewed through a broken pane of glass. You hear the whirring, metallic shifting of the closing gangway, and your head swoops, belly twisting with nausea. There are pools of blood coagulating thick and disgustingly viscous on the floor, and you reach out for the wall to steady yourself as your blood rushes in your ears, but he’s immediately there, gentle hand to the curve of your waist and the bend of your elbow to pull you to himself. “It’s okay,” he says again. And he keeps saying so, but seeing this, what he’s done for you, something feels distinctly not okay. 

You think of the Corellians who’d attacked you all those weeks ago, the Corellians you'd slaughtered for him. And the memory somehow makes the sight in front of you worse, some sort of horror. You’d turned him into you. You’d forced him into repeating your own horrible actions. In a moment of startling, sickening clarity, you’re confronted with the reality that he is only encased in beskar, he is not made of it. And one day they will go through him to get to you. Because there will surely be more, there will surely be another day, another time, another planet; more slavers or dark siders or someone of equally low measure will come for you again, and he can’t protect you forever, nor you him. 

This time, please, let it end differently. 

It’s all you ever do, you think, beg and plead for a different sort of fate. The duel of the fates, over and over again, but it is only ever you, alone, at odds with destiny itself. Fighting against what must be, what already is, what always has been. Your own sick ouroboros; eternally destroying and recreating yourself and the things around you. 

He leads you back to bed, grabs his socks from where they’d lain draped over the warm steam pipe, and you return his own past words to him while he kneels before you, pulls them over your cold feet, looking over his shoulder the world seems inverted, mirrorlike, the black puddles of blood filled with dark mercury. They would have taken you from him. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.” Your voice sounds hollow and cold, unlike yourself.

He pauses his care of you, helmet tipped down, and you wish you could see his eyes right now, you feel, strangely, like you need them, like it would make everything better, more clear and stable. Taking one small foot in hand, he wraps his fingers around the entire thing. “You’re right,” he tells you, and your stomach flips with bile and fear again. “I shouldn’t have had to do it because I never should have let it happen. This is on me. I shouldn’t have left you alone for this to happen.”

You reach for his wrist, wrapping your fingers around the thick of it to feel his pulse beat against your fingertips. Something furious in the fluttering thrum of it; something of a monolith about him, steadfast, unmovable, the strongest thing in the entire galaxy. There’s a tinge of crimson rage swallowing him, and you can tell he’s doing everything in his considerable strength to keep it under reign for your sake; the proof is in the strew of bodies he’d littered the floor of the ship with. “They’ll always come for me, Din. As long as I’m alive, as long as the dark exists, as long as The Force exists they’ll come for me. They’ll never stop.”

The helmet snaps up, the yawning tee of dark transparisteel whispers its rage at you. “Then I’ll make them,” he grits. “I’ll find a way. I’ll protect you. We’re going to fix this. I’m going to fix this.” And you feel so–so strange. So sad. Devastated. The wave of fate swallows you whole, and that dark red thread crumbles to dust. You feel so unbearably sad for the both of you that your tears are renewed. Sad and old and at the end of your line. 

And again: A person without a soul cannot cry. And so this must only be proof of the fact that you still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must. 

It’s his now. Undoubtedly. Whatever of your soul has bloomed back into life belongs to him now. You bring your trembling fingers up to the face of his shining beskar helmet, warring wishes wrapped into a strange tangle for what you know will not be the last time: that it wasn’t there, that you could have all of him, and, at the same time, that you too had something of such strength and conviction to protect you as his Creed protects him. What a comfort it must be. “I know you will.” Lie. 

He goes to initiate takeoff and get the ship into hyperspace after that, and you can hear the uncharacteristic frenzy of his movement echoing in his rushed steps as he flits about the cockpit. Settling into your nest of blankets, you face the wall so you’re not made to look at the mess that’s been left, and when he returns, you listen to the sound of him divesting himself of his armor, the rustle of falling clothes, you can feel his panic now up closer, pressing against the confines of your skin like some living thing, trying to sneak its way into whatever break in you it might find. He was frightened, he is frightened. For you. If you weren’t struck stone cold you’d perhaps laugh at the idea of it, but strange memories flash in your mind, highlighted by painful bursts of bright light behind your closed lids, memories of darkness and pain and being so alone another person, a real person, existing in the entire galaxy seemed too far fetched a thing to be true. The sort of loneliness that forces you to forget that other living things exist. You curl in on yourself, still tucking your now halfway mended hand close to your chest, cupping your other palm over your eyes to hide yourself away. Shocked into a subdued, humming terror. A peripheral thing, the reality that you should be afraid or shaken, and you are, kind of, but interrupted by that memory of similar or much worse things that make this small mishap seem inconsequential in the shadow of all the rest, all the past. 

You listen to him move towards the fresher to throw the two of you into darkness, and you panic, “Don’t turn the light off, please,” you murmur, still hidden behind your palm. If you cannot see the world, perhaps the world cannot see you either. “I’m sorry to ask – I won’t look, I promise.”

He pauses, silent for a moment. “Don’t apologize. Don’t. It’s okay. Anything you want.” What you really wish he’d say is that he doesn’t care if you look or not, a selfish and rotten and horrible feeling rolling in after the thought.

He crawls in behind you, sliding up against you bare and burning hot; an entire sun held inside the heart of a single man. He keeps his hands to himself at first, and you enjoy the brush of his chest up against your back on every one of his inhalations, the symphony of his breathing, but eventually he braves the salted earth and passes a gentle hand down the line of your spine. 

“What do you need?” His voice is the deepest thing in the entire galaxy, you think. Space has nothing on it. 

You press your hand tighter over your eyes. “Nothing.”

“You are strong and capable,” he says after a moment, and you worry you might vomit. “But you don’t always have to be. I don’t want you to have to fight when you’re with me. I only want you to be comfortable and cared for and well. Let me help you.”

“Okay,” barely a sound breathed through the part of your lips. And it takes several hours, but eventually that thing they’d come for, the very thing they’d attacked and tried to take you for, heals you. The Force. What is it to hate the very thing that makes you up, the very marrow of you, the sustenance of your life? Agony, madness, bitter, bitter resentment. Loneliness. To be alone within yourself. Terrible pain. Every bad thing that’s ever come to you throughout your entire life has been done in its name. And you’re angry at the fact, you think. For years and years things were done to you to honor that invisible giant, and it built an anger within you that is incoherent, unidentifiable, inconsolable.

You ache like you’re recently made. 

But he holds you so gently while you knit yourself back together, seam by seam, so that the possibility of pain is removed entirely from the equation. He holds you like he loves you, and you want to ask him if he does, if he thinks he could ever love a thing like you, even if you do not deserve it. Even if he does not deserve it.

You fold it away instead.

Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? To be worth nothing?

Like spitting salt through an open wound, the agonized phantasma of an amputated limb. 

You’re nothing. 

And Din? He’s everything.

From behind your hiding spot you tell the quiet: “Sometimes it feels like I haven’t been happy my whole life. But I know I feel it with you. I want you to know that.”

“Do you?” His hand slides up the line of your vertebrae to cup the back of your neck, and you tremble beneath his heat, as if he were anointing you with the power of a sun. 

“Yes.” You wish you had the courage to say more, to say everything. A real confession, the cutting sort: I was made to be nothing more than a weapon, but now I am a human, now I am alive. Now I am only myself. And I hurt, and I wish I were a girl again: only half savage, unmarred and free. But despite all of this, I am still only yours. 

“I know already.”

Cyar’ika. Cyar’ika.

And so what does it matter if you hurt when he calls to you so sweetly? And yet, a quiet and unused part of you whispers back that it should not be so, that the thought is not quite right. Focus, focus, call them growing pains if you must. Focus only on him. And you realize that there is something about him that makes you fragile in the face of his strength, for some reason and most importantly, in a way that you like, in a way that is appealing to you like nothing else you’ve ever experienced before. Something that tells you that you need him to be strong in ways you’ve never had or needed to be strong before, a strength that is soft, something that is unyielding for the vulnerability you allow yourself with him. You can’t understand it.

“And I will let you take care of me.”

“I’m going to. This means something,” he says very quietly, the words bouncing off the back of your neck, and you know it is true. “This means something.”

It does. Everything. The two of you mean something together.

You finally turn to face him again, eyes closed, seams more securely knitted together and press your forehead to the notch of his throat, cracking your eyes open to look down at the expanse of his abdomen. You run a flat palm down his belly, feel the strength of him. If there is nothing else, perhaps, there can be Din. 

“Close your eyes,” he threads his fingers through the back of your hair, “Let me kiss you,” and you feel your heart break and melt into desperation all at once. You press your eyes shut tightly and tip your face up towards him, parted mouth and bated breath, ready to receive the taste of him. He licks into you, pulling a moan from your belly and onto his waiting tongue, and you wish there was something more you could give him, something deeper, more significant that could translate all you feel for him. “I need you to forgive me,” he licks the words into your skin. “I need you to tell me you forgive me for letting this happen.”

“Don’t say that. There’s nothing to forgive. There’s nothing–”

“I should’ve been more careful. Smarter, more prepared. We shouldn’t have wasted time in that fucking desert for so long.” But you’d distracted him, kept him from going out, seeing to his responsibilities. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you say again, tipping your head back to bear your throat for him. 

He licks a line up the slope, tasting your pulse, the proof you’re still alive. Plants a kiss at the hinge of your jaw and then presses his forehead there. “I’ve failed you,” he whispers. 

“Din, listen to me, listen to me. You could never do that. Never. Do you understand me?” If he only knew all you’ve not told him, all the ways in which you’ve failed him. You’re sure he’d see you in a very different light. 

“It’s not going to happen again,” he promises, and you’ve not the heart to tell him again that they’ll never stop. That the life of a hunted creature is the only sort of existence you could ever live. You pull his mouth back to yours, kiss him with a renewed fervency. If you cannot give him anything more you’ll put everything you have into this. 

“Just kiss me, please,” you beg, twining your arms around his neck and opening to him. He drags his mouth along the inner slope of your bicep, ending at the dip of your elbow and laving his tongue at the sensitive dip. Gripping the bend of your knee he hitches it against his hip and rolls the two of you over. Settling between the cradle of your thighs, he levers himself up off you, careful not to demand you bear his full weight, and finally, you feel ready for the dark again. With a single thought you submerge the two of you into the almost dark again, a weak stream of light coming from the fresher, rattle of the Crest moving through hyperspace sounding around you. He prepares you to take him softly, slowly, with intention. The gentle pad of his thumb to the slick seam of your cunt, parting your folds to get to the wellspring of your desire for him. A single finger and then another hooked against that place inside of you that seems now branded with his ownership over you. Nothing like this has ever existed, and you press the thought into his mind as he tastes your tongue, brings you to orgasm for him with slow and exploring fingers, the slick slide of his thumb over your swollen clit, and the whisper of your name to the shell of your ear. When he feeds his cock into you, slowly, so that you’re made to feel every curve and ridge and then meeting the end of you, so deep you can’t tell where he ends and you begin, it brings tears to your eyes and all sorts of confessions to your tongue that your more rational mind knows should be kept in the shadows. But very like the sun, he shines a light on all the dark and derelict parts of you better left unseen. 

When you come for a second time, thick cock splitting you in half, there’s a screaming desperation for more urging you on. “Remind me–” you beg him.

“Of what? What do you need?”

“That I’m yours. That I belong to you. That I’m alive.”

“Do you need reminding of that?” He squeezes your bottom, presses you tighter to himself, his wet mouth sliding against the slope of your shoulder. “Don’t you know always? No matter what?”

“Yes.” Soft, soft, soft, but you don’t need it like this – you need it more– “Remind me anyways.”

You’re as close as can be, but he tells you anyway: “Come here, come here. I’m going to take care of you.” He pulls out, a wet and sucking sound, and turns you in his arms so you’re back to belly, and pulls you open again, thigh thrown over his hip. He runs his hands over the hills and contours of you, cups and squeezes your breasts, rough fingertips softly at your nipples, and you feel your cunt clench and gape, hungry for filling. He cups you over that soaked, ravenous place, slides his hand back and forth over the wet, swollen mess, and then further back, his fingers pressing and prodding gently at your ass. “I’ll have you here now, little one. Yes?”  All you can do is nod back against his shoulder where your head is propped, a tightening so intense it’s almost painful strangling your throat, your heart, your cunt. Nothing more than a knot of abandoned want. A thing that doesn’t know how to take without devouring, and you do, you want to devour him. You think he might even let you. He presses a slow finger into the knuckle, and you go tight, bearing down around the invasion, spitting his name out in the shape of a wail into the quiet hull. 

“It’s alright,” he gently thrusts that probing finger, hooking and wriggling it. Making space within to fuck you open on his cock. “You’re so tiny here, little thing. But you’re going to take me so well. I know you are.” He pulls his finger out entirely, and then there are two pressing back in as slow as possible, petting first, stretching second. “How’s that? How does that feel, my sweet girl?”

“I don’t– I don’t know,” moaning and shifting, trying to plead for more with little hitched arcs of your hips. “More, please.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes–”

“How badly do you want it? Tell me–” He twists his wrist, stretching, claiming, all while the hill of his palm rubs against your cunt, so wet you can hear the slick sound of its desperation echo in the quiet. 

“So badly,” you moan and sob, “More than anything.” He pulls his fingers from you and grips the root of his cock, fat head at your ass and starts to press in slowly, slowly, stretching you open around the incredible girth of him. Your breath comes in puffs and gasps, an unbearable heat flushing through your body, pulsing in your face and swirling in your belly, tightening the tips of your breasts into painful knots. You moan out his name, please for more, for harder, for faster until he’s buried to the root and you’re strangled into a hiccuping silence. Overwhelmed and overwrought by the feel of him buried in your ass so deeply. There’s no space for anything else inside of you, stretched to the brim and so full you can barely breathe. He’s everywhere. Gripping your hip you feel his breath against your cheek, the sweating, curling hair around your ear ruffled as he pants and groans, gritting his teeth and rumbling deep in his chest as he starts to thrust slowly into you. 

“How’s that?” Voice strangled. His other hand comes around to thrum gently at your clit, the swollen mass of bundles pulsing with each punch of his hips. Your cunt leaks down to where the two of you are joined, and he picks up his pace, fucking up into you harder, faster, that strumming thumb flicking more quickly. He flattens his fingers against you, rubs at the length of your leaking sex, and you’re beyond words. Impaled and cock drunk. All you can give in return is an approximation of his moaned name, and he gives a quick, sharp slap to the top of your mound. “I want you to tell me how it feels,” voice ragged, almost broken. You tighten almost impossibly at his roughness, clenching down around him so he’s gasping, shocked ah, ah, ah’s, ending on a ragged groan. He brings his forehead to your shoulder, and you listen to his overwhelmed sounds. The first time you think you’ve heard him so close to the precipice of losing control. “Most perfect fucking ass in the entire galaxy,” he grits. All mine, mine, fucking mine.

“Feels–” His fingers resume their exploration of your cunt, “Feels so– so good,” your voice is nothing but agony made pleasure. 

“Yeah? Feels good?” The sound of his hips slamming against your ass, wet and lewd, the press of his heavy balls to the round of your bottom. “What about this?” He begins to slowly press two fingers into your gaping, grasping cunt, and oh, it’s too much, your orgasm hits like an exploding star, singing all coherent thought along the way. You feel your pussy gush, go tight as a knot, and he snarls at the curve of your ear, bites down on the line of your shoulder, not halting the thrusting of his fingers inside of you. “Fuck, yes–fucking come for me. Come for me while I fuck your ass–”

“No–no, I can’t anymore, please, I can’t,” you cry.

“You can–you can. I know you can. My fierce little cyar’ika, soft only for me. Aren’t you?”

And how can you deny a man such as this anything. One that holds you so, one that fucks you like he loves you. You’ll lie to yourself, like so many other lies you tell, and pretend that this is the touch of love, that it’s something you deserve. His fingers, his cock are ruthless within you and they force another soaked orgasm out of you, shaky and weak, before he’s following suit, fucking the searing heat of his spend deep inside of you. He rolls you over onto your belly, levers himself up over you and slows his thrusts until you feel the last spurt of his cock kick inside of you, the low reverberations of his pleasure sounding from his chest. When he pulls out he spreads you apart, thumbs at your swollen skin. “It gapes so pretty for me,” he murmurs as he plays with the milky white drool, smears it into your slick, stretched skin. “This is how you should always be, covered in my come, beautiful thing.” All you can do is bury your burning hot face in the blankets. 

When the two of you have finally settled later, cleaned yourselves up, and he’s made sure you’ve had enough water and a snack, when your panic has gone dormant, you remember your earlier request. A sniffle, and then voice broken and wet, just for added insurance: “You’ll get me my loth cat now, won’t you?”

A long suffering sigh, but he squeezes you tighter to his chest, presses a kiss to the crown of your head you feel sizzle all the way down to the tips of your toes. “I’ll get you anything you want, anything.” You smile into his skin, a miracle all of its own, that after everything he still provides you the ability to smile. 

But later, right before he falls off the precipice of consciousness into the ebony deep and serene lake of sleep, you whisper into the thrum of his life force right at his neck: “We will take care of each other, won’t we?” Again – the both of you, together. 

“Always,” he says, and it rings with such promise, in a way you know only someone such as he could swear, and you’ve always been a liar, but you do not want this to be a lie. 

This time, please, let it end differently.

Chapter VII

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[ravenclaw-legend]

If I Killed Someone For You

I'm sorry that I did this

The blood is on my hands

I stare at my reflection

I don't know who I am

Practice my confession

In case I take the stand

I'll say I learned my lesson

I'll be a better man

"You KILLED him, Sebastian! You used an UNFORGIVABLE CURSE! I cannot look past this, if I turn a blind eye I am just as guilty!" Ominis was yelling at Sebastian in the Undercroft, completely ignoring Sebastian's attempts to explain himself and convince Ominis to not turn him in.

"I KNOW OMINIS! I'M SORRY, ITS MY FAULT! You don't think I know that. The nightmares of being covered in blood are reminder enough. Just let me explain myself. I will be better, I swear to you!" Sebastian shot back when he swore he would be better, his eyes moved to lock with mine, across the dimly lit Undercroft. Their secret place that holds so many positive memories now is the backdrop for this fight, it's almost poetic.

You're conflicted about whether to turn him in or protect him. Anne has made her choice and abandoned the house in Feldcroft with only a note left behind. She told people that Solomon had died in his sleep, which was convincing enough.

I'm packing up my things

And I'm wiping down the walls

I'm rinsing off my clothes

And I'm walking through the halls

I did it all for her

So I felt nothing at all

I don't know what she'll say

So I'll ask her when she calls

After we returned from the catacombs, Sebastian pushed everyone away. The most I heard of him was Ominis telling me how Sebastian would be screaming in his sleep, always the same things; "I won't let her suffer!", "ANNE!" and "Nooo!"

I didn't know what to do, I was in love with Sebastian. Never acted upon the feelings but I loved him regardless. I always helped him but tried to keep him away from the dark arts; he wound up heavily into the dark arts anyway. Sebastian Sallow was determined to a fault and sometimes crossed the line from determination to stubbornness. Unfortunately, he still learned the Unforgivable Curses despite Ominis attempting to stop him.

After Ominis and Sebastian's argument, I found Sebastian in the boy's dorm in the Slytherin common room. He was packing up his things, obviously he was preparing for the worst. I looked at him sadly, it was like the bright personality he had when I first met him was now dulled. Sebastian's shoulders were now slumped and his confident posture was now seemingly weighed down. "Bastian?" I said quietly as I reached to place my hand on his arm, at my touch he spun around to look at me with his face stained with tears.

Would you love me more

(Would you love me more)

If I killed someone for you?

Would you hold my hand?

(Would you hold my hand?)

They're the same ones that I used

When I killed someone for you

Sebastian looked at me with so much pain and hurt in his eyes. "Would you love me?" He asked, keeping his watery hazel eyes locked on mine. "What?" I asked, shock filling my voice. Did he know? How did he know how I felt about him?

We stayed that way for what could have been minutes, hours, or even days. Time seemed to stop as we stared at each other, the air becoming thick with the tension between us. "Would you love me, if I killed someone for you, MC?" Sebastian said this as he began to walk towards me and took both of my hands in his. His hands were larger than mine. They were warm, inviting, even comforting. "Would you hold my hand, if they're the same ones that killed someone?" He says quietly. I know what he is doing, he is trying to figure out who is on his side, who he can find comfort in and open up to. "Bash" I sighed "I care about you. But you know what you did was wrong. Killing Solomon was wrong, no matter if he was attacking us or not." I hugged him. This man may be a murderer to everyone else but he is still my best friend, he is still the man I love; he is just misguided right now.

Would you turn me in

(Would you turn me in)

When they say I'm on the loose?

Would you hide me when

(Would you hide me when)

My face is on the news?

'Cause I killed someone for you

"Are you going to turn me into Black, to the Ministry?" Sebastian asked holding me close enough that I could feel his heart racing in his chest. "No. I won't. But I don't condone what you've done and it will take time to fully forgive you." I stepped back from him looking him in the eyes as I continued to say "I killed for you too Sebastian...

You have to understand that

The one I killed was me

Changing what I was

For what you wanted me to be

I followed your direction

Did everything you asked

I hope that makes you happy

'Cause there's just no turning back

"MC. I'm sorry. You never needed to change for me. You had my attention from the moment I saw you enter the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on your first day and I knew I loved you the moment you beat me in that duel. I know you probably don't feel the same but I had to tell you, in case I never get a chance again. I don't know what Ominis will do" Sebastian reaches out to cup my face in his hands, cradling it like I am made of glass and will shatter if he isn't careful enough. "Sebastian," I sighed turning into one of his hands and reaching out with my own to grab a hold of the front of his robes "I love you too." The next thing I felt was Sebastian's lips on mine. He was clutching me tightly against him. Our lips moved together in sync as if this was meant to be. It felt right to be in his arms.

[fumifooms]

Do you think hanahaki-AU fits DunMeshi? As one of magical traps/curses of the dungeon, maybe. I only thought of Chilchuck's flowers: hemlock (pun intended. Also small light flowers giving headache), clover/shamrock (so Irish! Also sweet - and Chilchuck dislikes sweets), thistle (so prickly - and Celtic too) - and there my imagination stopped. And thank you for hosting the marchil event, it was great!!!

Oooh! You know what yeah I see the vision! I’m not a hanahaki person myself but yeah… Yeah I could see it. Out of any fandom, for the fantasy manga about funky speculative fauna and flora it could 1)make sense for it to exist in the world and be in line with canon and 2)be very interesting to explore. I imagine it’d be a sort of parasitic plant that grows in you not unlike how tentaclus and cracks in walls… I do feel like they’d have found a way to cure it and get rid of them in the world though, but it could be that people who can treat it are rare especially since it’d be a delicate operation. But a straight up magical curse from the dungeon would also be very interesting.

I really like your picks for chilchuck!!

I tried to look for flower meanings and you undersold hemlocks their poison are straight up terrifying. Hemlock also reminds me of the word wedlock, if that adds anything… Because of their poison they’re associated with pain and self-sacrifice, had trouble finding anything that didn’t start and end at "they’re bad news" lmaoo. Clovers are more of a no-brainer with meanings like hope, faith, love and luck. I associate them with youth as well but looking it up that’s just a me thing… Luck could be fun in an ironic way considering his life conditions, but also fun for the lucky very precise shots he makes like when he threw the knife at the dragon or with his bow, though he would hate having it be attributed to luck instead of his own hard-earned skills haha. And omg the Thistle…….. I’m obsessed with that actually. Sensory horror wise it’d be really interesting to read how it’s like coughing it up, ESPECIALLY with the sweet taste accompanying it oh my god. If we’re going with a marchil angle, the fact that she’s a sweet person… He dislikes sweets and he hates that he loves her. It reminds him of her and he hates it, the thistle in his throat is also her, his love for her is a thorn in his side, he loves her and it hurts him and he hates it all. It’s so Chilchuck to just suffer in silence and do jackshit about an unrequited love except beating himself up for it, sigh…

I’m sorry Thistle thistles are a Chilchuck thing to me now <3 You know I always underestimated how wild thistles look… It really does look like the flower is in a green jester costume with a funky little collar. Kui you visionary Thistles are also small and round and cute… What the prickles? No no that’s just little hair ahoges <3

I don’t have any particular ideas for everyone else… Forget-me-nots are a very Marcille pick with devotion, true love and remembrance… I also associate Marcille a bit with buttercups. Also Queen Anne’s Lace, which besides beauty symbolizes sanctuary, safety and refuge… Their seeds are edible and kind of taste like thyme btw, hah, time. They’re all softer kinds of flower, no poison or thorns afaik, and I think it suits her. Unrequited love with her wouldn’t be something as acid, it’d be a more poetic sort of ache, doomed longing that feels like a bruise rather than salt in an open wound.

[ca-suffit]

yeah anon I don't want to publish ur specific ask for the reasons u said, but thank u for reminding me of this post. this post from nalyra-dreaming was part of the affirmative action drama and I think a lot of what's in this post got lost out being talked about because of that. so let's talk about it. let's comb thru this so ppl can rly understand nalyra's racism and what they're defending when they want to defend her.

first off, lol take ur own advice. but anyways. this way of speaking is crazy. this is why this whole group of besties put everyone off as time went on. that's why it's lol when ppl come to me saying nobody likes u, we prefer them. okay?? ur weird and u like being yelled at idk. these ppl read some dumb books and think they work on the show. they reference each other's fanon more than anything else. there's no discussions. they talk AT u. it's a bunch of ppl who want to be seen as smart and popular. that's it lol. "we've been trying to tell them" girl u don't work on the show stfu.

this bitch is a whole bitch. u act like u have been victimized by a black fan because you had a disagreement. u play up "I tried to listen and I agree too! poor me, THEY don't want to hear anything else but what THEY want to hear :(" and THEN u have the fckn audacity to say shit like why aren't u all listening to BLACK MAN JACOB ANDERSON. why aren't u listening to black fans? why are u here making this post to act like a victim to "mean" black fans who just don't listen to facts and logic and jacob anderson himself. why are u here twisting this shit up to pretend u have empathy for black ppl by stepping over everyone here (who does not have to filter anything for show press) and saying "actually ur all wrong and stupid and ur the REAL racists because u take away jacob and bailey's own voices."

this is a real level of fucking evil racist shit and why I'm spelling this out rly slow rn so u all understand.

"Louis is not chained to his coffin guys, he could have left, and a fight which shows off power discrepancies within the show story line is not automatically domestic abuse."

u jump thru so many hoops for lestat's defense it has made u dumb as fuck.

where was louis supposed to go? he's black, his family hates him, his husband is a demon spawn who stalks everyone down who tries to leave. who BEAT HIS ASS already at the *thought* that he'd even leave. that's not DV?? he could have left?? how are u like 50 years old and victim blaming like this and then saying u have authority over analyzing these books for the peasants here lol.

the favorite go to line from this dumb group is "they're monsters" "they're vampires." anne rice was famous in the first place for using iwtv to humanize vampires. I think she used this type of "logic" over time too tho and that's prbly where this comes from. it's a bad excuse tho. we're talking about DV but u say it's not DV and then say "they're all murderers anyway so nothing matters." girl the redemption isn't about vampirism, it's about whiteness. u big fucking dummies who can't talk about race always want to pretend this is about lestat being a vampire and how we're too stupid to understand vampires and monsters. the horror of lestat rn is his whiteness. the horror is the power that gives him as he's the least capable of rational thought in that whole "family" unit. he's ignorant, controlling, and quick to anger. he never tries to fix his ignorance, he makes excuses for all his behavior because he CAN. because society allows him to do that! louis and claudia can't make any mistakes or be forgiven because black ppl are not given that same grace. u can call lestat a monster because on a white man that's still an attractive quality. ppl LUV white serial killers and abusers so much and hype them up like they're galaxy brain heroes. calling a black person a monster is just every day. with no benefit. that's the one u rly believe is the threat and then u shoot to kill.

she's so dumb omfg. isolation doesn't mean put in an empty room. lestat wove himself into every aspect of louis' life so that louis could not exist without him. yes, on a level, louis was showing off his man, but u see how the "roots" take hold more and more over time. he's living in lestat's house, lestat is now the one driving the car. more and more lestat is telling them what they're doing and becoming critical of what louis will not give up. acting up v loudly when he doesn't get his way (he brings antoinette in when louis isn't "acting right" so he can torture louis at his job so he'll fix himself already, then he "allows" louis to see other people except now I'm gonna overreact about that too, now I've chased claudia off but btw did u know I've always had a big dick and u not being fun for me anymore is why all of this has ever happened??)

again with the evilness of trying to prove ur shit point by saying "if u disagree with me then u hate black people (jacob anderson) even tho I'm speaking over all black ppl here with this post." ok lestat lol. u are always trying to excuse lestat's actions for being what they are by saying there's a book reason behind it or saying louis or whatever black or brown character is the REAL abuser. do u think abuse has to be intentional to count as abuse? do u rly think lestat's actions are justified when he could have easily explained any of it without doing all that? his response to louis' depression is to do everything I wrote above. u think that's not abuse? u think that's not isolation? "be my companion" but he didn't mean emotionally. u don't think that's maybe the arc lestat is going to have to go thru to be a better partner to louis? what do u think his arc is then, louis just made it all up and soon we won't have to care about race and lestat has been a cool guy this whole time just kidding?? anne rice rly gave u a smooth ass brain.

I don't even know what this means. u all love to skip over points and just say "okay SWEETIE u just don't understand dark themes and monsters, u won't ever get it." okay U, SWEETIE, ur 50 years old, talk slow for me. I know u can do it. if u want authority then prove u know ur shit. a loud voice by itself doesn't do anything but yell. but this is all mama rice taught u tho. so here we are lol.

"everything is unreliable narration except for lestat who is always telling the truth because his egotistical crazy ass white woman author who wanted to be a white man so badly and wrote in his voice IRL to yell at ppl for real said he's telling the truth" u are all so crazy and racist and then u get big mad when ppl notice how crazy and racist u are lol. this gap between series airing has been annoying af but it's sure exposed ur asses because ur not smart like u think u are. when someone rly shows up and breaks down ur arguments to ur face and that is the sole reason I'm here, u all have nothing to say anymore. so fuck u lol enjoy this well earned fallout.

[hekateinhell]

Grief, loss, and mourning are such prominent motifs in VC from the beginning to the end, especially for Louis, Lestat, and Armand.

@rainbowcarousels just reminded me of when Lestat says the name 'Nicolas' to Louis for the first time that he can remember, in the 200 years that they've loved each other:

Ah, if only I could reach back over the centuries and bring the light of this ballroom into the world I had once shared with someone else....

"What's the matter?" he [Louis] said to me suddenly.

"What?"

"I saw something, something in your eyes."

"Just thought of a boy I once loved a long time ago."

"Nicolas," he said.

"Yes, Nicolas," I answered. "Seemed all the little victories of life and life after death were so hard for him, happiness was so hard for him.. joy was an agony I think, but I don't want to think of it now."

"Some of us are infinitely better at being miserable than happy," he said gently. "We're good at it, and proud of it, and we get better and better at it, and we simply don't know what it means to be happy."

I nodded. My thoughts were as thick and confused as the dancers, the music. But the dancers and the music were beautiful. My thoughts were not.

I could not recall ever having spoken of Nicolas to Louis, never ever even mentioning Nicolas's name. But then I do not remember everything, as I once thought I did.

There is something in us, even us, that will not allow for that, something that pushes the memory of suffering that is unbearable slowly away.

"I have no gift for being miserable," I said.

"I know," he said. He laughed. Such a human face.

Such a lovely face.

There must surely have been twice as many blood drinkers now in this ballroom as there had ever been, and I sensed that I had ought to stop having such a marvelous time and return to greeting newcomers as the Prince should. But not before holding Louis for a moment, and then kissing him and telling him low in French that I loved him and always had. ~ Lestat, BC

To me, the later trilogy — maybe due in part to being more action-based and primarily set in the present? — largely lacks the depth and emotional resonance of the earlier books, but they do feature some of my favorite moments in the Chronicles as well.

And this is one of those scenes that stands out as being the final step in the process of grieving a loved one. The place where given enough support, security, and time, we can perhaps settle into and we can talk about them as being someone we once knew and loved (Claudia is different in this context because that is a shared loss to Lestat and Louis).

Additionally, the lines 'we simply don't know what it means to be happy' and 'something that pushes the memory of suffering that is unbearable slowly away' are simple enough in the language used but devastatingly powerful in describing the feelings of brain fog and disassociation that can come with living day-to-day with clinical depression and PTSD (which can also be triggered by loss), and I don't know — I'm grateful to Anne for sharing the ups-and-down her life's journey through her work in a way that made both baby and adult me's world a little less isolating and confusing. Because she understood.

[marmie-noir]

Rainbows, Sunshine, and Bruised Knuckles

Tw: Assault behavior from a patron, leading to bruising.

I could distinctly remember my mom standing on the front porch, watching the cops arresting my father, his chest and face pressed up against the hood of the car, spitting blood and insults at the men in uniform taking in him for what felt like the hundredth time. I had been seven and still remembered her words whispered between cigarette smoke and running her long blood red nails through my hair as I clung to her leg watching the scene unfold. “All good things have some bad in them, baby. Life ain’t all rainbows and sunshine.” 

Now, normally I wouldn’t let myself fall into that bad habit of always finding the negatives. I was a silver lining kind of girl, had to be to survive the shit I’d seen. I liked to find the rainbows, the shimmers of good and happiness in even the shittiest situation. 

It was hard to do that with a man’s large hand on my ass, fingertips pressing under the short hem of the shorts I had worn into the bar today, digging in to the point I cried out half in surprise and half in pain. He was big, larger with a bald head and a short white beard, beady black eyes looking up at me as if expecting me to just accept what he was doing to me. 

There was a crash, full glasses of beer falling to the ground and shattering, my feet wet and cold immediately as I tried to pull myself away, unthinkingly now slamming the empty tray into the back of this jackasses head. It only made him tighten his grip, grabbing my ass so hard it hurt. “You fucking bi-” “What the fuck is this?” The deep voice made me look back, a shiver racing up my spine when I caught Mitch’s expression. If looks could kill the asshole who still had his hand on me would be six feet under. Without waiting for a response Mitch had an arm around my middle, the other gripping the bastard’s wrist and twisting, causing him to cry out as I was pulled behind Mitch as he intentionally put himself between me and the threat. 

Glass crunched under Mitch’s boot where he stepped closer to the asshole who was now cradling his wrist against his chest. I couldn’t see Mitch’s face but I saw his tensed shoulders as he leaned down to speak in a low, hard voice. “Who said you could touch her? You think that is acceptable in my bar? To touch my employees like that? A girl just tryna afford life out here?” Before he could answer Mitch had the man pulled out of the booth and was dragging him towards the door. I stepped forward, intending to follow, to not let Mitch get himself in trouble over some asshole. “You stay inside.” He ordered me, looking at me with a fire in those blue eyes I’d never seen before. It made me stop, arms falling to my side, brows knitting together as he pushed the man out of the bar and followed right behind. 

There was some silence before people started chattering once more. I stood there for a few moments unsure what to do before one of the other servers, a nice redhead named Ann, walked over with a soft smile. “I’ll clean this up honey, why don’t you go sit down for a little bit?” She asked, voice sweet as sugar as she gave my lower back a little push towards the bar. I nodded, unsure what else to do, walking over to where Pops was sitting at his usual spot. 

I plopped into the seat next to him, looking down at the bar top with a small frown, sliding my trusty tray on the wooden surface before me. My feet were wet, it was uncomfortable, the beer soaked into my socks and shoes. I scrunched my nose slightly, thinking of how sticky it was going to get. 

Looking up I saw Mitch wasn’t behind the bar and my mind reminded me he was outside with that larger man. I went to spin, to hop off, when Pops’ warm hand landed on my shoulder. 

“Let that boy handle this.” He said, quiet but firm. “Raised him right. He can fight.” 

Pops looked at me before giving me a small nod, those same blue eyes a bit less bright but still aware. With that he turned back to sipping on his beer, releasing me as he watched whatever sport was playing on the tv. I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything, just nodding before looking down at my lap. 

The back of my thigh hurt, and I was sure I was going to have a bit of a bruise. Sitting on the stool wasn’t exactly comfortable either but I stayed there, waiting for Mitch to come back, trying to get my thundering heart under control. 

I wasn’t sure how long he’d been gone but then a hand was on my shoulder, making me jump slightly and look over my shoulder. Mitch was there, looking no worse for wear, his own sky blue eyes scanning over my face. “C’mon.” He said, voice a little gruff as he released me and stepped away, heading towards his office in the back. 

I hopped off the stool, ignoring the squish of my shoes and went after him. He didn’t say anything, as expected, just opened the office door and let me step in first before following and closing the door. Once we were alone he sighed, turning to inspect my face once more before leaning back on his desk, hands gripping the desk on either side of him. He had bloody knuckles, something I hadn’t noticed, and I made a little noise in the back of my throat before stepping forward to grab at his left wrist to pull his hand up for inspection. 

“Mitch.” I scolded, unsure what exactly to say, not liking the idea of him being hurt for me. It felt… it felt like a lot. I wasn’t sure how else to put it, it was a little overwhelming to think a man would throw a punch for me. 

“He’s banned, he won’t be coming back. He got the message.” Mitch said, letting me fuss over him before pulling his hand back, instead grabbing mine to squeeze gently. “You okay? He grabbed you hard didn’t he?” 

I shifted on my feet, his thumb brushing against my knuckles distracting me from the roaring thoughts in my head. How good he looked, how he had been my literal hero, how he was being softer now. “I’ll be okay, a little sore but I’ve had worse.” I told him honestly, shrugging. 

He didn’t say anything for a few moments, analyzing my expression before his eyes drifted down to my feet. “Think I’ve got a pair of shoes you can use while we get these tossed in the washer in the back. Normally use it for towels but shoes won’t hurt it none.” He released my hand, pushing himself off the desk and past me towards a row of cubbies built into the wall next to the door to the hallway leading towards the bar. Some of the employees would put their stuff there during work, purses or clothes they wore in before changing. 

“Girl left these few months back and I don’t think she is comin’ back. Will they fit?” He asked, snatching a pair of white trainers from the bottom shelf and holding them out to me. I took one, checking the size and seeing it was only half a size above mine. 

“Yeah, they’ll do till mine are dry.” I said quietly, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. I was not going to cry over some grabby asshole, I hadn’t been lying when I said I’d survived worse. I blinked a few times, reaching for the other shoe before heading to perch on the edge of the couch in the corner of his office where his guitar also sat, leaning against the corner of it. I bent over, unlacing my shoes, focusing on the task instead of allowing myself to spiral. 

Drying my feet as best as I could on a spare towel I had tucked into my waistband and then slipping on the new shoes I finished lacing them up, wiggling my toes in the extra space, not really enjoying not having socks but making due for now. I finally glanced up to see Mitch watching me. He did that sometimes, watching me do things, as if trying to see beyond the simple task into my thoughts. 

“Thanks.” I said, tightening my shoulders, hitching my chin up with stubborn determination. I was not going to cry, especially not in front of Mitch. Not after he saved me like that. 

“Just had ‘em around.” He said with a small shrug, sliding his fingers into his pockets, looking casual as usual. 

“No, I didn’t mean the shoes. Well, not just the shoes.” I said, standing up and letting out a sigh before looking up at him with a little smile. “Thanks for saving me. My cowboy in shining armor.” His lips hitched up, a softness returning to his features that I hadn’t noticed was missing until it was back. He bent to scoop up my shoes, socks stuffed into them, his free hand reaching out to ruffle my hair. I huffed, leaning back with a wider smile, feeling a lot better for some reason. Or that is what I told myself, lying to even myself about what this man did to me without even really trying. 

“Stop, I take it back.” I said, fixing my hair, smoothing it back down as I rolled my eyes at him. 

He opened the office door and I paused, looking up at him for a moment. Instead of thanking him once more, something I wasn’t sure he’d accept anyway, I glanced down at his scabbing knuckles. “Better wash your hands, who knows what infestations live inside that guy.” “You got it, darlin’.” He said, voice low with a hint a teasing that had me walking out of the office to stop him from seeing the heat in my cheeks, shaking my head with a grin as I made my way back out to help Ann mop up the beer and get some new rounds for the tables they were supposed to go to. 

Read more Sunny and Mitch here

[jungle-angel]

Taking a trip to New Orleans for Halloween with jake!

Rachel.....Rachel my dahling.....you always know how to make me an offer I can't refuse (lol).

You and Jake couldn't get enough of the Big Easy during Halloween. Not only were the late night revelers out, crawling all over Bourbon street with some spiced alcoholic drink in their hands, but everything really truly spoke of Halloween, the whole city covered over in a spooky, shadowiness that could have only existed in your imaginations.

"Whaddaya think (y/n)?" he asked, pulling the car down the little side road. "Think you're gonna wanna stay here for a while?"

"Depends," you said. "Think we'll encounter some ghosts?"

Jake laughed. "C'mon hon, you've been reading way too many Anne Rice novels."

"You could stand to read one or two," you reminded him.

At long last, you and Jake turned down the long, dirt road that a friend of yours had described. Everywhere you looked there were long lines of willow, cypress and shags of spanish mosses that hung from the trees and brushed against the ground. Some of the trees were completely bare, their fingers looming like the long crooked fingers of a hag's hands while the full moon lurked above.

This was certainly a part of New Orleans that you didn't see every day. At every turn, you wondered if some creature of darkness would come bolting across your path and charge at the car. Though your husband had been a bit of a skeptic, you could see in his face the little traces of worry and fear as you kept going down that long drive.

In the dim glow of the headlights and the dusky blue of the encroaching night, you could see it, a looming, southern gothic monstrosity that peered eerily above the willow canopies. Truly, it was something straight from an Anne Rice novel, the lacy iron on the balconies, the Greek pillars that held up both levels of the imposing house.

"Whaddaya think (y/n)?" Jake asked nervously.

"I'm thinking that we're in for more on this trip than we initially thought," you answered.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood pin straight as the lacy iron gate swung open, creaking on its hinges as the leaves blew off the path, parting like the walls of the red sea as you and Jake drove up the long path once again.

[bohemian-nights]

I can’t believe there’s excuses for what Rhaenyra says about Nettles, the only Black character in the Dance (“a common thing”, “low creature” and “you need only to look at her to know she has no drop of dragon’s blood in her”). Trying to pass it as her paranoia due to Mysaria and cheating doesn’t work. If you call a POC a racial slur, that’s racist regardless of whether that person did something to you. Rhaenyra isn’t Daenerys or Arya, she tried to murder a teenage Black girl. I am not here for any Rhaenyra’s stan trying to excuse or downplay a white woman’s misogynoir and classism because her sons died. Grief doesn’t make you suddenly racist, or compel you to say racist things. You were always that way. The grief just brought out the racism and supremacism that was always simmering beneath the surface.

Actually, Rhaenyra reminds me of the racist Southern plantation owner Mary Epps in the film 12 Years a Slave, who feels jealous and threatened by Patsey (played by Lupita Nyong’o) when her husband Ed constantly rapes Patsey and other female slaves. Mary hates and blames her and the other Black slaves for “seducing” her husband, while making excuses for his outbursts of rage, violence and lust.

And the fact that some of these people say that they like Nettles is what makes it worse.

(This also goes out to some of Team Green who any other time are capable of admitting that Miss Maegor is in the wrong, but suddenly when it’s a Black girl it’s all Missy Anne is a victim too).

If you actually liked Netty you wouldn’t downplay her hurt. You wouldn’t downplay how she was almost killed in her sleep by Missy Anne. You wouldn’t forget that she’s vulnerable. You wouldn’t forget that she is a too woman.

Any way you slice it, she being Black, homeless, a bastard, and the daughter of a whore, is the lowest person in the racial/social/class strata. You don’t like someone and ignore their identity and the role that plays in their treatment(both inside and outside the story).

Septon Eustace(the one who reported on what happened during the council meeting where Nettles death was given a death sentence) may be biased against Missy Anne, but remember who Nettles is.

Remember that even when he was defending her Corlys of all people still called her dirty and ill-favored.

Is it really so hard to believe that Missy Anne would call her a low creature without a drop of dragon’s blood?

Is the woman who ordered her head truly supposed to suddenly be a beacon of morality?

Murder is fine, but she wouldn’t stoop to racism. Eustace totally just threw in those lines for shits and giggles.

As if he needed to do such a thing when she was fine with breaking guests rights and murdering her in her sleep.

Missy Anne is in the wrong here. Not Daemon who was the one person(baring Maester Norren, shout-out to him, he seems nice) who didn’t have a thing to say against her and protected her with his life. Or Mysaria, who while is a conniving snake, she’s not the one who signed that letter.

Like it or not the moment Missy Anne ordered Nettles to be murdered she became the big bad wolf in her story.

The “mental breakdown” excuse is old. She was perfectly fine with Mysaria sleeping with her husband, but only flips out when a Black girl does it.

To not acknowledge that shows me that you value her feelings, personhood, and “suffering” over Nettles(and there are broader implications with that).

Rhaenyra is just like the women from old yonder. The only difference between she and a woman like Mrs. Epps is that she has more power yet she still chooses to punish Nettles rather than her husband. Point blank period she’s a racist.

Then again it’s not hard to see why these people don’t think Missy Anne is racist given how quick they are to say Nettles should be cut because she is Black, are comfortable with calling characters the N-word or comparing Black characters to monkeys, don’t see the problem with calling Dettles disgusting even though they ship an abusive incestuous relationship, yet somehow they aren’t racist a**holes.

Anyone taking these people remotely seriously, let alone viewing them as an authority on racial issues is out of their mind.

[runnning-outof-time]

Evie not taking after her uncle Arthur and being math wiz lol

if you have the time can you talk a little bit about the girls personalities for some girl!dad lore?

Thank you so much for sending this ask in, anon!! ☺️ like I said in my previous answer - seeing this in my inbox made my day!! I appreciate your interest in my stories!

I had to read the parts that I’ve shared of this lovely family so that I could get a reminder of the girls and what I’ve written for them already.

I’ve added some insight into their personalities below the cut!

Theadora Rose Shelby “Thea”

Thea’s a ray of sunshine

She also embraces the ‘oldest child’/‘big sister’ role and embodies it beautifully — she loves her little sisters

She loves nature (hence where Juniper received her name) and enjoys spending time outside

She also has a tendency to dive completely into whatever it is that she finds she’s passionate about — also where Juniper got her name.

I think she’s also the most caring out of the three. Like if someone in her family’s upset, she’s going to stay with them and make sure that they’re going to be ok.

Kind of going off of the last one, Thea’s really pure — in the sense that she’s always seeing the good in everything. And that pureness lasts for a while; throughout all of her childhood years and up into her teens (which Tommy’s genuinely grateful for because he’s always worried about his line of work and exposing the girls to it).

I imagine her going on to do something good in the world … to inspire and advocate for change in some realm. … maybe she’d become a teacher so that she could make an impact on the next generation while also fighting for change that she wants to see in her community.

Evelina Marie Shelby “Evie”

Evie’s definitely the one who brings the sass and drama the most

But she’s also very much goofy and a trickster … she really takes after her uncle John

She’s also not afraid to let her true emotions be known — she wasn’t a fan of no longer being the baby of the family at first, and she made sure to let her mom and dad know that … but then she came around and is happy to have Juni.

Now she likes the ‘middle child’ role …. But she doesn’t conform to it completely (in the sense that she doesn’t just blend into the family dynamic) — which is where the sass comes in.

I imagine that she’s definitely the trickiest to handle growing up … from getting into stuff she’s not supposed to be getting into, to finding herself in situations that Tommy swears cuts years off of his life - he and (Y/N) have had the most talks about her out of all the daughters (and she was the first to have an actual boyfriend…regardless of what her father said).

But with that being said, she’s also smart…in every sense of the word. We saw an inkling of it in the very latest blurb (which the comment about Arthur made me giggle…she’s way better than her uncle at maths) — I definitely think that she’d be the daughter to score the highest in school.

Evie’s definitely going to hold some sort of position of power when she grows up — I’m not sure if timelines work out, but hell, she’d make them work because I could see her being some sort of lawyer, or in a position where she’s able to use her knowledge and wit to best an opposing side.

Juniper Anne Shelby “Juni”

Juni’s truly a ball of sunshine — like she’s Thea times 10.

She admires her big sisters too. They’re the world to her.

I’d imagine that she’s the daughter that falls in love with horses. Sure, Thea and Evie both ride, and have been riding their entire lives, but Juni is the first girl to really love the animal.

And she and Tommy really bond over that.

So I definitely see her as being the ‘daddy’s girl’ of the daughters. … so just when Tommy thinks that he’s finally got this girl dad thing down in the scheme of his daughters getting older and wanting to start families of their own (because yes, he allows that), his world gets rocked when Juni tells him that she’s found someone special — because that’s his little girl, and she’s not so little anymore.

With her love for animals - horses in particular - I see Juni being the daughter who grows up and works with animals as her livelihood. Maybe she has her own piece of property with like a rehab or training facility on it? And of course she keeps a few horses of her own, which Tommy is thrilled about. I’d imagine that there’s family rides that happen on her property almost weekly.

———

I’m sure I’ll think of more little tidbits about these ladies as I write more stories about them, but hopefully this is a good starting off point for a little more insight into who they are — and hopefully I didn’t leave out anything that I said in the stories already…if I did, don’t be afraid to tell me and I’ll add it here!

If you’re new to the Girl Dad series, but you still read this post (firstly, thank you!) you can read their ongoing story HERE!

Thanks so much again for sending this lovely ask in! It was so fun thinking about these girls and diving deeper into who they are!! 🥰❤️

[mdhwrites]

By far the stupidest take I've ever seen on Amphibia was someone saying that it's ending 'sided with the bad guys' by having Earth and Amphibia separated and having the Calamity Trio drift apart.

Their logic? Aldrich's line to Andrias: 'Don't you think it's time you said goodbye to those childhood friends of yours, son?' According to them, the trio accepting their separation from Amphibia and drifting apart was an agreement with Aldrich's beliefs. When I watched the show myself, I was flabbergasted by how badly this viewer had missed the point.

What Aldrich was saying to Andrias was that he should cast aside friendship entirely, because according to him, a king with the Core by his side has no need for friends, and friendship 'doesn't last.' There is no conceivable way The Hardest Thing 'agrees' with any of that. At no point during the finale is separation portrayed as the end of any friendship. Rather, an affirmation that nothing, be it distance or time, can undo the bonds we share with each other. So even if Aldrich is kinda right that friendships can't always stay the same, he's still wrong because friendship does last, whether friends remain by each other's sides or not.

I understand if peeps don't like the ending (everyone's entitled to their own opinion), but to say it 'sides with the bad guys' just because the main characters don't stay physically together comes off as completely ignoring the whole point. How do you think people misinterpret these things so wildly? Is it just out of a refusal to accept a bittersweet ending? Or do you think some viewers hold on too tightly to their ideas of how a certain story 'should' be, rather than looking at it for what it is?

So much like the "Because we saw Aldritch, we HAD to see Sasha and Marcy's parents" take (which I personally would call stupider than this), this is a take someone gets to to justify their feelings. Because your analysis is simply correct. That none of the trio, or their families, reject all connections, let alone friendship, like Aldritch wanted. They keep each other in their minds, likely found new connections and even came back to one another because they never let those bonds go. If the show sided with the villains, Anne would not be a herpetologist. PERIOD. She would not want any reminder of her friends, let alone smile fondly at a small pink frog that reminds her of one.

But let's actually talk about why stuff like this sort of argument has been on the rise. I even am victim to it because my brain will try to logic into why I like or dislike a certain thing. I literally did an entire blog about how I don't like free to play games anymore, have never liked Gacha games, and yet am probably on Honkai Star Rail's wild ride until it does something to genuinely piss me off. That blog was about me trying to explain why I felt but in the end admitting there was no reason. And you know what? That's fine. We don't always need reasons for why we like or dislike something.

But on social media, there HAS to be a reason.

(Real quick interjection for those who don't want to hear me talk about how I think social media has changed analysis: The more purely analytical issue that leads to points like this one and the one about Aldritch is that they are not asking a question. They instead have a desired point to make and work backwards from there. You are more likely to ignore evidence that doesn't support your argument like this though or purposefully misread or misrepresent situations so as to be able to use it as justification for the point you want to make. It is a conclusion that must then find a hypothesis, not a hypothesis that then derives a conclusion. Anyways, if you want the potential why for that sort of conjecture being on the rise, *gestures below*)

I blame Twitter for this MUCH more than Tumblr actually. I know there is moralizing on Tumblr but there's a reason why it's the TWITTER villain of the day that you hear about and why that term was popularized with the platform. There is a need for superiority on that platform that I don't feel like I've seen anywhere else. Not to be popular, that's different, but to be superior. To be objectively correct and the most morally correct. Outrage is not a shame to see on Twitter for many people because it doesn't mean bad news but instead the block party it celebrates every hour on the hour.

And so fandoms are stuck in kind of a hellscape where they can no longer go "This is neat!" Instead, they need to be prepared for assholes like whoever came up with this take originally going "Okay, but I don't think it's neat and I have a reason and you don't so your opinion is invalid!" So they start coming up with reasons why their show is so great! Then they get rebuttals and it quickly becomes an argument until one finds a vector that can't be refuted. This is where bringing in the real world so heavily into fandoms came from I think. It was no longer neat parallels but ways to justify their love towards haters. Ways to make it so continuing to disagree made you a morally bad person so now you have to shut up.

As a note: All of this is why I never mind if someone has blocked me without the two of us interacting. I criticize the thing they love? They don't want to see that? Good for them. PLEASE block me if you're not interested in my words. I am not here to burn entire fandoms to the ground or make you hate the thing you like. It's why I try to make my blogs useful to people from a learning perspective, not just "This thing sucks!" even if I will admit that there are plenty of times that I fail because sometimes I just need to get something off my chest.

It is not healthy for fandoms though to be stuck in this corner. To have to prove why your thing is literally the best thing on the planet. You should just be allowed to celebrate what you love and be happy for it for making you so happy.

HOWEVER, the flip side of this is that if there is a decision you disagree with... The work is no longer perfect. But you loved it so dearly so what cardinal sin did it commit? A lot of Amphibia's fandom were hurt by the bittersweet ending because they had grown so connected the characters and didn't want to let them go, even if that's part of the point of the ending. It couldn't just be something painful though. It wasn't a juicy pain like angst was after all, it was just a bitter pill to swallow. A reminder of what reality can be like sometimes. So it's time to find an answer to prove why this invalidates the ending and they're justified with saying their version, the one that makes them happy, is the correct version.

Same thing happened with Andrias/Aldritch. The fandom wanted to see the parents and grew more and more spiteful about not getting what they wanted and so concocted an argument that moralized and talked about equality so as to make them 'right'. They didn't actually think about what it was asking because it wasn't them starting with a question and ending with a goal. It was them justifying that goal ANY. MEANS. NECESSARY.

And that's just going to lead to bad analysis made in bad faith. At least, that's my theory for how we get into stuff like this.

======+++++======

Quick TOH note because... Me: This whole thing is actually probably why while it's easy to say that TOH feels like a work crafted entirely by what Tumblr thinks makes a story good, I think it's firmly a story that could only have been conceived of during the Twitter era. There's just almost too much blunt moral grandstanding about current social topics, rather than actual morality, and proving itself as better than other works for me to think otherwise.

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past.

I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead.

If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

[legacygirlingreen]

Chapter 6 - Yuletide Cheers

Authors note:

Hi! I’m back! And this is the second to last chapter of part 2, BUT there will be so much more when I post part 3 (set back at hogwarts after their holiday). Thanks again to all the awesome, super lovely people on this wonderful platform. This chapter is dedicated to @eternalremorse @opalmoony @hyunrikim for the incredible amounts of support (I’ve had some much but y’all have gone above and beyond!).

As always, open to suggestions and if anyone plays PC and would love to send me some screen grabs with appearance mods that would be awesome! 💚

Word count: 3,900

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/legacygirlingreen/713709759369560064/part-1-becoming-a-proper-gentlemen?source=share

She tried not to laugh watching the ordeal. Solomon had sent Anne and Ominis away while she finished cooking to allow the poor young man a chance to learn how to properly use the razor without the sick girls prying eyes. To his credit, Solomon was actually trying to be gentle and helpful, it was just growingly apparent how both their patience was wavering as Sebastian was struggling with the lack of visibility under his jaw and chin.

She watched as the pair kept passing the razor back and forth, Solomon demonstrating on himself before allowing Sebastian the ability to replicate in the small mirror they had in the corner.

“You’ll get the hang of it” the older man tried to reassure him, but Sebastian grew annoyed at how difficult the process was growing to be.

“It is impossible to see” he hissed out with terse tone, setting the razor down, attempting to collect himself. Somehow the pair had been able to quietly draft a letter together without issues, yet that ability to get along was slowly slipping away from both the Sallow men.

Looking around the room, the older man got an idea, reminded of how their father had also struggled with teaching Sebastian’s father, leaving the task to him. He noted the humored expression the girl was sporting while she cautiously stirred whatever was in the caldron in front of her, observing as the young man struggled. Without saying anything he gestured to the girl, who looked startled realizing he was beckoning her.

“Luckily you have a lower set of eyes if you need them.” He told Sebastian, stepping aside and letting the girl take his place. Thinking back to what his nephew had mentioned earlier during their conversation. Solomon decided he would allow them to toe the line of reasonable given the fact that Sebastian was deadly serious with his intentions, and knowing he would be there to chaperon them. In all honesty learning to cope with domestic life would be important anyway for the both of them.

While Sebastian found himself surprised that his uncle had drawn the girl in to help, he did not exactly feel the need to complain. Having her involved in the situation could prevent him from an outburst, as he truly was growing frustrated. Plus, he always enjoyed the feeling of her delicate hands on him.

“I’d dare say that’s the most interesting way I have ever been called short in stature” she joked, attempting to diffuse the growing tension. Solomon laughed, gesturing for her to grab the razor she gifted off the small table. Carefully she did so, looking to him for guidance as she had absolutely no experience in this arena.

She carefully watched as the older man explained how she could assist Sebastian, before turning to him herself. He looked down, noting the way her face had gone from humorous in the kitchen to slightly pale now. Softly brushing one of her loose hairs behind her ear he told her “You got this.”, attempting to reassure her confidence.

She could only find it in her to nod, gingerly lifting a hand to hold his chin up. When his brown eyes disappeared from view she faltered, but only for a moment, knowing there was little chance of actually hurting him. Pulling the skin tight, she looked back over her shoulder to his uncle for reassurance, as she mimed the movement. He only nodded, stepping back towards the kitchen to give them a brief moment of privacy.

Sebastian watched her through the mirror as her eyes carefully assessed the expanse of his jaw. The only sounds inside the small house was the occasional stirring of the caldron or the scraping of the razor on his skin, before she’d wipe it off then continue. Eventually she gained confidence in the movement, finishing the task and setting the razor down.

Sebastian finally looked back down at her, their eyes crossing. He beamed seeing how happy she looked back up at him. Using her thumb, she whipped the remaining foam from his chin, as a bright flush worked its way onto his cheeks. Knowing Solomon was just around the corner he carefully mouthed “I love you” and she returned the sentiment by widening her smile.

“Not sure if I did it right, but I tried my best” she said, stepping back to let Solomon resume his position before she moved away.

“Well?” Solomon asked, while Sebastian leaned forward, assessing how their combined effort manifested. Feeling around he didn’t find spots that had been neglected. As his fingers ghosted over the spot where she’d held his face he smiled.

“Definitely much better than if I had attempted that on my own or with Ominis back at school” he said.

Solomon laughed at the thought of the blind boy his wards spent most of their childhood around with having to be the one instructing his nephew without sight. Sebastian cleaned up while his uncle resumed conjuring a tree for the living space. Eventually Sebastian crossed the threshold back to the kitchen, joining her by leaning against the counter where she had started folding dough for bread.

When Solomon turned his back he leaned down whispering in her ear “still just as handsome?”

“Devilishly” she muttered under her breath as he smiled and reached a hand to help her. His arms wound from behind her body to resting the the dough on the table top as he started to help knead. She took a step towards the table, hips touching the solid furniture as he followed closely behind her. She gave a warning glance over his shoulder to knock it off, as Solomon wouldn’t be distracted for long.

He relented, coming back to her side just as Anne and Ominis decided to wander back. As they did so she finished preparing the last of the food and Solomon finished making the house feel homey for the holidays.

Sebastian helped pass the young woman a towel as she finished washing her flour covered hands. She thanked him with a gentle brush of her now clean hand against his cheek before moving back around the table with everyone else.

Solomon brought out a bottle, she couldn’t quite read the label to, and set out enough small glasses for everyone as he filled them with a flick of his wand. Once they were full Anne brought a glass for herself and carefully handed one Ominis as Sebastian did the same for her. They all held them close as Solomon spoke.

“I know this years been hard on everyone, and I’m not one for words so I will keep it brief, but I’m glad we can all be under the same roof and enjoy the Yule time together. Things have been different since this time a year ago, but it’s important for us to remember that family, is the most important thing we all have. Gaunt, I am glad you continue to allow us the honor of being your chosen family. As for our newest member, your presence has been wonderful addition amongst this household. We may not have much, but being able to lean on each other remains something we Sallows do best. To another year of laughter, family and love” he said, raising the glass.

“dheagh shlàinte” the twins said nearly in unison as they brought their glasses together with a small tap.

Ominis and her followed suit, the words being repeated despite being somewhat foreign on their tongues.

Once they had finished the toast, she looked at Sebastian who’s eyes met hers playfully over the rim of his glass before he tossed the drink back without caution. She quickly moved to follow suit and when she did the liquid immediately burned her throat. Over the years she’d had her fair share of muggle wines, even other liquors, but this was entirely different.

Unable to contain herself she let out a shaky cough from how unprepared she was at the drink. Beside her Ominis stifled his own, still not used to the amber liquid, but having done so a year prior with the Sallows was mildly more prepared.

Sebastian laughed at her reaction to the scotch, sliding the glass from her hand before carefully pulling her into his side. Raising a gentle hand up her back he suppressed the remnants of his laughter into a soft chuckle. “I believe the Scotch has proven to be too fiery for you my dear” he said as she finally composed herself.

“I just wasn’t expecting it to burn that bad. How on earth are you used to it?” She asked him, bewildered that even Anne could drink without repercussions in her poor health. The Sallows let out a laugh at her expense, finding it funny only the non natives were struggling against their countries alcohol.

“I’m a Scotsman. Don’t worry m'eudail, we shall make you into a true woman of the highlands before it’s all said and done” he said, gently patting her back before returning his hand to his side.

She felt herself warm at the way he allowed the Gaelic to roll of his tongue, a language she rarely heard him speak unless it was in frustration under his breath. Hearing him use it so openly, and almost sultry, was alluring. Combined with the warm feeling the alcohol was causing the bloom in her chest, she was gracious that Anne was distracted by handing out presents for anyone to notice.

Well, anyone besides Sebastian, who was beaming at noticing his ability to sprinkle in his other language was seemingly flustering you. That would definitely be something he would have to use and comment on in the future…

***** ***** *****

Everyone had exchanged small gifts, and the night continued with everyone sipping either the wine Ominis had brought from his family’s estate the last time he’d been forced home or the Sallows firewhiskey. The taste of cinnamon I’m the amber liquid was slowly growing on the new 5th year as she avoided coughing now with each sip.

Curled up with her legs under her on the small couch they’d transfigured the table into after dinner, she watched as Anne was attempting to learn the formal waltz Ominis was instructing her through. Solomon stood in the kitchen, whispering with Sebastian as they both cleaned up from dinner. She couldn’t help but feel slightly light headed from the alcohol but not past the point of being gone, just warm and a little fuzzy.

She admired the small gifts she’d received, making sure to thank each of them graciously. Ominis had brought her a new blanket for school, remembering that in one of their nights in undercroft she complained about how freezing their dorms always were. Anne had painted her a small portrait of feldcroft in the snow, making sure she wouldn’t forget their time together, knowing that she’d come to love the small hamlet. Even Solomon chipped in, replacing the clothes she usually wore when on business for the keepers with Professor fig, gifting her a charmed protective harness that also provided many places to store potions. He even offered to teach the girl some potions beyond what they taught at hogwarts in case she once again found herself in a tricky situation.

Still wearing the locker from earlier, her fingers wound around the cool metal on her collarbones. It’s chill felt nice on her warm skin and she smiled knowing Sebastian had gifted her such a thoughtful item. Glancing back over to where he was standing with his uncle, she was surprised to notice them both already looking at her. She blushed, worried at what the men were saying. All thoughts were abandoned when Teddy appeared flapping wildly by the kitchen window, tapping his beak against the glass. The shock caused Sebastian to quickly pull his glance from her as Solomon whipped around seeing the owl at the window.

“Sebastian you might want to-“ Solomon started and he quickly cut his uncle off by rushing outside to collect his pet.

When he round the house he took the letter from the owls talons and tossing a small snack to the bird before running down the road slightly to put enough distance between himself and the house. He didn’t want anyone following him as he knew the contents of the letter were something that was either going to make or break him.

Sebastian immediately tore into the envelope once he guaranteed he was alone, seeing “Mr. Sebastian Sallow” depicted on the outside.

Greeting Mr. Sallow,

It is wonderful to finally hear from the young gentleman with whom our lovely daughter has begun sharing affections towards. I appreciate your maturity and grace in how you have conducted such manors. Albeit we would have preferred a more personal method of meeting, than via letter correspondence, my wife and I are understanding of the limitations at this time. It had been our sincerest hope that with the opportunities provided by studying abroad, perhaps our child would be able to find a suitor that she agreed to, as my wife was struggling to find a gentleman to meet everyone’s standards of approval. We only wish the best for our daughter. While it may take some time to arrange and agree upon a proper dowery, we would be willing to seek counsel to come to a swift and fair arrangement.

My only request is that upon the completion of your extension, you accompany my daughter so that we may conduct the proper business of announcement to our circle on your behalf, as well as formally meet you. A few weeks into the summer we wish to host you in our home in friendship and concluding the financial aspects associated with such a proposition. We look forward to hearing word from you in the future and will be in touch with the details, but for now, we both offer you our blessing.

Kind regards,

The y/l/n Family

P.S. Thank you again to you and your family for hosting our daughter over the holidays. We cannot express the extent of our gratitude towards you and your Uncle for taking care of her during this time. Providing shelter and protection are important aspects of a man towards his family, knowing even now as a young man that you prioritize those aspects certifies our confidence in you Mr. Sallow.

***** ***** *****

Sebastian stumbled back into the family home in time to see Ominis attempting to lift a tipsy y/n off the sofa so they all could retire for the night. Tucking the note back into his coat pocket he nodded to his uncle before crossing the threshold to help Ominis collect her.

“I’ll take it from here Ominis” he said

“Sebastian, once you return her to the tent please return to help finish cleaning up.” Solomon spoke and Sebastian nodded, knowing his uncle’s ulterior motives of wanting to know what her father had said without everyone else listening.

Carefully sliding an arm under her bent knees, the other coming to rest along her backside, he lift her from the spot she was asleep on the lounge. As he did so she shifted enough to wake from her light slumber. At the realization of her drunken form not only in his arms but also in the air she squealed, a fit of giggles filling the quiet house as she kicked her feet.

Everyone’s head swiveled around in time to see her arms gripping along his shoulders for support as she nuzzled the side of his face with her nose. “My Sebs!” she said through the cheerful laughter before laying a loud smack of a kiss upon the cheek closest to her.

Sebastian’s face flamed at the attention she was providing him while they had an audience, but he realized most of it was a result of her inebriation. He worried for a moment that the day would be concluded with Solomon being angry about her outward display of affection before he was able to settle her but his loud booming laughter filled the home, followed by Ominis’ as usual raspy chuckle and Anne’s cheerful giggles.

“It appears that your Bonnie cannot handle her liquor in the slightest” Solomon commented watching as her display continued. She had kept pressing small kisses on whatever skin she could reach in between moments of just staring at his nephew with big doe eyes. Every so often the girl would let out some love stricken comment in the young man’s direction: My Bash. So Handsome. My heart.

“She would have to be to willingly kiss Sebastian” Anne let out the dig at his expense as the group continued laughing and the girl in his arms was blissfully unaware of anything except him.

Sebastian simply scoffed at them before turning down to look at her while saying “Alright Angel, let’s get you lying down”. Anne moved to the door, turning the handle, and stepping aside so he could carry her through the threshold. The second they made it outside she shouted “HAPPY CHRISTMAS FELDCROFT!” As the few people milling about responded with a hearty “here, here!”. Sebastian looked down at her just in time to see how she waved at them over his shoulder.

He chuckled, loving how she had grown to love the hamlet in such a small window of time. While he hasn’t spent his whole life in feldcroft, it was a place special to him. After his own personal revelations, as well as seeing her so at peace in the village, he wondered if this was the kind of place she’d want to build a home. Should he arrange to buy a plot with or without her? Should they make that decision together or should he surprise her? She always spoke of feldcroft as if it was “right out of a storybook”, in such amazement and wonder. Would she want to spend her days here? Maybe not in the village square, but perhaps nearby… They could build a home on the cliffs side close to the ocean and the town. Or once the war was over maybe put in an offer with the ministry to purchase Isadora’s manor, restoring it and allowing her to remain connected to the school for easy access to the undercroft.

Perhaps it best to probe her thoughts on the matter a different day. He had still yet to think of a way to formerly propose, knowing he wished to do so before the end of the school year, allowing them the proper time to arrange these things together as well as comply with muggle traditions of longer engagements and shorter courtships. While he was sure some of their pure blood house companions may see the situations in a polarized way : many having their betrothal arrangements in order since they could walk such as Ominis’s older brother Marvolo, the rest would find the concept of muggle engagements perplexing.

Personally he did as well to an extent: if you wanted to marry why not just do such a thing? What need for theatrics? However he supposed having knowledge that back at school all their male classmates in the near future would know to completely back off as they were to be wed would be a welcome sight. Thinking of her sitting next to him in charms while his ring sat upon her finger and their classmates could only stare at the declaration of their commitments… it’s a thought that almost made him drop her accidentally as he crossed the last threshold to the bed.

“Alright Princess your chariot has arrived” he said playfully lowering her, attempting to move back when she grabbed his hand.

“Stayyy with me” she said putting on her best pout and he chuckled as he leaned in to kiss her forehead.

“I have to help Solomon, but I shall return soon enough” he tried to reassure her gently, however the look she gave him made him want to abandon his word to his uncle.

“I promise sweetheart. Then I’m all yours” he told her gently

“All mine?” She asked, girlish grin working on her face as she spoke the words in amazement.

“Till the day I die” he confirmed, kissing her knuckles before slipping away successfully.

When Sebastian’s stepped back inside the home he saw that his uncle had mostly finished straightening up, little left to do. As they finished returning the chairs and table back to order together he removed the letter from his pocket, passing it off.

Sebastian wanted to avoid staring while his uncle read her family‘s words so he took to browsing some of the books that had belonged to his parents on their bookshelf, trying to find one that he hadn’t touched in years, knowing it would still be there.

“The Unionization of Muggle and Magical Society” by Alice Sallow

Finally plucking one of the many books their parents had written in their brief lives from the shelf, he turned over the tomes leather cover, sliding open the first page, reading “Dedicated to my beautiful twins. My lights, my world, my everything, Thank you for your ever present inquiring minds, may they never grow dull. Sebastian and Anne, are so very loved. ~ Mum”

Sebastian almost wept reading those words again after all this time. People at school rarely discovered his parents research and theories, and if they did very few had the gall to joke about such words to him or Anne. Unbeknownst to him, Madam Scribner would always make sure they were returned with care, tracking down students who mistreated their work with tea stains or tears in the binding, afraid Sebastian or Anne would be upset to see their parents work disrespected in such a manor.

He thumbed through the book, knowing his mother had left a section on the proper ordeals of handling marriage arrangements between the two societies, detailed the difficulties between them. He doesn’t really know why he hasn’t thought about consulting it until now. For years reading the works brought such pain he wasn’t able to get far, now the thoughts of having motherly advice in this arena was welcome. Like his mother was standing beside him, offering him ways to take this young woman’s hand and run off into the sunset.

Once Solomon stepped around the wall dividing the areas he handed the letter back, not mentioning the book in his hands. Sebastian simply placed the letter to mark the spot he planned on reading when he got back to the privacy of his dorm room in hogwarts.

“I suppose now it’s on you to offer, then the rest will come into place” Solomon spoke

“It appears that way. I know there’s logistics but it feels… surreal in a way knowing I can move forward with that train of thinking. In some ways I figured they would be apprehensive, but I guess muggles differ from us in that regard.” He said, fingers tracing over the imprinted words on the tome, lost in thought.

“I remember when your mother was researching for that” Solomon gestured to the book in his hands.

“I regret not paying attention to their work much when we were young… so much of it seems like it would be helpful now” he said, deep down knowing that he couldn’t have expected much from his formative self to find scholarship fascinating.

“You inspired so much of it. You with all your questions of ‘why’ and ‘how’… often times they knew little of what to say, leading your parents in pursuit of an answer. Your father always had his nose buried in a book, even when we were young, and I admit I never quite grasped the appeal of doing so, I respected their work nevertheless.” Solomon spoke gently grasping the last of the scotch bottle, pouring a glass for the both of them.

“What shall we toast?” Sebastian asked raising the cup.

“How about a toast to becoming a proper gentleman your parents couldn’t have been more proud of” Solomon spoke raising his as Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat.

“and finding a witch that makes me want to be a better man” he said trying to keep a more light tone.

Cheers.

Translations: m'eudail - darling/sweetheart

dheagh shlàinte - Gaelic cheers meaning to good health

[bethanydelleman]

Northanger Abbey Readthrough Ch 18

Catherine learns that not only does John Thorpe think he proposed, he also seems to think that Catherine accepted! (or at least received his hints favourably) "He says so in this letter, says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received his advances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you."

This reminds me of Mansfield Park, which contains a ton of flirting (or attempted flirting) by proxy. Mary Crawford is very happy to have Henry send messages to Fanny Price via herself, creating a loophole in the rule that men cannot write to single women. She also attempts to have Edmund write a message to Tom Bertram, way back at the beginning when she is angling for the heir. It makes me think that this might have been a common practice.

Isabella's one track mind is very set on a single track. Gone are mentions of clergymen and James, he's been replaced:

Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a certain stamp.... Tilney says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own affections, and I believe he is very right.

This Tilney is none other than the charming Captain Tilney and he has certainly turned Isabella's head! Isabella attempts to soften the oncoming blow to Catherine by comparing her situation to Catherine's:

“A little harmless flirtation or so will occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in the world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter... I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother’s happiness be dearer to me than a friend’s?"

She is laying the groundwork to jilt James, which is just gross. Catherine has done nothing like Isabella is planning to do! And this line, "there are more ways than one of our being sisters." Catherine does not catch the meaning, but Isabella must mean that they would be sisters if Catherine married Henry and she married Frederick.

Isabella is also suddenly focused on wealth, which distresses her dearest friend.

Catherine overhears Isabella flirting with Captain Tilney and leaves in disgust. She has had another bad day, The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as from wishing it to be sincere. And she's convinced that Isabella is engaging in the flirtation unconsciously.

Oh sweet summer child...

Persuasion comparison again! Anne is convinced that Wentworth is flirting with multiple girls unconsciously too and I... mostly agree... (I think there was a hint of spite too)

Other opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur. Anne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough to have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home, where she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for while she considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not but think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and experience, that Captain Wentworth was not in love with either. They were more in love with him; yet there it was not love. It was a little fever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with some. Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta had sometimes the air of being divided between them. Anne longed for the power of representing to them all what they were about, and of pointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to. She did not attribute guile to any. It was the highest satisfaction to her to believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was occasioning. There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner. He had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of Charles Hayter. He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for accepting must be the word) of two young women at once.

But we all know Wentworth is no Isabella, he isn't going for wealth, I will grant him that.