#I have a raging headache and I can’t stop crying because I’m so hungry but I can’t eat

[carletes]

Idk who decided to curse me with such a difficult first trimester idk who is so displeased about my joy that they’ve cast this evil eye on me but I hope you’re happy with my misery because you’re the only one taking any glee in it

[screamingatanemptyroom]

Please Fix the Story Pt 19 - Sci Fi

The new part is here. I've struggled with this story a little bit recently, but I wanted to continue this, to share it with you.

Master Post linked here

Enjoy!

_________________________

“Bel…”

“BEL!”

The world around me was pitch black, empty except for voices I didn't recognize, shouting a name I couldn't remember. I blinked, trying to clear my vision without success.

“Hello?” My anxious shout faded into the nothingness around me.

“I have to do it, Bel. It’s how the story goes.” A blurry figure stood in front of me, his facial features unclear behind his blond hair, but his tone contained frustration and regret. “You know what happens to a world when the story is incomplete. Sacrifices have to made.”

“Who are you…?”

“That’s our fate, we just have to accept that.” He faded away into the darkness, leaving me alone again.

“Come back! Explain what you meant!” I screamed at the disappearing figure. “WHAT SACRIFICE? WHAT FATE?!”

"YOU MUST ACCEPT YOUR FATE."

“Are you lost?” A new voice spoke up, strange, yet completely and utterly familiar.

I spun around, but there was no one behind me. “I’m… I’m lost.”

“No matter where you go, who you become… I’ll find you, Bel. I promise.” The voice was a whisper in my ear. “Fate can’t tear us apart. I won’t let it. Even if I have to destroy fate itself.”

“But I can’t find you. I don’t remember who you are!” I was crying, my tears disappearing into the surrounding mist.

“I’ll find you.” The words were quieter, as if the owner of the voice was fading away.

“DON’T LEAVE ME!”

“I promise.”

“NOT AGAIN!”

"You must accept your fate."

"Bel..."

"You must.."

“…I promise…”

_________________________

“LIAM!”

I woke up, screaming a name that disappeared from my mind as soon as the sound as faded, tears and sweat staining my cheeks.

I curled up into a ball, my head resting on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

Who am I?

Finding no answers, I eventually steadied my nerves, getting up, showering and changing. I looked up at the clock on the wall, wincing as I realized that I was running late for class.

Great, now I’m going to miss breakfast, and I'm starving.

I put on my uniform jacket, lamenting silently my lack of time to fill my empty stomach. As I left my dorm, however, my eye caught something sitting on the floor right outside my door. It was a small plate with a peeled apple and a note with Alaira’s name on it.

I thought Alaira was supposed to be loner… This has to be a trap, right?

It had been several weeks since I woke up in this strange world. It couldn’t be more obvious that she didn’t have any true friends or allies. No one who would care enough to send breakfast, definitely.

Maybe it’s from whoever has been following me around?

Since the second day, I had noticed a shadowy presence following me at a distance. Whoever it was, they never attempted to try to speak to me, or interfere with me in ay way. But it was always nearby, always watching.

So now they’ve upgraded to leaving me food?

I picked up the apple, looking around, and scanned it with the personal computer on my wrist, which showed no drugs or other abnormalities.

Well… I am hungry, which outweighs the possible grim outcome of death by poison, I suppose.

Shrugging mentally, I took a bite. The taste was sweet. I sighed with satisfaction and took another bite. As I chewed, a thought occurred to me, confusing me all the more.

How did they know I like peeled apples?

As far as I could remember, Alaira had never liked apples. It was considered an ancient fruit, more of an oddity than a dietary staple. She had tried it once or twice and hadn’t been impressed.

But I liked it…

I liked apples a lot… but only peeled ones. It was something almost instinctive I had felt whenever I thought about the fruit. But… I hadn’t eaten any apples since I woke up as Alaira.

So how do they know? Does this sci fi story come with mind readers?

I took another bite, feeling confused.

_________________________

“Why the hatred for the apple peel?”

The young man seemed genuinely curious from his tone of voice as he handed me a freshly peeled fruit.

I shrugged, taking a bite. “You try living as a princess in a lower fantasy realm. I bit into a poisoned apple once and the inside was glowing green.” I shuddered. “Ever since then I can’t stand to bite into an apple with the peel still on.”

The man had already started peeling another fruit, and paused in his actions. “Did the prince have to kiss you to break the spell?”

“Why, are you jealous?” I grinned.

“N-no… I’m just asking.” His head hung down, as he seemed to stare intently into the apple in his hands.

I patted his head. “I took an antidote ahead of time. Didn’t fall asleep. Instead, I beat the crap out of the witch.”

He laughed at that. “Didn’t you get in trouble for changing things?”

“Of course. But it was so worth it.”

_________________________

I stared down at the partially eaten fruit in my hands, feeling overwhelmed at the memories surging through my mind.

I keep seeing these memories, but I can’t connect them to anything. What are these lower realms? Is that what I’m in right now? Who is this person I keep seeing?

I felt incomplete, a large part of my memories, my emotions, were missing. What was worse, I wasn’t even sure what was gone, what I should be sad about losing.

I grabbed my bag and walked out the door.

“Alaira.” A voice called out, stopping me in my tracks. Turning, I sighed with odd sense of disappointment at the person standing before me.

Who was I expecting?

I forced a grin and made a rude gesture. “Hey Chris, how awful to see you this morning! Terrible of you to stop by.” I checked my personal communicator and shrugged. “Fortunately for me, I’m running late and have no time for your nonsense. So we’ll save your annoying ranting and raving for a later date, okay?”

He ignored my words, stepping closer with an excited look. “Have you heard the news?”

“Even if I say yes, you’re still going to tell me, right?”

“Don’t pretend, it’s not fooling anyone!” He glared at me. “You’ve been hoping to trap me as your Connector since the match results came back!”

I sighed. “At this point, it’s not even funny anymore. What can I say that will possibly convince you that that is NOT the case?”

“You won’t be able to stop my dreams, Alaira! Next time I’m going to win!”

“Yes, you’re the absolute greatest.” I rolled my eyes. “I cry myself to sleep each night over the fact that we aren’t partners, and I will never feel anything in this life but anguish and despair… now can I go to class?”

He looked ever angrier at my sarcasm. “Just wait until the next match. You’ll see that I’m good enough to be a Guardian. Because I’ve got…”

“Okay, buddy. Sounds good.” I interrupted, walking away.

“Wait, you didn’t finish listening…”

“Yep. See you next match.”

I left him behind, ignoring his rage induced sputtering.

Met an idiot first thing... but hey, at least I'm not hungry anymore!

_________________________

A few days later, the next round of mock Mech battles began.

As the winner of the prior fight, I was slated to go first, completing the first four battles with relative ease. As the day wore on, however, the drain on my body from using the Mech was increasing exponentially. Fortunately I was on my last scheduled fight of the day… even if this was the hardest so far.

A light headache was throbbing at my temples as I scanned the field around me. The arena stood as a large stadium, featuring a high-class barrier shield that extended up to twenty stories in the air. Hundreds of seats surrounded the fighting field, all equipped with holo screens that played the footage taken by the referee bots floating around the fight.

The excited screams from the audience were slightly muffled by the protective screen, and the remaining noise was filtered out as I focused on the fight ahead of me.

My opponent this time was a third year A level Guardian, an experienced fighter, who fought along side a D level Connector. Alaira had faced off with them multiple times in the past, and she had always struggled to win despite the difference in strength of abilities.

There was no denying the advantage that a Connector brought to the fight.

I grinned, ignoring the draining sensation of operating my Mech, the headache and weakness that quickly came on each time I made the Connection. The pain was severe, like a knife stabbing through my eye, but I forced myself to ignore it. As I fought, I couldn’t help but feel bitter.

It’s not like I haven’t been looking for a Connector.

Each day I went to the Matching Center. Each day I endured the laughter, the stares, the whispers and pointing. Each day I was faced with the same words: “No match available.”

Do I need to come up with a different plan? But I can’t fight the Hive without a Mech, and I can’t operate a Mech without a Connector… unless I want to slowly destroy my mind like Alaira did.

I sighed, not seeing any easy answers, and focused on the fight ahead of me. Although I had Alaira’s memories, and operating the Mech came as almost second nature with my S level alpha waves, I had run into an unexpected obstacle:

Alaira’s weapon of choice had been dual wielding energy pistols.

What a waste of the cool looking sword on my back. My physical body was suspended in the Connection chamber, a shielded globe filled with suspension gel. Although the Mech was controlled through alpha brain waves and the Connection, the closer I was to the Mech, the easier that control was. Thus the space for the Guardian was always in the center of the Mech.

I wore helmeted mask monitoring my vitals such as oxygen saturation and heart rate, adjusting the air composition and breath volume to accommodate my body’s stress reaction during battle. A skintight silver suit covered me, interacting with the gel to provide me physical feedback that the Mech would feel. My vision was shared with my Mech’s video system; I looked down and saw the pistols resting in the robotic hands. It was strange, I was obviously inside the robot, but the sensation of the ground beneath my feet, the guns in my hands, was all too real.

The physical sensation made it easier to fight, but it had an obvious drawback, which was that I felt any blows that my Mech sustained. During the fight I was the Mech, and it was a part of me. I tightened my grip around the energy weapons, feeling tired.

Something felt off about using these as my weapons.

I still had no memories about my past, but as I had practiced with the Mech these past few weeks, I had noticed a familiarity with fighting and battles, even more than what Alaira had in my memories after a lifetime of training at home with her father and then in the academy.

Am I some kind of warrior or something?

It didn’t seem right, but I couldn’t explain the comfortable sensation of judging my opponent and fighting with them. But that comfort and familiarity did not extend to dual wielding pistols.

I just wasn’t a great shot.

We had already been fighting for ten minutes. My headache had worsened and I felt tired, but I had only managed to score a few hits on non-vital areas. The only benefit was that the opposing Mech had only been able to strike me twice with the energy-enhanced spear he carried.

“You seem a little off today, Alaira, everything all right?” My opponent’s voice came over his speaker, shocking me. It was technically considered bad etiquette to talk during battle, but it was hard to fault him, as he seemed genuinely concerned about my less than ideal fighting state.

I shook my head, raising my pistols once more. “I’m fine, let’s continue.”

I rushed forward, taking advantage of my superior speed and maneuverability to get closer, trying to make it harder to miss my shots. The opposing Mech jumped backwards, but it was too late. Its hand was within my grasp. Turning and using its significant weight to my advantage, I flipped the robot over my own’s shoulder put the barrel of my gun against the metal head.

My final shot through its temple destroyed the key mechanisms within it, rendering it immobile and finishing the fight.

That was too close… I’ve been practicing with the pistols since I’ve woken up in this strange world, and seen no improvement… what am I doing wrong?

As the referee called out my victory, I backed away, letting out a sigh of relief. It had been a harder fight than it should have been, but at least it was over.

I need a nap.

“I WANT TO CHALLENGE ALAIRA!”

An extremely annoying voice spoke up, causing my already bad headache to worsen.

... Why me?

I turned towards the speaker. “Chris. Didn’t we agree that we were going to avoid each other? … Or was that just my wishful thinking?”

His all white Mech landed in front of my own, holding a large, oversized sword. He swung it back and forth, and although I couldn’t see his facial expressions, the smug tone of his voice through the Mech’s speakers were enough to make me wish I could make my Mech roll its eyes.

“Surely the legendary S level Guardian Alaira isn’t SCARED to fight with a mere D level Guardian such as myself, right?”

“Guardian Chris, please retract your challenge. Guardian Alaira has already finished five consecutive mock battles, and needs time to recover.” The instructor’s face was stern on the holographic screens around us, leaving no room for disagreement.

Chris laughed mockingly. “Oh, I thought she said that even with all the advantages and luck she could still beat me? I guess it was just empty arrogance.” His Mech shook its head. “With such a weak personality, no wonder you can’t find a Connector to match you. Who would want to endure such a woman?”

“…”

CLANG!

My Mech’s foot connected with the other’s crotch, and I heard a high-pitched squeal of pain. Ha, shared sensation with the Mech comes in handy sometimes.

“How dare you?!” His pained shout made me grin.

“Less talking, more fighting. I accept your challenge, Chris.” I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the feeling of my head splitting apart, as well as the light ringing in my ears. I had reached the limit of how long I could safely operate the Mech.

But the sound of his smug satisfaction infuriated me.

Every night, I was haunted by nightmares. Sometimes it was fragments of memories of unfamiliar worlds and people. Most nights, however, I dreamt of Alaira’s end. Alone, broken, terrified, a horrific death for a lonely girl.

And this idiot had watched it happen.

It might not be smart, but I just really want to beat him up. I took a stance, brandishing the pistols, feeling off kilter once more at the light weight in both of my hands.

In the meantime Chris had recovered from his inconvenience, and had resumed his taunting. “Oh, yeah, you ran away so fast the other day, I never got to share with you the good news:” He paused for what I assumed was dramatic effect. “I matched with a Connector earlier last week.”

He obviously meant this to be a huge blow to me, but Alaira’s memories had already warned me this would happen. A beautiful young woman, one of the many who competed for Chis’s affection. This one is a princess… Ilene, I think?

Unbidden, my mind was filled with the thought of the serious, quiet Prince William. I hadn’t seen him since that first day in front of the matching center. So he would be her brother?

I felt a moment of concern at his absence, and then confused, I shook my head, dismissing the thought. I had no reason to see him. Why would I worry about a stranger? Shrugging, I waved casually to Chris’s Mech.

“I welcome the princess to the battle. Sorry you’re on the losing team!”

“…”

There was a moment of shocked silence. “You already know?!”

I winced at Chris’s ear piercing shriek. “Know and don’t care.”

“But… I have a Connector.”

“Yeah, you said that.”

“So I won’t be YOUR Connector!”

I sighed. “We’ve long established that. Look, buddy, it’s been a long day and I’m really tired, are you gonna keep talking about your boring personal life, or are we gonna try to crush each other with massive robots?”

“... Fine then! Keep pretending you don’t care!” Chris seemed really upset at not eliciting a bigger reaction from me, but fortunately turned his attention to the battle as well.

As the hologram around us signaled the start to the fight, he raised his sword and moved towards me, but I had already moved behind him.

BAM!

A shot hit his shoulder, blowing large metallic pieces into the air. I frowned, frustrated. I was faster and stronger than him, but my shots just weren’t going where I wanted them to.

Chris ‘s Mech turned around to face, me, the oversized sword’s momentum swaying the robot from side to side. His movement accuracy and speed had tripled from our last encounter. Clearly, he and his Connector were well matched, well over the required 50%.

But I was still faster.

I ducked under his blow, aiming upwards at his elbow and firing another couple shots.

BAM! BAM!

I missed. Cursing, I recovered, dodging another blow as I increased the distance between us.

Stupid guns.

_________________________

A young man threw up his hands, clearly frustrated.

“Why are you so stubborn? Every single world you insist on using a sword. We were in a laser battle for goodness sake!”

“Swords are more dependable.”

“Oh come on…”

“Plus I’m a terrible shot.”

He sighed. “Fine. But what if one day you don’t have me watching your back?”

“It will be fine.” I grinned. “Don’t you love saying that everything is according to fate? Maybe a sword is just mine?”

“... It doesn’t work like that.”

_________________________

A brief memory flashed in my mind, confusing me.

During my distraction, Chris’s Mech tried to strike again. With no time to dodge, I raised my gun, blocking the blow with the barrel. The weapon cracked under the edge of the sword. I pushed him back, relying on my superior strength and jumped backwards, throwing away the broken weapon in my hand. Glancing down at the remaining gun I had, I felt a warm liquid drip from my nose. It was bleeding, a sign of the increasing strain of the Connection.

I was breaking down. I wouldn't last the rest of the fight.

I had to surrender.

Screw that!

I holstered my remaining gun, drawing the large sword on my Mech’s back. As I held it in front of me, I suddenly felt at home, completely comfortable, as if I had held a sword many times before. I stared at Chris’s Mech, feeling excited.

Now, this feels like a fight!

I raced forward, swinging my sword in a horizontal strike.

_________________________

I was standing in a group of zombies, my sword cutting through the neck of the closest monster.

_________________________

Chris dodged, stumbling backwards. I used the momentum of my first swing to smoothly transition into a downward slash.

_________________________

I was an elf, dancing in the forest, my blade striking down shadowy creatures in the midst of a large battle.

_________________________

THUD!

A robotic hand fell to the ground as I cut it off at the wrist. Chris let out a moan of pain, cut short as I controlled my Mech to kick him in the face, knocking him on his back.

_________________________

I was a vampire, holding a sword made of darkness, fighting humans with elegance and grace.

_________________________

Chris tried to stand up but my foot on his chest prevented the movement. I rested the tip of my sword at his Mech’s throat.

“Do you surrender?”

_________________________

“Surrender?” I smiled as I spoke, staring down at the man on the ground. I couldn’t see his face clearly except for his dark blue eyes, which stared at me without a hint of embarrassment despite his defeated position.

“I surrender.” His voice was warm. “You’re pretty amazing with a sword.”

“After all the realms I’ve fought through? I would have to be.” I shook my head. “Don’t you use swords when you travel?”

“I’m not permitted to travel anymore.” He grinned. “I keep refusing to play my role.”

_________________________

I blinked, focusing on the partially destroyed Mech in front of me. Not hearing his answer, I dug the tip into his neck slightly, only stopping when he let out a groan.

“Do. You. Surrender?”

“I surrender.” His answer sounded like it was forced through gritted teeth.

I could hear muted cheers from the crowd behind the shield as the holographic screens around us displayed my name as the victor.

“Good.” I moved my sword and turned away. My body felt drained, every muscle screaming in pain. I tasted blood in my mouth, my head hurting worse with each passing second.

“I’LL BEAT YOU ONE DAY!” Chris called out behind me. “I’LL GET STRONGER, AND I’LL SHOW YOU!”

“Tell it to someone who cares.” I didn’t turn around, and left the arena.

At least I won. Now if my head would just stop hurting...

As soon as I reached the docking area, my legs crumpled beneath me, and my world faded into darkness.

_________________________

Where am I?

I woke up in a white room, on a plain, clean bed, wearing a hospital gown.

This isn’t a different world, is it?

I carefully searched my memories, but didn’t feel anything different. I sighed, realizing I must be in the school infirmary. In my memories of her life, Alaira had helped bring her fellow students there in the past, but had never stayed to be examined. Deep down she had known that without a Connector she was breaking down, and was afraid the school would prevent her from fighting.

It might have saved her life if she had.

I sat up, rubbing my forehead tiredly. It was still throbbing.

“Are you okay?” A soft voice spoke up, startling me.

I jumped, looking to the chair beside my bed, where a dark haired young man sat. His dark blue eyes studied me carefully, his face expressionless.

“…Prince William?”

“…” After a long silence, he nodded slowly.

“What are you doing here?”

He stared down at the floor silently, and just when I thought he might not respond, he reached out, handing me a peeled apple.

I took it, feeling dazed. “Umm… thanks.” I took a bite, and after swallowing, asked the question on my mind. “Were you the one leaving food outside my dorm room then?”

“…hmm.” His gaze never left the ground.

What the heck kind of answer is “hmm”?!!

“How did you know I like peeled apples?”

“…” A look of genuine confusion crossed his face, but quickly disappeared as he shrugged silently.

“Okay. Well. Thanks.” I pushed myself up, trying to swing my legs to the side of the bed.

He stood up, his face concerned. “Wait. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, my head hurts, but otherwise I feel great.”

“…You should rest.” He frowned as he looked me over.

“It’s just strain from a prolonged connection.” I sighed. “I’m used to it.”

“You haven’t matched?” He seemed mixed, as if happy and disappointed at the same time.

“Nope. Not for lack of trying though. ” I looked him over. “Are you a Connector? Have you matched yet?”

“I…” A look of agony distorted his features.

“He can’t. He’s broken.”

A young woman stood at the door of the infirmary, a mocking smile on her face.

I studied the newcomer carefully. She had long black curls framing a heart shaped face, and large blue eyes that looked down on me with pride. Given the similarities in features to Prince William next to me, it wasn’t difficult to figure out her identity.

“I’m assuming you’re Princess Ilene?”

She ignored my words, walking closer to her brother, whose face had become expressionless once again.

“He can’t Connect. His mental barrier is too strong.” She stopped a few feet away from him and raised her hand, knocking on what looked to be empty air. It made a solid noise, her hand stopping at the same invisible point. “He can’t put it down even if he wants to.”

I thought back to the first time I met him, remembering people being pushed aside.

“A useless Connector who can’t make the connection. A Guardian who can’t match. Two failures together.” She smiled at me. “Sorry I took away your only possible chance at matching Chris, but you needed to see the reality of the situation. He’s a better Guardian than you.”

“…Remind me again who ended up flat on their back at the end of the last fight?”

Her eyes narrowed in annoyance at my comeback. “At least he will be around a long time to help fight the Hive. You, on the other hand.” Ilene pointed at her head and turned her finger in a circle. “You have no future. But on the bright side, at least my useless brother can keep you company while your mind slowly breaks apart.”

BAM

William stood up, angry, and with the loud sound of an impact, Ilene was pushed by an invisible barrier out of the room. Her face enraged, she slammed her fists against it while her mouth made motions as if she was shouting. I stared at her, confused as to why I couldn’t hear her.

“…I sealed her out of the barrier.” William whispered. “Her voice can't make it through either.”

“Oh.” I nodded with satisfaction, watching her shout silently outside the doorway. “Thanks.”

“I can expand the barrier… but she’s right… I can’t drop it.” His eyes dropped down to the floor again. “I can’t Connect… I can’t help Guardians… useless…” His voice slowly dropped in volume, until it was barely a whisper.

“Well, you’re helping me out right now, and I’m a Guardian. So I’d say you’re a pretty useful guy.” I gave him a thumbs up. “I know that not hearing her is already making my day better.”

He stared at me silently for a few moments. “… Are you hungry?”

“Kind of. Why? Do you have more apples or something?”

William shook his head. “No… cake.”

“Please tell me you are serious.”

He solemnly set a container with a piece of cake on the table next to me, along with a napkin and utensils.

I stared at it in shock, motionless.

“… Do you not like it?” His nervous tone broke me out of my stupor. I quickly reached out and held the container close, grabbing the fork and taking a bite.

“Oh, this is amazing… totally worth passing out after my fight.” I took a few more bites, noting him relaxing visibly as I showed my enjoyment. “…Why are you being so nice to me, anyways?”

“Why?” William blinked, looking shocked as if he hadn’t considered it before.

“Yeah. As far as I can tell, I haven’t met you outside of running into you in the hallway once. Why go out of your way to leave me food and sit by me in the infirmary?”

He finally looked up, his dark blue eyes staring into my own. “…I’m not sure. “ He shrugged. “Whenever I see you, I feel happy. I want to help you.”

I leaned back against the backboard of the infirmary bed. “Well… I guess I could always use a friend.”

“Friends?” A trace of a smile crossed his face, before it disappeared into expressionless once more. “Really?”

“Yeah. So let me introduce myself officially, Prince William.” I started to reach out a hand to shake, but remembering his barrier, I pulled it back. “I’m Alaira. Level S Guardian but unable to match, and your new friend.”

He stared at my hand with a look of regret before looking back up. “I’m a Level S Connector… but can’t connect. I’m your new friend… “ He hesitated. “Can you call me a nickname instead?”

“Sure.”

“Then call me… Liam.”

_________________________

“Are you lost?” I woke up in a strange world to the sound of an unfamiliar voice, laying on my back, confused.

“Seems a good description for my current situation.” I stared into a pair of dark blue eyes, smiling despite the dizziness. “Nice to meet you, Stranger.”

He grinned, reaching out a hand to help me up. “Call me Liam.”

“Nice to meet you, Liam.”

_________________________

I blinked away the memory, smiling at the timid young man in front of me. “Nice to meet you… Liam.”

[extremelyblackandwhite]

scrubs - 4.

pairing: doctor!sebastian stan x biomedical scientist!reader

warnings: angst, swearing

< previous chapter

    - So ... - Miriam rolled her chair near Y/N’s, a little smirk on her lips as she finally caught her without any trainees surrounding her and without any particular tasks. She was merely looking at the printed reports from everyone in the laboratory, double checking and adding some notes as well as writing her suggested course of treatment if necessary for any doctors who chose to took her advice. - How is he?

     - Miriam, the last thing I am going to talk to you about is my sex life. 

     - Yeah, because you never really had one but now it is interesting. Come on, is he soft or is he aiming to be the doctor version of Christian Grey?

     - He’s a nuisance, that’s what he is. - she pushed her glasses back on, returning to her paperwork but Miriam was keen on not letting that happen.

     - What’s his place like? Is it a bachelor pad?

     - Listen to me, I am tired, I am slightly hangover and sore in all the right places. Now do with that what you will and let me go back to my work. - she pushed Miriam chair with her foot, sending the office chair rolling away from her. 

The day was mostly non eventful. She dragged herself through sleep and headaches, supervising over the newbies and even running some tests herself, at least those which didn’t made her more nauseous than she already was. Turns out the whole of New York decided to have infections as of late as it seemed only her department was being swallowed with samples after samples and more samples. Luckily for her, only 5% per cent of them required her to write down a very polite email calling the upstair staff incompetent due to changing names and even genders. How hard was it to insert the numbers into a computer and print a right label? Apparently too hard. 

As she finished filling out the error filled paperwork and signing some portfolios for training biomedical scientists, the laboratory manager entered her department. He was a man in his 60s, mostly business related and if the rumours were to be believed, only became a biomedical scientist so he could eventually manage something. Y/N deeply disliked him, the moment she started training back when he held the position she held now, he only called her sweetheart and constantly made snide remarks about how the medical industry was starting to be overtaken by women. Yet again, he was still her superior and as such she had to answer to him.

    - Miss Y/L/N. - she grimaced. Great, he came her to talk to her. - Where are Dr. Stan’s sample results?

    - Which ones?

    - You know which ones. The ones which should’ve been delivered yesterday, sweetheart.

    - They were labelled wrong. If I had gone with it, the hospital would be open to all sorts of liabilities. 

    - Now, sweetheart ... - he put her hand on her shoulder. - I would love it if I didn’t get the chief of medicine complaining to me each day about his doctors getting his test requests denied by my staff. I do not care if you and Dr. Stan slept together, I don’t care who you take to bed, I do care about having people complain to me about you. 

    - My personal life has nothing to do with my professional life, sir. 

    - Those results better be delivered today.

She saw red as the man left, and looking to her right she saw the file containing the precious results. Normally she wouldn’t push cases in front of the others but this, oh this was an important. She grabbed the file and headed towards the staircase, not even bothering to wait for the lift. Y/N made a beeline towards the reception where most of the nurses were.

    - Do you know where Dr. Stan is? 

    - Looking for seconds? - Y/N ignored the harsh remark and merely took it upon herself to find the man who’d better be off dead. She made it to the locker area where most of the make shift bedrooms were. If she was correct, and she was, Dr. Stan would probably be sleeping in one of those bedrooms.

She made through them with a thunderstorm rage, walking from room to room despite the warning from the nurse. Normally she’d let healthcare staff sleep, the shifts were unforgivable and sometimes you just needed a quick nap for 30 minutes so you wouldn’t go inside. Dr. Stan, however, was no longer deserving of said nap and instead of waking him up by screaming in his hear, she merely let all the heavy files fall on top of his face. He woke up in a frenzy, looking side to side before looking at his pager. 

   - Here are your results, Doctor. - she gave him a passive aggressive smile.

   - Thanks?

   - Next time you want your results on time maybe label the samples right. I mean, why go through all the trouble of sleeping with me and then telling it to my laboratory manager so you can get your results? It’s easier to fucking know how to use a laptop.

   - What?

   - Fuck off, Sebastian. - she turned around to point her finger at him. - Why don’t you just go and page the whole team about you sleeping with me?

   - Y/N, wait up ...

   - If you need anything from the laboratory talk to Miriam. Don’t you dare ever speak to me ever again.  

She was severely disappointed in him, hurt even, and for the first time she had to hold herself together not to start crying in the hospital wings. She always thought he at least respected her as a professional but clearly he did not. Everyone was commenting about it and she could even hear some remarks thrown her way, poking fun of her attitude and even asking if she came back for more and she found it harder and harder not to break down crying. As the lift doors closed, she cleaned the tears that had start to pool up on her eyes. She munched on her lip, hand in front of her mouth as she tried to pull herself together. It’s only gossip, it’ll be okay and she’ll be damned if she let anyone bring her down. She wouldn’t be the first woman to have a night stand and definitely not the last.

She walked in the laboratory with the goal of continuing to do what made her happy and that was run some tests herself. Sure her new position was good and it gave good pay but it was mostly training graduates and do some paperwork as well as look for mistakes. Hadn’t it been for her, this hospital would’ve gotten sued a thousand times. 

    - Stop being in a fowl mood.

    - Leave me alone, Miriam. 

    - Since you’re already ready to kill, Elizabeth has been on break for 30 minutes longer.

     - Seriously? Why didn’t you do anything? 

     - You’re the supervisor of the microbiology department, I am merely your best friend. - she rolled her chair by her side. - Besides I want to go on my dinner break, please.

She rolled her eyes at this comment, getting up once again to go upstairs. It was almost a mechanical move and for the first time, the detail oriented scientist was as distracted as one could be with everything but details in her mind. Maybe had she not been distracted, she would’ve noticed the sheen in the stairs. Unluckily for her, she only noticed it once her head thumped against the stairs, almost as if her head had hit a trampoline surface. She grimaced, pushing herself on her hand to feel her ankle gave up on her whenever she tried to get up.

     - Are you okay? - Miriam checked, poking her head out the laboratory only to see her on the stairs. - Y/N, it is not the time to be dramatic or to be sleeping, I’m hungry.

    - I can’t get up. - she grumbled, sitting down to massage her ankle. Miriam jumped from the laboratory, walking up to her. - My ankle hurts and my head is pounding. 

    - Oh okay, hum ... hold yourself on me, we’ll get the nurses to check on you. You’re fine, right? You’re fine.

    - Yeah ... - she grimaced once again as she got up, arm over Miriam’s shoulder as he led her to the lift. First she sleeps with the Doctor who is intent on burying her reputation, then the whole hospital gets to know about her drunken one night stand and then she falls on the stairs. It just can’t get any worse, can it? Well, of course it can. 

    - What happened there? - Dr. Stan perked up from behind the desk where he and some nurses were looking at the files. 

    - None of your business. 

    - Y/N fell and hit her head, also her ankle hurts. - so much for none of your business. 

    - Sounds like my business. - he walked up to the two women but Y/N merely rolled her eyes. - Come on, I’ll check it.

    - I’d rather be run over by a car.

    - Great. - Miriam interrupted Y/N before she decided to walk back to the laboratory even with a painful ankle.

Great. It can get any worse. 

taglist: @rebekahdawkins​

[kingreywrites]

Even If It Hurts - Chapter 2 - The one they found

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2366

Summary: There are days when the tears can't help but fall, no matter how much Rapunzel and Eugene don't want them to.

There are days when these tears are shed for family; for the one they lost, the one they found, and the one they created.

Chapter Summary: Despite trying, the words will not come. His breath is cut off by the tears he won't shed, taking too much place in his chest until he feels nothing but them. He doesn't want to cry, but he's not sure if it's stopping talking or keeping at it that will tip him over the edge. Maybe there's no escaping this.

Note: Eugene’s turn >:)

Read on ao3

1. The one they lost ; 2. The one they found

Eugene... Eugene doesn't cry often. It doesn't suit him. People think it's another example of him being conceited when he says he has an ugly crying face, because after all, everyone is ugly when they cry, but it's- it's more complicated than that.

Eugene is an ugly crier. He's a loud crier too, because he can't stand sitting around in deafening silence while his world feels like it's crumbling around him. He needs to move, to talk, to do anything so he can ignore his tears as much as possible and that made him an absolute nightmare to deal with as a child, or so he was told.

He doesn't remember crying often enough to be an annoyance. He does remember, somewhat, the feeling of being scolded by people who were as tall as giants, yelling for him to shut up. He's an adult now, and he's not sure if this is a memory or a dream, but he feels like there's definitely a part of truth in this. He probably deserved the yelling, to be honest, because he must have been impossible to deal with back then. Crying kids were annoying, and the matrons would often let them cry all night instead of doing anything (Eugene knew, because he was the one who got up and read them stories so they could calm down); he had always been extra annoying, making potential families flee with his general attitude. A mix of the two was definitely headache worthy, so they did their best for him to stop crying.

They mostly succeeded.

Eugene can count the number of times he cried in the last five years on the fingers of his hand - and it's exactly once, when he was about to die and leave Rapunzel behind. He had been terrified, for her and for himself, and the tears had come naturally. He had been too tired to fight them. After that, though, he had begun his no crying streak anew, and it was only a deaged Lance that nearly broke it.

Eugene has a soft spot for crying kids, it's not his fault.

But Lance didn't make him cry. Getting hurt during their adventures didn't make him cry, practically betraying the woman he loved most didn't make him cry, meeting his long lost father didn't make him cry-

Except.

Except they go back to Corona, Eugene with one father more and one friend less. They go back, and Rapunzel is a mess, so he tries to be there for her when she needs it, tries to be the support she has trouble asking for. And then, his father- Edmund comes back, with dreams of reconnecting with his long lost son, and Rapunzel is excited at the prospect, and Eugene wants Rapunzel to be happy and... He gets roped into a weird adventure, and despite the still present hurt, Edmund and him make amends.

He still doesn't cry. He has no reason to anymore, after all.

So when the tears come anyway, the overwhelming mix of anger and shame nearly chokes him with how suddenly it takes over him. He flees his conversation with Edmund with the flimsiest excuse, and practically runs to his bedroom in a desperate dash for privacy.

He won't cry. "I won't cry," he repeats out loud, unsure of who he's trying to convince - but his voice wobbles on the last word.

He closes his fists, takes a deep breath, and holds it in for as long as he can in fear of a sob breaking out of his chest. His eyes are burning and nothing is working and he's going to cry but- but-- He grabs the first object he can get his hands on and throws it down harshly, cringing at the sound of broken glass that follows. Through the blurring of his eyes, he understands that it was a glass of water, and that makes him feel like even more of an idiot because- because-

He can't breathe. He stumbles and sits down heavily on his bed, putting his palms over his eyes in the vain hope of stopping the process - but he can already feel the ugly twisting of his face as he tries to keep it all in, and soon-

"Eugene?"

He startles badly, and turns towards the voice, blinking his eyes rapidly. Of course she's here now. "Sunshine," he laughs, or coughs, he isn't sure, and he can see more clearly for now - clear enough to notice the frown clearly forming on her face, or the concern in her eyes. "What- uh, what are you doing here?"

His voice is still wobbling. Kindly, Rapunzel doesn't comment on it.

"A handmaiden heard a crash in your room," she smiles gently, looking at the broken glass on the ground. "She was worried, so she told me."

"Ah. Yeah, that, be- be careful about the glass, I don't want you to cut your feet because of me. Because, you know," he babbles as she quietly makes her way over him, "going barefoot everywhere can be dangerous. Well, you obviously know that, and I'm not trying to tell you what to do but- uh... that's... something to consider?" he finishes lamely.

Rapunzel doesn't answer him, simply sitting down next to him. Her shoulder is warm against his. She smells like strawberry, today, and he wonders if she was in the middle of one of her baking endeavours. He hopes he hasn't interrupted her, all because he grew too angry and threw a freaking glass to the ground like an idiot, probably scaring some poor handmaiden in the process.

"Eugene," Rapunzel repeats, in that way she has of saying his name full of love and affection, and free of any judgement. "Are you okay?"

Once again, Eugene tears up like a baby. He starts looking stubbornly at the wall, in the vain hope that she doesn't see it.

"Oh you know," he laughs, the sound bitter and angry, "just trying to strike a discussion with my dear old father- that wasn't even a father to me until like two months ago!" His voice gets loud again, but the remarks about being an annoying crier are forgotten for a second, as he tries to explain. "And here I come, simply trying to understand hi- to understand my life better, and he- he- he refuses!" Eugene stutters painfully, feeling his breaths getting caught in his chest.

His cheeks are hurting from the way they're scrunching up unnaturally. His hands are balled around the sheets of his bed, and he feels like he's falling apart at the seams, trying to hold himself together through sheer willpower. It's not working. And so he keeps talking, hoping that his mouth will move faster than his mind, and that it'll be enough.

"He's really- He really thinks because he's my father he has a right to decide what's good for me but he- he lost that right," he exclaims, voice breaking on the "lost", heart breaking at the memories. "Each time I think I'm forgiving him, each time... Each time I think we can be family, I remember just how much he fucked up, and how that fucked me up, and I- I-"

He can't take a breath after that, but Rapunzel softly takes his hand, and his lungs somewhat remember what they're supposed to do.

"It's okay to be angry, Eugene," she whispers, her voice so quiet next to his and yet echoing louder in his mind. "No one expects you to be okay immediately."

"Really?" he laughs, a short burst that doesn't convince anyone, "because Edmund expects me to be fine with him. A lot of people think it's so great that I'm actually a Prince, and can't even imagine- can't- he abandoned me!" Eugene explodes. "He abandoned me, as a child, and he knew how much I was suffering, he had all the wanted posters! He knew I was thieving to survive and... And that means he knew about the nights sleeping outside, being so hungry I felt like my stomach was eating itself. He knew about the living out there in the cold, he knew about me nearly getting killed on a daily basis, he maybe even knew about that time I thought Lance was going to die and I was going to be all alone and-"

He can't finish that sentence. He still hasn't looked at Rapunzel, but he feels her thumb slowly stroking his hand, gently trying to calm him down.

"He knew," he breathes out quietly, heart thumping in his chest. "And I know he had his reasons but- but I didn't deserve that. I know I didn't." Rapunzel hums quietly. His head hurts. His throat feels raw, and he remembers that he's an ugly, loud crier, will you shut up Eugene-

But he won't shut up. He wants to, really - he wishes he was strong enough to compose himself but... He hasn't had a proper breakdown in a decade, and it's all crashing down on him, bringing everything he built down with it.

"I asked him about my mom," Eugene admits quietly, "and he didn't want to talk about it. Said it was- a touchy subject for him. As if- as if it isn't for me," he chuckles, feeling really cold. "Two months ago, I didn't know I had a mother, and now I'm grieving a nameless woman I only saw in a painting, all because he- he- because he-"

Despite trying, the words will not come. His breath is cut off by the tears he won't shed, taking too much place in his chest until he feels nothing but them. He doesn't want to cry, but he's not sure if it's stopping talking or keeping at it that will tip him over the edge. Maybe there's no escaping this.

"It's so stupid," Eugene rages, against Edmund and against himself, his voice way weaker than he wants it to be. "I- I should be happy right? But- He's so- he- this is stupid! And- And who even names their kids Horace?!"

Of course that's the exact moment Eugene can't hold back his tears anymore. For fucking Horace, when it was supposed to be a joke so he could get a grip on himself. But maybe it's not just the name. Maybe it's about meeting someone who did so much harm to you, and having to fight them over the simple thing of being called your chosen name, like you had to fight so many people before him; maybe it's about spending years hating everything that made you who you are, before finally coming to terms with your identity, finally seeing something worth loving in yourself, only to discover that it was all a lie anyway.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Eugene starts crying, and tries to hide his face in his hands, but Rapunzel doesn't let go of the one she's holding. His head is swimming. She tugs him towards her, and suddenly he's sobbing on her shoulder, feeling like a pathetic idiot for it. And of course he doesn't stop babbling, about how stupid this all is, and how he shouldn't even be crying anyway, because there was way worse in life and he was fine.

Rapunzel doesn't say much. She tells him to breathe, mostly, and gently congratulates him when he does. She tells him that he's okay. She tells him that she loves him.

She doesn't say much, but she says exactly what he needs.

"I'm sorry," he chuckles wetly, shivering a little when he feels her fingers on the nap of his neck. "This isn’t… You already have a lot on your shoulders, and I'm putting more weight on them. Quite literally."

He hopes for a laugh at the joke, hopes he can pretend again that everything's fine and that he has absolutely no issues with discovering where he's from more than twenty years late.

"Eugene," Rapunzel says instead, her voice tainted by an unmistakable seriousness, "I don't care about what's going on for me, I- I always want you to be able to confide in me." She sounds sad. He remembers these times, when he was worried it was his fault that she preferred to cry alone; if he had done anything that made her feel like she couldn't trust him with her sorrows.

He wonders if he made her feel the same. He wonders if she also feels the same as he does on the subject - not that there's a lack of trust, but a deep desire to protect the other from everything that could needlessly hurt them, even if it's their own emotions. Eugene doesn't rely on others easily; neither does Rapunzel.

After all this time, he's still sometimes surprised to see how similar they can be.

"I'm sorry," Rapunzel breathes out this time, and she keeps him from straightening up as she continues. "I'm sorry I've been so busy and preoccupied, I… I hate that you've been hurting, and that I wasn't here for you."

Eugene's automatic answer is to deny this, but he still has his head on her shoulder, after basically breaking down for who knows how many minutes, so he doesn't think she'll believe him. He is hurting, even if it's hard to admit. He hasn't been quite the same since the Dark Kingdom - since meeting his father, since losing Cassandra, since seeing the love of his life so broken over the betrayal. He hasn't been the same, but he also hasn't allowed himself to be different, because it was never the time for him to simply… allow himself to be sad.

"We're both hurting," he finally answers, tightening his grip around her slightly. "I- I think we're just trying our best, you and me. I think… I think that's okay, for now."

He's still sniffling. His face is uncomfortably hot from the crying, and he really doesn't want anyone to see the mess he is right now. But in her arms, Eugene forgets to care. He forgets about the scoldings he once received, forgets about his fears of being judged, and just hugs Rapunzel for as long as he can.

They stay like this for a long time.

[bastardtetsu]

critical thinking | ch③

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x gn!reader

genre: college au, enemies to lovers, tsundere!reader, slow burn

wc: 2.3k

warnings: swearing, being a theatre major

※ mlist | ① ② ● ④

there is no greater hell than finals week as a college theatre major.

and this year, on top of juries to prep for, studio scenes & dance combos to rehearse, essays to write, exams to study for, and rehearsals to attend for the show you’re in, your chemistry teacher decided to assign a final project in addition to the final exam. rejoice.

it was enough trying to study for the written final while staying on top of all your other assignments and obligations - you’d busted your ass so hard leading up to the exam that you hardly had time to think about the project until a week before its due date. and even when you do start thinking about it, you barely understand what you’re supposed to be doing, much less have the time or energy to try and figure it out.

you end up texting kuroo in desperation and make him agree to meet up with you for an extra tutoring session, however, due to your extra-chaotic schedule this week, the only time you’re both able to meet up is after your all-day rehearsal the sunday night before the project is due.

it’s better than nothing, you suppose.

still, you don’t fully realize the consequences of your choices until you’re exhausted on your way back from your second consecutive day of 12-hour tech rehearsals - a pretty standard tech week schedule in the professional theatre world, but not very convenient for a college student during finals.

needless to say, you’re dead tired. the last thing you want is to fry your brain even further with chemistry & kuroo’s smart mouth, but at this point you have no choice.

as you approach him in the library, you notice he’s dressed way more casually than usual. this shouldn’t come as a shock, seeing that it’s 11pm on a sunday, but the way his t-shirt and sweatpants accentuate his figure is actually insulting. somehow the way the fabric stretches around his pecs makes his chest look even broader, and christ you were not expecting his arms to be THAT toned.

NOPE. now is not the time, you remind yourself. you have a project due in ten hours. you can feel a headache coming on as your stress levels rise again.

“evening,” he greets you with a smile.

“hey,” you respond shortly as you set your stuff down, “thanks for meeting with me this late.”

“of course,” he replies, “anything for my favorite student.”

“…are you being sarcastic?”

“no.”

“i’m your favorite?” you question skeptically. “jesus, who else are you tutoring…”

“well I didn’t say you were my best student—“

“cool, i’m gonna stop you there.”

he just giggles. asshole.

you let out a fatigued sigh as you plop down in your chair. this feels like your first moment of rest all day, but in reality it’s just the start of the most difficult battle of them all. you attempt to gather up the remnants of your brainpower, silently praying that kuroo will decide to behave himself.

“you don’t seem like you’re in the mood for chemistry tonight.”

some prayers must go unanswered.

“yeah, i’ve had a long day,” you reply unenthusiastically, “so i’d really like to get this done as quickly as possible.”

“really? that’s gonna be difficult in your condition,” he jeers.

“well i don’t have much choice, do i?” you snap back a bit too aggressively.

“guess not,” he shrugs nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair with his hands resting behind his head. what is with this attitude? is he really just being a dick right now? and WHY do his arms look so god damn tasty??

you can already feel your sanity slipping away as you try to will yourself to focus on anything that’s not kuroo’s juicy biceps flexing through the fabric of his t-shirt. or his chest. or the little strip of exposed skin that’s appeared just below the hem of his shirt - fuck.

focus, you instruct yourself. your brain, however, is already giving out, the stress of not just the day, but the whole week finally catching up to you. the possibility of having something passable to turn in by tomorrow morning seems further and further away.

“look,” you sigh, leveling with him, “we both know i’m awful at chem—“

“really??”

“shut up,” you cut him off quickly, “and i’ve had a long ass week dealing with all this other shit on my plate and i’m really fucking tired and i just want to get a good grade on this so i can graduate, so can you please, PLEASE just—“

“if you’re gonna ask me to do the assignment for you, I already did it.”

a pause.

“wait. what do you mean-“

“i did the assignment for you. project’s done.”

“um,” you stutter, dumbfounded. “excuse me?”

“what, you thought i was gonna let you do it yourself? after you procrastinated it til the literal night before?” he says with an especially wide grin, “it would be irresponsible for me as a tutor if I let my student do so poorly! granted, she’s really bad at this—“

“ok shut up,” you cut him off. your mind is swirling with a mixture of shock, gratitude, and rage as you process his words. “when did you—“

“this week. after you texted me.”

“what?” you cry, “why are we even meeting up then?”

“i dunno,” he responds with a coy smirk, “it would’ve been rude to cancel.”

the swell of gratitude in your chest is overtaken by the growing wave of rage.

“so you decided to waste *more* of my time,” you state pointedly, “when you literally have enough to do an entire final project just for funsies. cool.”

“hey, show a little more gratitude,” he whines, quirking an eyebrow in annoyance, “you’re the one who left it til the last minute.”

“i’m the one?” you shoot back, “you still think i’m just procrastinating because i’m lazy??”

“look, i know finals are demanding—“

“no, I don’t think you do know,” you cut him off, now fuming. “you want a rundown of my week? i can give it to you.” you list off all the assignments you had to turn in, all the finals you had to prep for - both written and performance, all the meetings with scene partners and voice teachers and rehearsal pianists you had to arrange, all the hours you had to spend in rehearsal, including the 12-hour tech day you just came from. kuroo just sits there, taking in your words. when you finish, you let out an exhausted sigh, “so if you’d like to tell me when the fuck i was supposed to work on this stupid project, be my guest. i’d love to hear it.”

this might be the first time you’ve seen kuroo look shocked. for once he doesn’t seem to know what to say. is that a trace of guilt in his eyes too?

“i—“ just as he’s about to speak, he is cut off by an unholy sound coming from your stomach. you both sit there frozen for a second.

“um… when was the last time you ate?” he asks, cautiously breaking the silence.

“uhh,” you think back, “like 3pm.”

“okay, well it’s past 11 now,” he says, “and you need to eat. get your stuff, let’s go.”

“huh? go where?”

“to get food,” he states simply, “i’m driving, come on.”

“kuroo,” you protest, “i’m not gonna make you drive me—“

“you’re not making me,” he interrupts, “i’m making you. let’s go.”

you let out a sigh of defeat and grab your bag. with the rage beginning to melt away, that swell of gratitude begins to stir in your chest again. it’s still weird when he’s kind to you, but you’re starting to mind less.

—

you hadn’t realized how hungry you truly were until the smell of oil and salt hits you.

after grabbing your food from the drive thru, kuroo pulls around and finds a spot in the near-empty parking lot. you waste no time scarfing down your food, which he even insisted on paying for. whatever, it’s just mcdonald’s, you think. but still, the gesture is nice.

“you didn’t have to do this you know.”

“i think i did,” he says, jokingly referring to how hard you were just stuffing your face.

“funny,” you respond sarcastically, “but seriously.”

“it’s no big deal,” he says, looking away slightly. is he blushing? you can’t tell in the dark. “anyway, i figured i owed you one for making you stress about the project.”

you can’t believe your ears - is he actually apologizing?

“yeah, you really let me suffer all week, asshole,” you respond teasingly.

“i didn’t know it was that bad, alright,” he says, slightly defensive. a brief pause, and then, “sorry.”

you can hear the remorse in his voice - he means it. the corners of your mouth twitch upward.

“thank you,” you say gently, “that means a lot.”

his gaze darts back over to you. you’ve never seen his eyes look nervous before, yet somehow his stare still feels piercing.

“you’re gonna have to buy me a lot more nuggets before i fully forgive you though,” you joke, breaking out your own devilish smirk. he chuckles too, relieved.

“how many are we talking?”

“as many as i want.”

“fine,” he relents, “guess you’ll have to hang out with me more then, if i’m gonna be buying you all these nuggets.”

“whatever, i’m immune to your bullshit by now.”

“oya~? you’re starting to like me, y/n??”

“is that what the fuck i said?”

“no, but it’s what you meant,” he responds with a smirk.

“and how would you know?”

“‘cause i’m a genius,” he says, reaching over to swipe a fry from your lap. you halfheartedly swat at him.

“sure, keep telling yourself that.”

your banter feels natural now, strangely comfortable. for some reason it actually feels good talking to him. he did do something really nice for you tonight after all, despite your continued bickering. no matter how much you insult him he always has something to say back. but as much as it pisses you off, you’re not sure what you’d do if he ever stopped.

—

as kuroo drives you back to your place for the night, your mind begins turning over the events of this evening. in the time since you’d met up with him (which somehow feels longer than the literal 12 hours of rehearsal you were in earlier), you’d not only found out that the final project you’d been so stressed about had been taken care of, but you also hung out with him for the first time outside of tutoring. and he was nice to you. it’s a lot to process.

it’s not like you aren’t used to spending time alone with kuroo - like you told him, you’re immune to his bullshit by now - but this feels different somehow. it’s more peaceful, maybe even comforting. you figure it’s probably because of the rollercoaster of a day you just had, not to mention how unusual it is for him to treat you like this.

“why are you being so nice to me?” you finally ask him, turning to steal a glance at his side profile in the dim glow of the streetlamps.

“huh?? i needed to make sure my student got their nutrients!” he replies, as if it was obvious.

“what nutrients? you took me to mcdonald’s.”

“okay fair,” he says, “but nothing else was open!”

“sure, but you didn’t need to take me anywhere,” you protest, “much less spend money on me.”

“maybe i’ll just cook for you next time then,” he smiles.

“next time!?” you squawk, “what, are you trying to get into my pants??” the words leave your mouth before you fully have time to process them, but either way, you aren’t expecting the sudden silence that falls over him.

a flash of anxiety darts through your mind, but it only lasts for a second before he laughs quitely, almost to himself.

“not if you don’t want me to,” he mutters.

your breath catches. is he joking?? your heart feels like it’s in your throat. he’s definitely joking.

“what are you cooking?” is the only thought you can manage to put to words.

another pause.

“um. probably fish.”

“EW, WHAT THE FUCK?”

“what???” he gripes, “you could use more docosahexaenoic acid!!!”

“you are such a freak.” you’re relieved that the subject has changed, even though his earlier response is still circling your mind.

“okay but can you tell me the chemical formula for docosahex—“

“no, you are not bringing chemistry into this car, absolutely not. i already took my final.”

“what about the molar mass—“

“NO.”

—

you arrive back at your place not long after. kuroo’s comment is still eating away at the back your mind, but you don’t say anything as you gather your belongings. it was a cop-out response, and he was probably joking anyway.

“thanks for everything,” you say gingerly, “the project, and the food, and the ride, and the help with the semester, all that.”

“anytime, princess,” he replies with his signature smirk. usually that kind of response would trigger a jolt of annoyance in you, but this time it feels different. maybe because now you’re actually grateful to him.

in fact, you’re very grateful, and you feel like you should be expressing it more, but you’re not sure how. plus you’re too embarrassed, and have way too much pride. so instead you wish him goodnight and head towards your front door.

he waits to drive off until you’re all the way inside.

you think about him a little differently after that.

a/n: why is he so obsessed with docosahexdhfafdjh acid.... making me have to google how to spell that shit smh. anyways thank you for all the love on this fic so far!! if u actually enjoy this self-indulgent fantasy of mine know that i love & appreciate u to the ends of the earth ;-;

[janekfan]

Hello friend!! I thought of a prompt, and if you like it, it's yours!! What if Tim was kidnapped by the circus with Jon?? They're having a bad time together; Tim is hostile. Eventually, Jon starts to get quieter, and Tim thinks he's in a mood. Jon complains of a headache, and Tim thinks he's being a baby. Until he finds out he's burning up and was just too afraid to say anything because he didn't think he could take Tim telling him he didn't care 😭 (but, begrudgingly, he DOES) 💖

oooooooh this prompt! Had me feeling things! Thank you @taylortut!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400745

It was Tim who woke up first, unsure of where he was, still with the residual anger he’d had on his way to confront Jon about all of this nonsense still burning incandescent. Hindsight being 20/20, he probably should have taken the anonymous tip on Jon’s location with a grain of salt and a fistful of caution but he was just so angry it was filling him up like a poison, overflowing with nowhere to go, and it was so much easier to focus on his boss because it was his fault they were in this mess.

It was his fault Sasha was gone.

It was his fault they were all trapped.

“T’Tim...” Barely an exhale and if the room they were contained in hadn’t been dead quiet, he’d ignore Jon. Still might. Let him sit in the guilt and shame of having inflicted whatever this was on yet another assistant.

If he even cared.

“Where...are we?” There was some light to see by, but not nearly enough to determine the answer to that even if he’d wanted to speak to him in the first place. Based on his own headache, Tim assumed that Jon had been knocked unconscious as well and corroborated it with the hiss of pain drawn sharply between his teeth.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Snapping callously and surprising even himself at the harsh bite in his voice, Jon flinched hard, turning with it to examine the space.

“We’re tied up.” He remarked, nonplussed, and Tim heard him pulling at his bonds. It wasn’t rope, but something softer and before he could think on it further a shaft of light fell upon Jon as a being, not quite a person, stepped through a door. “Nikola.”

“Well acquainted are you?” Tim scoffed.

“Not by choice.” And he didn’t look anywhere except straight at the thing he’d named, vitriol in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw.

“Oh, Archivist. Don’t be like that.” Her smile was inhuman, too many teeth, not quite right. “And please do stop frowning like that.” Jon turned away from the fingers claiming his chin and Tim had once been so close to him that he knew he didn’t like to be touched unless he trusted you. Like Tim had trusted him. “I want you in pristine condition for the show.” She snapped once and several mannequins surrounded and released Jon from his bonds. They tried to drag him through the door and Jon fought like a beast possessed, wild and feral and loud and no match for their sturdy yet gentle grip as they carried him off against his will. It left Tim alone in sudden silence, a little stunned and more than a little worried and he’d take that to his grave, thank you very much.

With nothing else to focus his attention on, Tim could only think of how awful Jon looked illuminated in that cold beam with that monster leering down at him. Could only think about how hard he fought before he was hauled away in cold, plastic hands and wondered if that was the last of him.

But he was returned, quiet and haunted, still and silent when they tied him back down and resisting the water they held to his lips until they forced it on him by holding his nose, sputtering and hacking as they poured it down his throat. Calm, Tim took his ration, puzzling over his strange behavior and trying to get a closer look, but Jon just hid behind his overgrown hair, using it like a curtain to shield his face and visibly shivering.

“Given up already?” He sneered, trying to get a rise out of him.

He failed.

Time waxed and waned, strained and stretched, dilating like a pupil in the dark whenever Tim tried to keep track of it. Eventually, he gave up. It didn’t seem like there was any rhyme or reason regarding when they took Jon, but he assumed it was at least once a day. Each time he raged against them with everything he had and each time they overpowered him like he was a child and hurried him off to god knows where. Each time he was tied back down he had an odd blank look in his eye that gradually cleared until it didn’t, trembling finely and Tim used it as a way to needle him, goad him, tried to make him do something, anything. Without a response he didn’t know if he was getting through to him, but it made him feel better to take out his frustration on Jon.

Days passed. Inexorably slow with nothing to do save yell at his sole companion. Jon still tried to make his taking as difficult as he could, but he was slowing down, losing strength on a diet of bread and sips of water. Now when he returned he shook with the effort of weeping without sound, turned away as far as he could and spilling sorrow down the front of his shirt.

“Oh, little Archivist.” Nikola purred one day, lifting his face with a delicately placed fingertip. “Do you know why he hates you?” A new game they were forced to play. Because they were held captive by the Circus. And the Circus had taken Danny. And Tim screamed himself hoarse demanding answers from Jon when he'd been told.

“You’re lucky I’m tied down, Jon! I would take my answers by force if these fuckers would let me!” Jon never said anything other than apologies and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair and when Jon cried it made him that much more furious because what right did he have to be upset when he was the one doing all this to them!

“We can’t have that, Tim.” She would smirk, placing her hands over his shoulders in a mock massage, tone soothing and so understanding. “We need him to be perfect.”

“Perfect.” Tim spat. Perfect. And Jon shook harder at Nikola’s cryptic words until she turned her machinations toward Tim because, after all? If he’d kept a closer eye on his precious family, would he have lost him at all?

“It’s really your fault if you think about it.” Tim tried his damndest to get closer, grappling so hard with his bonds he fell over and still tried to take a chunk out of her with his teeth. She merely laughed, ridiculing them both.

“Leave off!” Jon shouted, Tim’s chest was heaving against the floor as he twisted and bent himself into all manner of shapes in a fruitless attempt to attack her again, blind with rage and hate.

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Nikola caressed his skin and Jon bit his lip until blood ran in rivelets but she left.

“I’m so sor--”

“Save it. Don’t think this changes anything.” Uncomfortable and sore and still seething, Tim laid there until they came for Jon.

Whatever they were doing was taking a visible toll and Jon’s resistance began tapering off and he became too tired to put up a fight. He’d developed a cough that kept them both awake. It began small, chronic and dry, but no less obnoxious and only Jon could find more ways to make this captivity more difficult.

“Stop it.” Clipped and bitter.

“Sorry, sorry. Smoking, you know.” Tim didn’t answer and Jon’s attempts to stifle it were sorely lacking, bursting from his chest like a gunshot.

“You know what they want, don’t you.” Surprised, he looked up, nodding slowly, brow furrowed. “Well?”

“It’s. It’s.” Real fear raced across his face before he could stop it and he swallowed thickly.

“Lemme guess. It involves you.” Tim’s ire began to rise because of course it did.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t just give it over to save us?” Jon looked away, eyes shut tight.

“No.” He tried to take a deep breath and it lodged somewhere in between. “But it’s becau--”

“Save it. Coward. It’s enough that you won’t consider it.” Resentful, Tim again wanted to get his hands on him because of course he’d refuse. There wasn’t a more selfish man in the archives. “So this is it then? We go the way of Sasha?”

“I--”

“Because you didn’t help her either. Didn’t even notice.” It was his turn to hide because he’d be damned if Jon saw him cry. “Maybe if she’d been the Archivist, it would have been you.”

Jon didn’t, couldn’t fight this time and was more lifeless than any time before when they secured him which seemed to please Nikola and she praised him, dragging fingers through his messy hair, pulling sharply on the tangles.

“Ah, you’ve finally learned, Jon." And she tapped his cheek, sickeningly tender, before finally leaving him alone.

“Giving up so soon?” Tim scoffed; ‘so soon’ being weeks into their capture when Jon was clearly exhausted, sleeping more and more in between waking enough to hack up a lung. He could hear the wheeze on his breath from where he was across the room. “Figures.”

“Jus’… m'head hurts.” Laughing bitterly, Tim told him to keep it to himself. Dealing with Jon when he was in a mood or whining for the sake of it hadn’t made it onto his agenda. But the part that cared, that he’d tried to stamp out and fill with hate, reminded him that they were both dehydrated and hungry.

Reminded him that Jon was getting quieter and quieter, going long stretches between speaking and this time when he was carried away, he was frighteningly lax and loose, head thrown back and gasping, overbright eyes half lidded. This time, when they dragged him back and tied him up, he was crying openly, shaking fit to fly apart and eerily quiet. But the tears were there, streaming down his face and gathering on his chin before his trembling got the better of them.

“Jon?” If anything, he sobbed harder, the sound choked off as he tried so, so hard to be quiet.

“Please s’stop, Tim.” And his whisper was so broken, so small and sad, that Tim shut his mouth, because Jon was at his breaking point and he’d helped push him to it.

Now Tim couldn't stop looking at Jon and it made the other man self conscious when he was awake enough to notice, trying to keep his head turned away when he had the strength and it wasn't thrown back over the chair while he gasped like a fish out of water.

The few times Tim caught him looking his way were fraught with weariness. Jon's red rimmed eyes, bruised and ringed with shadow, held a constant question and reminded him too much of his paranoia. Truthfully, the stare was heavy and he was uncomfortable with the weight of it leveled across his shoulders.

"What're you staring at?" But it was a half-hearted attempt at inflicting hurt and Jon shrugged, blinking and a few times as if to clear his vision.

"You okay?" It sounded like he'd been swallowing gravel, rough and low and painful.

"What do you think?" And Tim couldn't stop responding in anger, swearing to himself that Jon's defeated expression meant less than nothing.

Jon wasn’t well.

He’d been unconscious for the better part of a day and Tim hadn’t been able to rouse him; shouting at him from the other side of the room wasn't enough but he tried once more out of desperation.

“Jon, buddy. Jon!”

“Mmwha'Tim?” Cracked right in the middle, it was forced through a deep wet cough that sounded bad. Really bad. The effort left his narrow chest heaving with every difficult pull for air, like he was breathing through a straw.

“Oh, thank god.” Even with the distance between them Tim could see his face twist up in confusion. “You weren't answering me.”

“Talkin t'me?” Panting and pale in the weird light, Jon’s features seemed carved from shadow and sweat.

“Yes, who else??” More than used to Tim’s frustration and annoyance, Jon just let his chin tip forward on his chest. “Jon, what's wrong.”

“Head hur's.” Slurring badly, Jon gave up words altogether in favor of letting his dark lashes flutter closed.

“You've said! What else?” Yelling and angry and helpless, the guilt rose in him like a slow and deadly tide when he saw tears slipping down his face. Tim was scared and he was mean, shouting and demanding, because of it. Because he thought he was done caring about this paranoid menace who had posed as his friend and gotten them into this mess. And he wasn't, oh he wasn't and something was seriously, seriously wrong and he was tied to a chair two meters away and couldn’t do anything about it. “Jon! Don’t, hey! Don’t go to sleep!” But it didn’t matter, he was already gone.

“Well, don’t you look tetchy.” Tim ignored Nikola’s jab the next time she and her clowns came to visit and through a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t felt in so long for anybody, he spoke on his behalf.

“Please. Jon, he. Something’s wrong.” She didn’t look impressed.

“He’s stopped his fighting.”

“Let me check on him. Whatever you need him for, he won’t be any use if he’s dead, right?” Nikola laughed, cruel smile striking fear into Tim’s heart for the first time.

“It wouldn’t matter, truly. But. Well," grabbing a fistful of hair, she forced his head back and forth to get a good look at him. "I just don’t think he’s done yet. And that would be a shame--I do so wish to look my best.” Tim was no closer to figuring out what was happening but it didn’t matter anymore. “I assure you, if you try to run.”

“I won’t.” Swiftly promised, they’d escape another time. Somehow, someway. “Untie us?”

“Us?” She chuckled and in the end, only released Tim but it would have to do, and once he was sure she was well and truly gone, he stumbled on numb legs to stand over him.

“Jon?” Gently, like he might break under the weight of his hand, Tim laid it over his forehead, brushing back through his tangled hair when the heat of it met his palm. He was a furnace, burning away to nothing and very sick. “Jon?” He tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt, wiping away the sweat because there was nothing else he could do until he finally came around. “Hey, Jon.” Jerking away with enough force that Tim had to catch the chair, he coughed with his shoulders hunched around his ears like--

Like Tim was going to strike him.

“Oh, no, no.” What a mess they’d made. “Hey, none of that.” When he went to apply the compress again, Jon flinched, shaking, muttering breathlessly:

“Don’touch, please, don’touch me any’anymore. Pl’please.” So now he was free, free to see up close the terror and fear, faced with it plainly enough to question that Jon wanted any of this at all, or if he was just as caught in it’s spiraling web. He wore himself out, body slumped uncomfortably where he was tied as he lost consciousness and Tim was at a loss as to what to do. He wasn’t able to pick apart the knots, didn’t have anything to slice through his bonds. No medicine, no water. Nothing, and so he finally relegated himself to pounding on the door, shouting, pleading for water because Jon was out of his mind with fever and wouldn't let Tim touch him. Of course it went unanswered, and instead he found himself sitting crisscross at Jon’s feet. “Don’...don’touch…”

“I won’t, I promise. Not, not until you say I can.” Wringing his hands, remembering every time they'd helped each other through a sick day at the institute. Remembering when he was free to touch and free to comfort. Jon ruined that. But it shouldn't mean he was afraid of him.

“T’tim?” The whimper of recognition made the fist around his heart squeeze. “They...they’re. My skin. Take it. G’g’gonna take it.”

“Calm down, you’re not making sense.” And shaking so hard with chills his teeth were chattering.

“It’s going to, to hurt. She, Ni-she.” Worked up, Jon was hyperventilating, barely getting any air between his coughing and rambling but he wouldn’t listen to Tim. “It’s, it’s. I, I, I don’wan’to h’hurt anymore…” Delirious, he had to be, paranoid and ill and delusional and he said as much.

“Okay, Jon? That’s not going to happen.”

“Why Tim!” Nikola’s delighted voice rose up behind him and he startled. “He didn’t tell you? This ritual requires a special ingredient, a costume! Of special power and distinction and you,” she tapped his forehead sharply, “just don’t fit the bill!”

“Costume?”

“Of course!” When she clapped her hands together it made a sharp plastic clatter. “Our Archivist here will have the most lovely skin when we’re through with him.” Tim felt sick to his stomach. Jon. He’d. He’d called him a coward. Wished awful things on him and maybe it would be impossible to be friends again but, but they’d been friends once. Been close once. And.

“Please. He, he needs water.” His voice shook. “His--” skin “It’ll be better if he’s had enough water.”

“A wonderful idea!” She turned away from where she was tracing lines over his body, “to think I wanted to kill you upon arrival, when you’ve been so useful in keeping our mutual friend in line!”

“Slow, slow Jon.” He pulled the cup away when it seemed he’d try for the whole of it at once, “you’ll make yourself sick.”

“T’Tim...need.”

“I know, be patient.” Jon’s brown eyes were piercing even glassed with fever, all his limited focus directed at Tim.

“N’no.” He paused to get enough breath to speak. “Run. You n’need to run.” Days ago, Tim would have done so in a heartbeat but the thought of abandoning him now. He couldn’t.

“I cant.”

“Tim”

“No, not without you.” His gaze was devastating and he dropped his head.

“Why?” He didn’t have an answer and thankfully didn’t need one because at that very moment a yellow door appeared where one had never been before and through it stepped a man who both was and wasn’t, face ever changing, limbs elongating in strange intervals and he had to look away.

“I’ve come to kill you, Archivist.” A distorted echo that was also not an echo filled up the room.

“Get in line, you’re not the only one who wants a piece.” The being seemed taken aback, tickled that a human would even dare, and Jon used the gap in their conversation to draw its attention.

“Michael.” The thing that was Not What It Is shifted focus, oil on water. “Tell me.” And while Jon couldn’t say anything more than that, he did and instead of killing the archivist, Helen saved him, using sharp fingers that warped and writhed to slice the bonds and send him sprawling to the ground. Or would have, if Tim hadn’t caught him. He wouldn’t respond to Tim’s shaking and shouting and when Helen offered to grant them both safe passage as a favor to her favorite Sims (her only Sims, Tim figured) he lifted him into his arms and stepped through the door.

And into his own flat.

“Do tell him I say hello, would you?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Course.” Awkwardly, he waved with his arms still full of Jon. “Thanks.” When he was sure his flat had only the same number of doors it came with, he laid his burden down on the couch, heading to the medicine cabinet for any fever reducer he could find and filling a glass with water on the way. It took too much time to wake him and he wasn’t aware enough to parse the instructions Tim was trying to explain, that dreadful whistling almost deafening this close and the crackling in his lungs like dry leaves in autumn. So he propped him up against his shoulder, body blazing through their clothes, and slipped the pills onto his tongue one at a time so he could swallow them with small sips. Replacing himself with several pillows shoved behind him, Tim wrung out a cool flannel and smoothed it over his forehead, ignoring the sluggish, enquiring gaze until it disappeared behind heavy lids and his face relaxed into sleep.

There wasn’t anything in the fridge that survived his absence save for the bicarbonate of soda and beyond that, Tim didn’t want to take a chance opening anything. The bread was moldy, but a packet of biscuits with peanut butter helped dull the hunger and, though he would never admit it, gave him a reason to stay up to watch over Jon. Flushed and fevered, he mumbled nonsense in his sleep, and Tim recognized enough that he soon decided not to listen, the horror of it too much to bear just yet. He fell into his own bed, relaxing sore muscles and glanced at the clock blaring too bright numbers that he didn’t want to read, his last conscious decision that they’d been gone this long, what was one more night before telling everyone else they weren’t dead.

The sun, blessed sun, fell across his face and he let himself have a lie in until he remembered who was passed out on his couch and he dragged himself towards responsibility, a knot of apprehension tight in his throat, relaxing when Jon looked, well, not well, but better. Apparently sensitive to being watched, their eyes collided briefly before ricocheting away and Tim was irritated by it and the way Jon was avoiding him again.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were that sick?” Though Tim stood over him, Jon continued to look at his hands, tracing a finger over the rough scar spanning his whole palm. He took his time, thinking, so long that when Tim shouted “well?!” he jumped, eyes wide, breath catching.

“You. You said.” Coughing into his elbow, he needed a moment to recover. “Said t’to keep it to myself.”

“When you were complaining about a headache!” Jon shrugged with one shoulder, curling into himself small and fragile, somehow more so in the late morning light.

“Didn’t think--”

“No, you didn’t, you never do, Jon!”

“--you’d want to know.”

“Jon.” But would he have wanted to know? Would he have ignored it like he had his anguish? What reason had Tim given him when he’d used everything he experienced in that room and out of it as a weapon against him? Jon was looking up at him, wan and pallid, waiting for whatever Tim had to say and he knew he would take it like he’d taken it in their captivity. He sat on the low table in front of the couch. “Jon. I’m. You know I’m angry with you.” He nodded. “I’m sorry for, I took it too far. But, I’d still have wanted to know.” He pressed the next dose of medicine into his unblemished hand and made sure the water glass was within reach. “Take those.” Before he slipped into the kitchen and away from their shared mistakes, but he could still hear.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“Oh,” he popped his head back into the sitting room. “Helen says hello.” And chuckled when Jon threw an arm over his eyes with a groan.

[forever-rogue]

Congrats again on 6k! That's such an accomplishment! 💖 For the prompt lists could you do 3. “Please don’t walk out of that door.” and 33. “Don’t cry.” for Javier? (Both are from List 1)

Thank you, babes!! I hope you enjoy...

»»————-　♡　————-««

You had your reservations about Javier Peña . You really had; especially once you had started working with him and learned about his not so conventional methods of extracting information from informants. But you never judged him, you knew that everyone worked differently. But then his eyes turned to you. And that was something you tried to avoid all together.

Sure, you didn’t mind the flirting, the playful touches, and the banter back and forth, but that’s what you planned to keep it at, despite how badly you wanted him. Javier was bad news and you weren’t looking for any trouble. So you knew you shouldn’t have gotten drunk around him, you knew so much better. But it didn’t stop you. Of course it didn’t. Because at the end of the day, drunk you knew exactly what you wanted and that was Javier and only Javier.  

Why had you even agreed to go out with everyone, including Connie, to a dark and dirty club to go dancing? Was it really that you wanted to buy overpriced drinks and get all hot and sweaty? No. Was it because you wanted to spend some time with Javier and see where things ended up? Bingo. In your sober state of mind you would never do such a thing, but something inside you had snapped when Steve had extended the invitation to come and you realized that meant Javi would be there. If you were drunk and something happened, that would be a perfect excuse for your actions, right? So you hoped anyway.

But the next morning, when you woke up with a raging headache, eyes still bleary from sleep, you wondered where the hell you where because it was most definitely not your bedroom.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you yawned and studied your surroundings. It was a sparely decorated space, and the bed space next to you was cold already, although a familiar smell clung to the pillows. You knew that smell; you knew it all too well. Shit.

Suddenly frazzled, you almost jumped out of the bed and began collecting your clothes, or lack of them, from the night before and hastily threw them on. It would be the walk of shame, across the hall to your own apartment anyway, for you today.

As you entered the hallway, you were hit with the smell of fresh brewed coffee and...was that bacon sizzling? Soft humming met your ears and you quickly realized that he must have been up and awake already. So much for a discreet escape. You figured you might as well try it anyway and see what would happen; it wasn’t like it could get much worse anyway.

“Good morning, sunshine,” of course. He had to spot you right away. Javi was standing here, showered and dressed already, a soft smile on his face.You knew why all the girls wanted him; who could resist him? And after last night, you knew why they didn’t stay away and always come back. But it was never supposed to be you; despite how deep your feelings ran for him, you could never have a real relationship with him. It just wouldn’t happened, “hungry?”

“I...I, ugh, was just going to head out,” you said, trying to avoid his eyes, knowing they were boring into you, “but thanks.”

“You’re just leaving?” a note of concern colored his voice. What had he expected?

“Yeah,” you swallowed the lump in your throat as you tired to avoid his gaze, and the stinging forming in the back of your eyes, “isn’t that what usually happens after a one night stand?”

“Did you...think that’s what this was?” he seemed genuinely concerned as you nodded. What else could it possibly have been? This was the thing he was known for, and while you had hoped things would be different, you knew it just couldn’t be so.

“I mean...Javi...look at us. We work together, we were drunk...” your voice cracked as you tried to keep it together. This hurt more than you thought it would, “it’s never going to be more than this.”

“But it can,” he insisted coming over to you. He spied the few tears that had rolled down your cheeks and reached to brush them away. His tenderness was more than you had bargained for, and a small pathetic sound escaped your lips, “please don’t cry, Y/N. It’s alright, baby.”

“Don’t,” you insisted softly, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away from your face. He had to call you that, of course he did. What hurt the most was how much you really wanted him to mean it. To want you, and only you. But he did - you just couldn’t bring yourself to realize that, and it scared him to admit it, “please.”

“We can talk about this, Y/N,” he insisted, “please, we can make this work-”

“There’s nothing to make work, Javi,” you insisted pulling away from and heading for the door, “this shouldn’t have happened. Ever. I-I’m sorry...”

“Please don’t walk out that door,” he pleaded as your hand rested on the knob, “let’s just talk about this-”

“I’m sorry, Javi,” you whispered as you opened the door and stepped out, “I really am. But I...can’t do this. Not now.”

“Y/N,” but you were gone before he got your full name out, and sighed and rubbed his face. He turned back to the now burnt bacon and turned off the stove, throwing the pan in the sink.

This wasn’t how many of this was supposed to go. This was not what he had wanted when he finally told you about his feelings.

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 38

Tw: slight alcoholism (possibly) in the first scene, mentions of hallucinations in the third scene

A/N: The fist scene actually starts before the end of the last scene in chapter 37. I hope that's not too confusing. And I added a pov for Andromache!

----

Andromache has been waiting for Jurian to show up for well over an hour now and her mood has been souring with every passing minute. Ever since the spell was cast, she has been feeling strangely light-headed and whenever she touches something, sparks fly between her fingers like there is too much energy stored in her body, trying to get out. She has heard no news from Miryam and badly wants to go check up on her, but instead, she is sitting in this stupid camp waiting for Jurian to come back from his stupid game of cat-and-mouse with Amarantha.

If it was up to her, she would have left already. But unfortunately, she promised Drakon that she would tell Jurian what happened. Not that she should have to tell him at all. No, he should have been right there with the rest of them, not running after Amarantha again. And that’s exactly what Andromache is going to say to him when he gets back, just with far less pleasant words. If he ever gets back, that is.

She shifts her weight on the fence she is sitting on. A few soldiers who pass by give her curious glances and she makes herself smile at them. Much as she would like to scowl and grumble, she is a queen and has to keep up appearances.

The minutes tick by. After a while, Andromache finds that she is hungry. She gets a bowl of stew and sits with a group of soldiers, making pleasant conversation while she eats. When she is done, there is still no sign of Jurian, but she has developed a pounding headache. When she gets up, she sways sightly and has to grip the table to keep from falling. Her head is fuzzy and she feels strangely drunk.

Stupid spell. Stupid Jurian.

For all she knows, it might take hours until he returns to the camp, and Andromache refuses to wait this long. She wants to go to bed right about now. She’ll sleep for a few hours and then come back in the evening to tell Jurian about what happened. If he returns earlier and worries about where Miryam is, too bad for him. As far as Andromache is concerned, a bit of worrying might be good for him, and if Drakon wants to spare him the discomfort, then he can stand around waiting for him.

Andromache finds a half-Fae man with the ability to winnow and asks him to take her back to her own camp. As he winnows her, she feels slightly bad about herself for leaving, but she is too damn tired to care much, so she just tasks the half-Fae with informing Jurian that she wants to speak to him as soon as he returns and stumbles off to her tent. She doesn’t even bother to pull off her shoes before falling into bed.

She wakes up warm and comfortable, with Mor’s arm draped around her. Still sleepy, Andromache snuggles closer to Mor.

“Morning,” Mor whispers into her hair and presses a kiss on her brow.

Andromache smiles to herself, deciding that she is a very lucky woman. There may be a war raging outside, but as long as her and Mor are together, it feels like nothing will ever be able to touch them. They are safe together and Andromache is beyond glad of that. She couldn’t imagine having to wrangle with personal struggles on top of the war.

“What did you do yesterday?” Mor asks. “You slept like dead.”

Yawning, Andromache rolls over on her back. Yesterday… Oh shit.

She bolts upright. Mor next to her grunts in protest, but she is already scrambling out of bed. Through the slit of the tent, the morning sun is shining inside, casting a bright line of light on the ground. Shit.

She must have slept more than fifteen hours. By now, Jurian is surely back in his camp and will be worried sick about Miryam being gone. Damnit, she promised Drakon that she would deal with Jurian. And she should have checked in to see how Miryam is doing hours ago.

“What’s wrong?” Mor asks. She is sitting upright in bed by now, blanket drawn up to her chin.

Andromache opens her mouth to explain, but then, she remembers that she isn’t allowed to tell Mor about the wall spell. She could probably explain that something happened to Miryam without mentioning how exactly it happened, but for all she knows, Miryam might be perfectly fine by now and if she is, she certainly wouldn’t appreciate word of what happened getting around. The last thing either of them needs is a rumour about the head of the Alliance going insane.

“I missed a meeting,” Andromache says carefully. It is technically the truth – she was indeed supposed to meet Jurian – so by all logic, Mor’s gift shouldn’t catch on to the lie. “I’m sorry, but I really need to go. I’ll tell you what it’s about when I get back.”

She waits for Mor to nod, then gives her a brief kiss and rushes out of the tent.

Andromache is briefly torn between visiting Jurian or Miryam first. If she could choose, she’d go to Miryam, but that would mean having to tell Miryam or Drakon that she still hasn’t told Jurian about what happened yesterday. So Jurian first.

In his camp, she runs into the half Fae who winnowed her yesterday almost right away. He bows.

“Your Majesty, I – “

“Weren’t you supposed to send Jurian to me as soon as he woke up?” Andromache asks, only barely keeping herself from snapping at him. After all, it was her who overslept and blaming a random soldier for that would be unfair.

“Yes, Majesty, but something went wrong with the battle yesterday and the general said he was otherwise occupied. He’s in his tent.”

Andromache nods and rushes off. It seems strange that Jurian wouldn’t want to talk to her right away. Unless something went seriously wrong with the battle, that is.

“Jurian?” She calls from the tent’s entrance.

When there is no reply, she pushes it open and walks inside. Jurian is lying facedown on his bed. His armour lies scattered on the ground, but he’s still wearing a slightly bloody shirt. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol. Andromache wrinkles her nose and walks over the Jurian.

“Jurian.” She reaches out and shakes him slightly.

He grumbles something she doesn’t understand into his pillow. Andromache thinks she hears the words “go away”. She crosses her arms, wondering what Miryam would do in this situation. Probably something patient and sympathetic. But Andromache doesn’t feel like coddling Jurian after he apparently spent the evening drinking.

“If you aren’t sitting up in one minute,” she says firmly, “I’m going to ask one of your soldiers for a bucket of cold water and see if that gets you sobered up.”

Jurian remains lying in bed motionless for a few more heartbeats. Just when Andromache turns around for the door to go looking for a bucket, he groans and sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. “Where’s Miryam?”

And just like that, the whirlwind of emotions that has been cursing through Andromache since yesterday turns to roaring anger. And all of it is directed at Jurian, who spent all of yesterday chasing after his stupid vengeance and then drinking himself to oblivion when he should have been there for the spell. He should have been the one to hold Miryam afterwards, when she wouldn’t stop screaming, he should have been there with them, worrying.

“Where’s Miryam?” She asks, voice biting. “The question should be where were you. You promised to be there for the spell!”

“I needed to…” Jurian shakes his head, frowning. “Amarantha…”

“Miryam almost died,” Andromache snaps. “And the only people who were there to try and help were Drakon and me. Because you once again weren’t there.” She balls her hands to fists to keep from shoving him. “Did you even notice anything was wrong, or were you too busy getting drunk?”

Jurian’s frown deepens, he shakes his head. “I wasn’t…” He rubs his temples. “You’re talking too loudly.”

He’s still drunk, or at least seriously hungover. She’s yelling at a drunk man. Andromache sighs, deflating slightly. “Why did you get so drunk?”

As far as she knows, he doesn’t typically get drunk. But maybe he and Miryam just decided to keep it quiet, should it be the case.

“Because it hurts,” he tells her. “And I can’t make it stop hurting.” He rubs his eyes and Andromache realizes that he’s crying. “I got them killed. I was so sure it would work – the ambush… it was so simple, I did everything right, but they still died.” He looks up at her. “Why can’t I ever stop them from dying?”

Just like that, Andromache’s anger evaporates. Jurian is suffering too, she realizes. He’s suffering as much as Miryam, just in a different way.

Why didn’t she ever see it before? Both Miryam and Drakon, the people who know him best, insisted for months – years, really – that he is suffering, but no one ever truly believed them. They all just saw Jurian as difficult, a bit of an ass, really. Looking at him now, she doesn’t understand why anymore. His way of suffering may be uglier to deal with than Miryam’s, but he is suffering no less.

“I’ll get you some food,” Andromache says. “And a bucket with warm water to wash yourself. We have enough time to talk once you are sober.”

----

Drakon is well aware that his plan is crazy. Stupid, dangerous and forbidden. But he spent most of last night thinking, and with the short timeframe, this was the only solution he found.

The door to the caves closes behind him with a clang, and Drakon slowly walks though the corridor. Like always, power lies heavy in the air, but for the first time, he feels like it is straining against him. It’s like he’s not a welcome guest, but an intruder, a thief sneaking through a holy place. Maybe the island senses what he is trying to do. Or maybe he’s just imagining things.

“Hello?” He calls, voice echoing off the cave walls. He’s still far enough from the cave’s entrance to keep from triggering the spells guarding it, and nothing moves to answer him.

Now that he is standing here, it occurs to him that he has no idea where the ghost is when he isn’t around. He came by to visit a few times, but then, he always appeared out of thin air without Drakon doing anything.

“Ghost!” That is most certainly not his name, but when Drakon asked during his last visit, the witcher refused to tell it to him and asked him to just call him Ghost. “I need to talk to you!”

“Well, I’m honoured.”

Drakon only barely manages to keep from yelping. Heart racing, he turns around to Ghost who is standing behind him. He has taken his human-looking form again, which Drakon takes as a good sign.

“You look tired,” Ghost remarks. “I’m right to assume that it’s not because you spent the night reading, playing cards or doing any other pleasant things?”

As things stand, Drakon did spend most of the night reading, it just wasn’t particularly pleasant. The book was absolutely horrifying. He still can’t believe that Miryam read that and simply accepted what was written inside as her fate. Miryam, who started a war and did the impossible time and again to save her people, didn’t even try to save herself.

“Unfortunately not,” he says. Pauses. “I need your help.”

Ghost gives him a smile that is probably meant to be excited, but looks uncanny. It’s abundantly clear that this isn’t an actual body, but rather an illusion, and Ghost isn’t very good at copying movements convincingly.

“So you’re going to free me?” He asks excitedly.

Drakon bites his lower lip. “You know I can’t do that.”

Ghost deflates. His entire form seems to dim. “You realize, of course, that I won’t be able to help you if I’m trapped in this cave?”

Drakon is more worried if Ghost will want to help him if he remains trapped in this cave.  “I have this friend,” he begins hesitantly. “Her name is Miryam.”

“How nice for you,” Ghost remarks drily.

“She’s dying,” Drakon says.

“Oh.” Ghost looks somewhat shocked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Drakon nods and starts drumming around on his leg. “It’s her power,” he says. “She’s struggling with controlling it and we haven’t been able to find a solution. We’re running out of time, and I thought maybe you could teach her.”

“And what gave you that brilliant idea?” Ghosts’ words are sharp, as they usually are, but there is no real bite behind them.

“You’re a witcher, and a powerful one at that. Miryam is a witch, so you ought to be able to help her.”

“No.” The word cuts through the air, sharp as a blade. Ghost’s entire form seems to darken, shadows shoot over his face.

“No?” Drakon echoes.

“Exactly. And don’t even bother trying to argue – I don’t associate with witches.” With that, he vanishes into thin air.

Left alone in the corridor, Drakon stares at the spot where he was standing until a moment ago. Of all the reactions he prepared himself for, from happy agreement to demanding a steep price for his help, he never considered this outcome. He can’t believe that Ghost just vanished. He didn’t even try to negotiate.

“You’re damning her to death!” Drakon calls.

Only deafening silence answers. I don’t care, it seems to say, why would I care?

“You don’t even know her! She’s a good person, kind and smart and strong. You don’t get to do this to her.”

Ghost doesn’t appear. Drakon feels the desperate urge to hurl something against one of the walls. He only resists because in his current situation, angering his goddess by throwing things around in her holy site seems unwise.

“And you have the nerve to call the Mother uncaring?” He screams, voice echoing off the walls. “You’re no better!”

Pop. Ghost reappears right in front of him. This time, his eyes are black. “I don’t help witches,” he repeats, “And since you are allegedly fighting for the humans, I’m surprised you want me to.”

“Miryam is human,” Drakon snaps. “Born a slave, if this is what you care so much about.”

Ghost stares at him, completely motionless. He doesn’t blink or breathe, which probably makes sense given that he’s a ghost, but is unnerving nonetheless.

“I’ll help you,” Ghost says, suddenly enough that Drakon flinches slightly. “No payment required.”

Drakon frowns at him, trying to find the trap in the words. But the only possible manipulation he can imagine is that Ghost is trying to get him to like him, which seems like a very weak reason to pass up on an excellent opportunity to demand a favour in return for his help. Did being compared to the Mother truly insult him this much?

“Thank you,” Drakon says hesitantly. “That is very kind.”

“There’s just one problem.” Ghost gives him a rueful smile. “I can’t get out of this cave, and unless you plan on marrying this Miryam, she can’t come here.”

“Fortunately for all involved, there is a third option.”

He starts walking towards the cave’s entrance. The mist rises slowly, first only one tendril, then another and another. Drakon digs his fingers into his tunic and keeps walking.

“What are you doing now?” Ghost asks. “Please tell me your plan doesn’t rely on praying to your goddess for help.”

 No, that’s not his plan. For some reason of her own, the Mother hasn’t answered his prayers yet and he doubts she will do so now. So Drakon will have to take matters into his own hands. Although his plan doesn’t seem half as good anymore now that he is here.

“You’re tied to the sword, right?” He asks. “So you go where it goes?”

A moment of silence follows, then Ghost laughs. “Smart.” He laughs again. “And here I was, thinking you were a stickler for the rules. Must have been mistaken.”

Drakon blushes. “I won’t use it,” he says defensively. “I just need to take it out of this cave for a few hours.”

With that, he takes the final step towards the cave’s entrance. Mist rises thick enough to bar the view into the cave beyond, then forms a figure. Even though Drakon knew who it would be, seeing his father in front of him is still a shock.

“Again?” His father asks. “Aren’t you tired of failing at the same test again and again?”

“I need to get into the cave,” Drakon says. Why does the mist have to show him his father of all people? With anyone else, this would be much easier. “It is important. Please let me through.”

“It would have been important for you to save your people.” His father laughs. “But you couldn’t do that, could you? What kind of ruler allows his people to get slaughtered while he does nothing?”

Drakon’s wings tremble behind him. He can’t do this. His father is right. How is he supposed to face a fear when it is the truth? He steps back, making the mist collapse in on itself, and turns around to Ghost, who has been watching in silence the entire time.

“How do I get past that?”

“Confront your fear,” Ghost says, giving one of his jerky shrugs.

“Yes, but there has to be an easier way.”

“There really isn’t. If it’s any consolation, about half your predecessors also failed at this.”

That gives Drakon a pause. “But you said I was the only one.”

Ghost looks about as ashamed as an incorporeal ghost with limited ways to show his feeling can possibly look. “I might have lied about that,” he admits. “But now that we’ve cleared that up, I should probably tell you that your opinion of your ancestors is far too high. Most of them weren’t nearly as great as you seem to think.”

Drakon doubts Ghost knew any of them well enough to judge, since he is allegedly the first one to talk to him properly. And any relief he might have felt at not being the first one to fail at the spell gets overshadowed by the knowledge that Miryam will likely die if he can’t do this.

Ghost seems to notice his despair, because he says, “You don’t have to overcome your fears. The spell simply requires you to confront them.”

Drakon tugs his wings in closer to his body and leans against the wall. “I am confronting my fears, though,” he says. “My country is under attack, my people are being slaughtered – it’s nearly impossible for me not to confront that I’m too incompetent to save them.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have too little confidence in yourself?” Ghost asks. “You told me you managed to implement some major changes in your country’s political system successfully while simultaneously fighting a war. That hardly sounds incompetent to me.”

“The people who got slaughtered because of my failures might disagree.” As well as every other Continental leader. The list of people who would say that Drakon is suited to his position is rather short.

“No war without casualties,” Ghost says, “It’s horrible, but in my experience, wars have a habit of producing corpses. Are you going to blame yourself for each and every death that happens?” When Drakon doesn’t reply, he adds, “If you ask me, your problem is that you don’t confront your fears, you simply accept them. You may be scared of not being good enough or failing, but you are also convinced that those fears are true. That’s what you need to deal with if you want to get into that cave.”

Drakon drums a quick rhythm on his leg. “But it is true,” he says. “I can’t do anything about that.”

“In that case, you ought to say goodbye to your friend.”

Drakon freezes. Miryam… If he doesn’t manage to get into that cave, it’s over for her. They could try to find another solution, but within less than a month, that is nearly impossible. He needs to get past the spell, or she will die, and he promised that he wouldn’t allow that to happen.

Slowly, he steps forward. His father reappears in front of him, frowning.

“You could at least have the decency to leave,” he says. “I don’t want to have to look at you.”

This is unfair, Drakon thinks somewhat irrationally, Why can’t my biggest fear be something like huge spiders? Spiders I could deal with.

“You always were a disappointment,” his father says, “From your childhood onwards. Had I known you would ever end up in charge of Erithia, I would have disinherited you years before you ever came of age.”

“Believe me, this is no less unfortunate for me than it is for you,” Drakon says, but there are tears burning in his eyes. He blinks them away. He is supposed to confront his fears, damnit. Right now, he is doing anything but.

The problem is that he can’t confidently say that his father is wrong. Ghost may talk about how he lacks self-confidence, Sinna, Nephelle and Miryam may tell him that he’s doing a good job of ruling his country, but the way he sees it, the facts speak against them. If he was competent, he would have found a way to stop Ravenia. Or he could at least get past this stupid spell and save Miryam.

But he doesn’t need to overcome his fears, Ghost said. He just has to confront them.

“I’m terrified,” he admits. “I’m terrified of failing, of my people suffering simply because I am not good enough.”

“They are suffering already because of that.”

“I know,” Drakon says, “And I know that they would have deserved a better ruler, someone who was actually prepared for the position.” He shakes his head. “But I am trying. I’m trying to live up to it, to be the leader they deserve. And I will keep trying and eventually, I will succeed.”

His father stares at him for a moment. Then, ever so slowly, he inclines his head. And the mist crumbles, leaving the entrance to the cave free. Drakon looks at the empty spot, not quite believing his own eyes.

“I knew you could do it,” Ghost says from behind him.

Hesitantly, Drakon steps forward. He’s almost expecting for something to hold him back, but there is no resistance as he steps through the doorway and into the cave.

He bows deeply to the sword.  Now that he is standing in the cave with the sword, its power thick in the air, he finally begins to truly realizes what he is planning to do. He steps closer, almost expecting the sword to sense what he is planning and attack him, but it simply remains lying on its stand. Slowly, he reaches out for it. He won’t do anything forbidden, not really. There’s no rule that explicitly forbids him from taking the sword away from Cretea. He just isn’t allowed to use it. Or let anyone else use it, for that matter.

“Go ahead,” Ghost says, “A little rebelliousness is always good. Although I suppose most people don’t start out by breaking millennia old traditions.”

Drakon flinches back from the sword. He really shouldn’t be doing this. It’s dangerous and forbidden, possibly even blasphemy. But if he doesn’t, then Miryam will die. He reaches for the sword again, then hesitates. With the power it radiates and the black jewel glinting in its hilt, it isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

“Could you, uhm.” How does one talk to a sword exactly? “I’m really sorry, but could you try to look more like a normal sword, please?”

The sword remains lying there, looking exactly the way it always does.

“It’s a sword,” Ghost remarks drily. “You realize that it doesn’t talk, right?”

“A magic sword,” Drakon says defensively. Apparently, Ghost is done being understanding for the moment. Drakon just hopes he’ll be kind to Miryam.

Ghost laughs. He seems to be in high spirits today, maybe at the prospect of getting out of the cave. In a heartbeat, he reappears next to the sword and whispers something to it in a language Drakon doesn’t understand. The sword shimmers softly, then changes shapes until it’s an exact replica of Drakon’s own blade lying in front of him.

“What – “ Drakon begins.

Ghost turns around to him. “It’s a magic sword, didn’t you know?” He grins. “Just not your magic sword.”

It isn’t yours either, Drakon thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He’s already gotten lucky with Ghost agreeing and doesn’t want to push it by starting a pointless argument. Slowly, carefully, he steps towards the sword and reaches out. Power zaps his fingers as he touches it, making his fingers tingle, then go numb. But he is holding the sword, and so far, it hasn’t killed him.

Carefully, he removes his own sword from its sheath and instead puts the Sword of Daín inside. That alone feels like blasphemy, but Drakon can’t get himself to truly feel bad about it. Not when it might save Miryam’s life.

----

After Drakon is gone, one of the Seraphim healers enters the tent to talk to Miryam about her situation. He mostly just confirms things she already knew, all the while maintaining a cool professionalism that is both reassuring and a little unsettling. Miryam listens in silence, then thanks the Seraphim for his help and politely refuses the pain tonic he offers her. She knows those medicines well enough – it will help the pain, but it will also make her drowsy. With her days now numbered, Miryam would rather not waste them.

After that, the healer leaves and Nephelle enters her tent. For the following minutes, they both try very hard to keep a conversation about Nephelle’s work as a cartographer going, but the news that Miryam is going to die hand heavy in the air and seem to choke the life out of any attempt at conversation. Fascinating as Miryam usually finds Nephelle’s work, today, she just can’t focus on what she is telling her. Her head hurts and she keeps flinching at shadows, scared out of her mind that the hallucinations will start again.

For want of better things to do, they end up playing cards. With the help of a few cushions at her back, Miryam manages to get into a sitting position and Nephelle sits down on her bed. The game is rather easy, but Miryam still ends up losing every time. She is simply too tired, too upset and distracted to focus on the game. Mercifully, Nephelle doesn’t comment and simply accepts victory after victory.

Ever so slowly, the pain begins to fade. After an hour, Miryam manages to eat a few spoons of soup and drink some water, and she can sit up on her own. Now that she feels a bit better, the idea that she will die in a month or less seems completely absurd.

Rationally, she knows that her oncoming death is very real. She even knows exactly how it will go. What happened yesterday won’t remain a singular occurrence. The hallucinations will get worst and her power will slip her grip more often until it eventually kills her. She just can’t imagine it. Through all those years and against all odds, she survived. She spent three years as a personal slave to Ravenia and escaped, fought over five years in the bloodiest war of the millennia. And now it’s supposed to be her own power that kills her?

Nephelle wins for the sixth time in a row and Miryam lays down her cards with a sigh. “I’m terrible at this.”

“It’s kind of unfair, really. I’ve been playing this game for two hundred years,” Nephelle says.

Miryam smiles tiredly. She likes Nephelle. “Thanks for sticking around. I know I’m terrible company right now.”

“Sure.” Nephelle’s wings rustle as she changes positions. “Maybe we could –“

A knock sounds at the door. Miryam looks up, expecting Drakon, but instead, it is Nakia who enters. The Queen of Scythia holds herself perfectly straight and remains standing in the entry as she surveys the room.

“Majesty,” Miryam says and inclines her head. Nephelle jumps to her feet and bows.

Nakia’s eyes move to Nephelle. “I’d talk to Lady Miryam,” she says, “Would you be so kind to give us some privacy.”

Nephelle looks over to Miryam, clearly waiting for her to say something. Miryam nods and Nephelle walks out of the tent, leaving her alone with Nakia.

“Please, sit,” Miryam says in an attempt to cover up the awkwardness between them.

“I’d rather remain standing,” Nakia replies brusquely. “Are you feeling better?”

“Somewhat,” Miryam replies.

She pulls her blanket higher and shifts to sit a bit straighter. Why is Nakia here? Miryam would have expected Andromache to come visit, maybe Mor, and she had hoped for Jurian. Not Nakia – certainly not after what she said yesterday. Miryam hasn’t yet gotten the chance to reflect on what Nakia said to her yesterday, but even so, the words kept stinging long after they had been spoken. Seeing Nakia now just makes it worse, and Miryam wishes she would leave.

“But you will be alright?” Nakia asks.

“Unlikely.” Miryam doesn’t have enough energy left to come up with a convincing lie, so she just doesn’t. Where would the point be, anyways? If what the healers told her is true, she won’t be able to keep what’s happening secret for more than a few weeks, either way. “I’d appreciate your discretion, though,” she adds when Nakia doesn’t say anything.

“Of course.” Nakia gives a curt not. “I’ll have word get around that you caught a bad cold.”

“Thank you,” Miryam says and then, they fall silent again.

Nakia remains standing in the entrance, staring at Miryam. It is, quite frankly, uncomfortable but Nakia is human royalty and that means Miryam has to let her proceed.

“I would like to apologize,” Nakia says abruptly. “I should not have spoken to you the way I did yesterday.”

What? For a moment, all Miryam can do is to stare. She is nearly certain she misheard. There is no way Nakia is seriously apologizing to her.

“I got the feeling you meant every word,” she manages. It’s not the expected reaction – by protocols, she should either accept the apology or demand some sort of compensation – but it’s all Miryam can manage.

“I did,” Nakia says, “But I am a queen and almost fifty years older than you are, and we are allies. Propriety alone should have been enough to keep me from speaking to you that way.” She presses her lips into a thin line. “I wanted to get you to act, but I could have gone about it differently. You were already on the ground and I saw it, but I still went for a personal attack. That was cruel, and it was unworthy and for that, I apologize.”

Miryam nods slowly. Usually, when people apologize to her, she brushes it off, but she doubts that Nakia would appreciate a simple It’s no problem.

“I’m sorry as well,” she says instead, “For what it’s worth, I truly never meant to disrespect your decision, or put anyone in danger.”

Nakia clasps her hands behind her back. “You would do it again, though. If you had to.”

“Yes.” It might be horribly and selfish, but Miryam knows that she could never accept peace as long as a single human was still enslaved. Had she truly realized the risks, it would have made her hesitate, but she doubts it could have stopped her.

“Andromache is the same,” Nakia says in a neutral tone. “Perhaps this type of recklessness is the privilege of the youth. But I have fought too many battles to risk everything we have gained these past centuries so casually.”

Miryam nods. “I guess we at least know where we both stand now.”

Nakia gives her a curt nod. “Then perhaps it is time we put this idiotic quarrel aside and start acting like allies again. After all, we’re both human.”

Miryam smiles softly. It’s not only a peace offer, but also the first time Nakia acknowledged her as human.

“I’d like that,” she says, but then, she remembers that she is probably not going to live long enough to truly get the chance to work together.

“Good,” Nakia says. Miryam doesn’t find out if she wanted to elaborate further, because the tent’s entrance flaps open before she gets the chance to say anything.

“Your Majesty.” Drakon bows a tad lower than necessary. “My apologies. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Highness.” Nakia returns the bow, far less low than the one Drakon offers.

Miryam doesn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. Her attention is entirely on the sword at Drakon’s side. It looks the same as always, but the power radiating off it is nearly enough to take Miryam’s breath away. Around it, the strings shiver and move away, as if to hide from the blade.

Whatever this sword is, it’s powerful. More powerful than anything Miryam has ever seen. What in the Mother’s name is Drakon doing with that thing?

“I’ll take my leave, then,” Nakia says. She turns to Miryam. “There are healers in Telique, too, should you wish to accompany me.”

“Thank you, but I’m quite comfortable here,” Miryam says, although the effect is undercut by the stabbing pain that shoots through her at the same time. She winces slightly, but at least, Nakia seems reassured that she if here of her own free will. With a curt goodbye to both of them, she stalks out of the tent.

Miryam waits until the door to the tent is closed and Drakon has set up wards around it before turning around to him. “What is that?”

The strings are still moving around like a swarm of frightened birds and by now, their constant movement is making Miryam dizzy. Power prickles on her skin.Everything is moving too quickly and she isn’t entirely sure what is real and what isn’t anymore. Her breathing quickens and she digs her nails into the blanket, trying to reassure herself that this is real.

“That’s her?” A voice asks from next to Miryam. She yelps and turns around, nearly falling out of bed as she does.

A man is standing next to her bed. He’s round faced, with skin the same shade as hers and curly black hair. The strings move strangely around him as well, but where they seem to flee from the sword, they move closer to this man, curl around him and run over his arms. Miryam is so mesmerized by this that it takes her far too long to realize that he just appeared out of thin air.

He isn’t actually here. She must be imagining him. Another hallucination, then. Her chest feels impossibly tight. Why this quickly? She thought she’d have longer, in the book, they said that it would be a longer time span between hallucinations in the beginning.

“That’s…” Drakon shakes his head. “Another new form? Seriously?”

The strange man just shrugs and Miryam realizes with a start that Drakon sees him as well. She isn’t imagining this.

“What the fuck?” Miryam gets enough of a grip on herself that she manages to say something, although it’s not the most intelligent comment she ever made.

“That’s the friend I mentioned.” Drakon winces, hand hovering over the hilt of the strange sword. “You can call him Ghost, because, well…”

“Because that’s what I am,” Ghost finishes. “And you shouldn’t ask him about the circumstances, because he isn’t allowed to tell you.” He grins over at Drakon. “Unless you’re making a habit of breaking millennia-old rules these days.”

Miryam looks over at Drakon, who sighs. “I really can’t tell you.”

“But I can,” Ghost says. “And I will, since I’m not really interested in keeping secrets for you and your stupid goddess.”

Miryam looks between them, frowning. They might as well be talking in a completely different language. With a start, she realizes that this is probably how Drakon feels with Continental politics. Small wonder he hates it this much.

Even though she’s dying to know what is going on, she shakes her head. “If you really can’t tell me, you don’t need to.”

Drakon lets himself drop onto the bed next to Miryam and rubs his temples. “Thank you,” he says, “And if I may ask another favour; could you swear to me that you won’t ever tell anyone about this?”

Another favour? Doesn’t he realize that it is him who’s doing her a favour, and clearly a big one if she’s judging his behaviour correctly. Should this work, he might end up saving her life.

“Of course.” She sits up straighter in bed and tries to lean over to Drakon. The movement makes her head spin and he takes her by the arm to keep her from swaying.

“Everything alright?” He asks, concern colouring his voice.

“Yes. Could you move over, I’m trying to hug you.”

“Oh. Sure.” Drakon carefully leans over to her and allows her to wrap her arms around him.

“Thank you,” she whispers, “I may not understand what, exactly, you did, but it means a lot.”

“You thought I’d just let you die?” Drakon asks. He’s trying to sound light, but his voice is thick with emotion.

Miryam presses her face into his shoulder and holds him close, feeling safer than she has in a long time. Even her power seems to calm down. She wishes she could stay here, like this, forever. Forget all about the war, the Alliance and her responsibility.

“Awww,” Ghost says, “You’re cute. Are you together?”

“No!” Drakon pulls back, much to Miryam’s disappointment. He doesn’t meet her eyes either as he adds, “We’re friends.”

Miryam nods, thinking of Jurian, who still hasn’t turned up. She desperately wants to believe that there is a reason for his absence, something big that’s keeping him from coming to her, but she isn’t so sure about that. Maybe he’s already working on a new strategy against Amarantha that he deems more important. And of course, fighting the war is more important, but right now, she still wants nothing more than to have Jurian here with her.

“Alright.” Ghost nods to Drakon. “Then you can go back to whatever it is you ought to be doing. We’ll be fine here.”

Drakon frowns. “I think I’d rather stay.” He turns to Miryam. “If you want me to, that is.”

Miryam does want him to stay. Badly. Ghost seems kind enough, but staying alone with him and that sword – and the strings that move around both of them so very strangely – is enough to make her nervous, especially with her power still not working. Besides, being with Drakon makes her feel better, calmer somehow.

Instead of an answer, she reaches for Drakon’s hand and intertwines her fingers with his.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ghost says. He disappears and reappears in a sitting position on the bed next to Miryam. “Then how about you start by explaining to me what exactly your problem is, and we’ll see how we proceed from here.”

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks

[wildernessuntothemselves]

You’re Mine, You

Genre: Is disturbing a genre? because this is disturbing, also smut of course

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Your boyfriend of a few months has always been attentive and loving, albeit a bit too possessive, but it was nothing that could've prepared for how obsessed he'd turn out to be.

Warnings: yandere!wonpil, mentions of murder, dubcon, choking, implied forced pregnancy.

Based on this ASMR and this song. 

If you know the maker of this gif, let me know so I can credit them.

You turn on the light as you walk into your bedroom, and almost jump several feet in the air as the light flickers on and see a figure sitting perfectly still at the head of the bed, legs crossed and hands folded neatly in his lap.

“Jesus, darling, you scared me.” You laugh breathlessly, pressing a hand against your rapidly beating heart. “Why were you sitting in the dark like that?”

“I was waiting for you.” He offers no further explanation, and you feel a strange sense of dread prickle at your skin at the way he remains eerily still, his expression stony and unreadable. “You’re late.”

“I got held up at work.” You lie nervously, your muscles tightening up at an ill-defined sense of danger your conscious mind can’t trace the source of.

Why were you getting so anxious? You may have not been telling the truth but it’s not like you were hiding anything salacious. It was merely a little white lie to save you both any unnecessary headache.

You haven’t been dating Wonpil for long, but you were already aware of how incredibly jealous he got over the smallest things. You’d frequently have to spend hours assuaging his worries and reassuring him that you love him and that he has nothing to worry about. So, tonight–feeling exhausted enough from work–you decided to just lie and not tell him that the real reason you were late was because you had gone out to dinner with a new coworker of yours so you’d be spared having to spend the rest of the night dealing with your boyfriend’s unfounded insecurities.

Wonpil stares at you for a second longer before his face melts back into that familiar warm smile, “Well, hurry up and get changed so we can go to sleep.”

And on the surface, everything seems fine. He’s back to being your sweet, loving boyfriend that always exudes calming energy in excess, but this time they feel different, like you were suddenly aware of something you hadn’t been aware of before and instead of feeling soothed and reassured, you start wondering if maybe this sweetness wasn’t a coverup for something more ominous that you’ve only now caught a glimpse of.  

“Something wrong, love?” He wonders cutely, and you shake your head. “No, I’m just tired.”

“Go on, then, my arms are open and ready for cuddling.” He prompts, smile as wide as his embrace.

You smile back and nod, fetching your things quickly and walking into the bathroom. However, the sense of uneasiness doesn’t leave you as you finish freshening up and getting ready for bed. It stays with you as you head back into the bedroom, turning off the light and slipping under the covers. It only lifts slightly when Wonpil wraps his arms around you and, for a moment, you feel ridiculous for making yourself worry so much over nothing as you drift off to sleep in the safety of your boyfriend’s loving embrace.

But it doesn’t last for long.

You’re pulled back from the edge of slumber when you feel Wonpil’s lips on your forehead, starting off with small, cute little kisses that have you giggling and snuggling deeper into him, but they slowly turn more heated and firm, travelling down your face and along your jawline until he captures your lips with his own, and by then, the kisses have turned entirely too hungry.

“Pili,” You whine against his lips that seemed to be trying to devour you whole, “I’m too tired.”

“You know I love you right?” He asks suddenly, completely ignoring your protest and catching you off guard by the unexpected question.

“Of course.” You frown, confused. Where was this coming from?

“And do you love me?”

Oh, there he goes again. “Wonpil…”

“Answer me.”

You couldn’t see him in the dark but you knew by the stinging frost that freezes the air and crystallizes in your lungs that that strange expression was back on his face.

“O-of course, baby. You know I do.”

“And you’d never lie to me, right?” His voice rang in your ears, as soft as ever, but instead of the delicate little songbird it always reminded you of, images of treacherous sirens and deceivingly dulcet songs come to mind.

“Wonpil, I…” You choke, all too aware of the weight of his arms around you, your feet already caught in the undertow. And he seems to know it too.

“You what, baby?”

“You’re scaring me.” You try to appeal to him, hoping that this was all just a misunderstanding and he’d snap out of it as soon as you make him aware that you felt unsafe.

But this nightmare was just beginning.

“What, you’re scared of me? Why?” He asks incredulously, and you’re entirely too conscious of the fact that his hands don’t fall from your figure. Instead he pulls you closer and rubs your back in a way that would’ve been soothing if it weren’t for his next words. ”The only reason you’d need to be scared is if you had lied to me, but you didn’t. Right?”

Your body stiffens under him and he feels it. “What’s wrong with you, baby? Why are you acting so weird today? You said you got caught up at work and I believe you.”

But you knew he didn’t. Even with the way your body had solidified into stone with fear, you could still feel the barely contained rage brewing underneath his paper-thin disguise.

“Work doesn’t always have to be in the office. Sometimes you need to sort things out over some nice dinner and a few drinks, right?” He asks innocently, but nothing was innocent about his insinuation. He was telling you that he knew where you actually were tonight and that he’s not happy about it.

“How did you…?” Your voice came out hoarse and weak, befitting of the statue you had become.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” He raises his hand and you flinch, thinking he was going to strike you but he just brushes your hair behind your ear and laughs at your reaction.

“What’s wrong, baby? Are you scared of me?” He pouts cutely, “You have no reason to be scared. I’m not mad at you, darling. You said it was a work thing and I believe you. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. You’re smarter than that.”

You try to say something but it comes out garbled stutter and indecipherable, and Wonpil coos at you as if you were a cute baby struggling to put her words together and not a grown woman scared shitless of the strange man who seemed to have stolen her lover’s identity. “Aw, my baby is so flustered, it’s adorable. You’re so pretty, honey. And all mine, right?”

One of his hands slips under your top and slides up to your breasts, cupping and massaging them gently, as soft as his voice is.

“Y-yes.” You manage to croak, voice so small you wonder how he even heard you.

“That’s right, you’re all mine.” He whispers, kissing you as he continues playing with your breasts, and you hate yourself for how he still manages to get that familiar heat burning in your belly despite how terrified you were of him right now.

“I know you wouldn’t do something as stupid as to go out with another man and then lie to my face about it.” He smiles tightly, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples none too gently. “You don’t want poor Dowoonie to suffer the same fate as your meddlesome ex, huh?”

Your heart shrivels up with dread. How did he know what your coworker’s name is? And what does he have to with your missing ex?

“Come on, love, you don’t really believe what the police said about him running away, right?” His mocking question answers your unspoken ones as he easily reads you the way he always does.

You always thought you were so goddamn lucky to be with a man who could understand you without you having to say a word, but now you wish you could keep your thoughts hidden from his sharp, all-seeing eyes.  

“I mean he tried to run, but he didn’t get very far.” Wonpil smirks–a strange look on such a kind face.

“No, you’re lying.” You shake your head violently, denying his words. “You couldn’t have hurt him. You… you…”

“Why are you crying?” He grumbles, annoyed at your reaction. “Are you actually sad for that piece of shit? He was trying to tear us apart, baby. He wanted to take you away from me so I carved his rotten heart out.”

“No, it’s not true. You’re lying!” You sob, covering your ears so you wouldn’t have to hear any more of his chilling confessions. You wish to go to sleep and forget any of this happened, to wake up in the morning in the arms of your sleepy boyfriend who gives you a tired smile and groggily tells you that this was all a bad dream and to go back to sleep. But this nightmare was never ending, and Wonpil wasn’t interested in playing the part of the sweet boyfriend anymore.

He grabs your arms and pins them over your head, an ugly scowl distorting his face. “I don’t like seeing you cry over another man. So stop it or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

Then he proceeds to clamp a hand over your mouth and, using his thumb and forefinger to pinch your nose, he cuts off your breathing completely. “I said, stop it.”

You struggle against his hold, thrashing wildly on the bed, eyes wide with terror and fingers clawing at his arms to no avail. You realize with dismay that the small, gentle boy you fell in love with was neither of those things and that he had fooled you with his soft disposition into underestimating the things he was capable of doing, and now you were paying the price for your gullibility.  

Your vision starts to get hazy as you feel the life slip out of your body, but one thing remains in sharp focus: Wonpil’s unblinking eyes that stare down at you, waiting for you to either stop crying or stop breathing.

Somehow, someway, you stop crying first–probably because of all the adrenaline pumping through your body at the moment, drying up any droplet before it even leaves your eyes–and Wonpil, finally, lets you go.

You feel like you were born again–not in the clean, pure way it’s portrayed in poetic prose, but painful and teary and visceral as you gasp for air and force it into lungs that don’t know how to handle it, the alveoli almost tearing at the unfamiliar stretch while your blood vessels sing at being once again flooded with air.

And Wonpil… he just laughs at your struggle.

“You’re so silly, baby. I really thought you wouldn’t stop crying there for a second.” He says nonchalantly and, taking advantage of the way your head was thrown back as you continue gasping for air, he buries his face in your neck and kisses you, biting and sucking harshly on the sensitive skin.

“God, seeing you like this is turning me on so much.” He groans in your ear, his hand going between your legs to rub you through your clothes.

“Oh, what’s this?” He pull back with a smirk, biting his lip hungrily. “Why are you so wet, baby?”

You feel a wave of nausea wash over you at the realization that you are wet, that he got you wet despite revealing himself to be an absolute fucking psychopath. What the hell is wrong with you?

“You’re soaking through all your clothes.” He remarks with wonder, beyond delighted at your body’s response. “Did you like getting choked this much? Should I do it some more?”

He wraps his free hand around your throat and you immediately break down into tears again. “No, no, please, no more. I don’t want it ever again.”

“Really? Then why are you so wet, darling? Are you lying again?” He asks you in a baby voice, pouting that you’re not playing along.

You press your lips together tightly and shake your head, pleading with him through teary eyes to have mercy on you. He must’ve liked that because he smiles sweetly at you, “I get it. It’s being reminded who owns you that got you this hot and bothered. It’s okay. I can remind you in other ways.”

Wonpil sits back and tugs on the leg of your pajama pants, “Take this off.”

You remain frozen with dread. You didn’t want to have sex with him despite what your body was showing. He’s a monster.

“Huh? Are you rejecting me?” He scoffs, “Stop messing around darling or I’m going to get angry.”

His toothy smile resembles a snarl more than anything and you know that he’s ready to sink them into your flesh if you don’t obey so you hastily take off your pants and lay down again, waiting for his next move.

“Open your legs, darling.” He prompts, nudging your foot. “Yeah, open them wide for me.”

You do as told, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of your bare heat. “Shit. Why are you so pretty, baby?”

His fingers run smoothly up and down your dripping slit, and Wonpil can’t hold back the hunger within him much longer. Bending his head down to your heat, he orders you to keep your eyes on him.

His tongue laps at you, nudging your lips open ever so slightly so he could tease you, only allowing a small strip of your pussy some pleasure, and you find yourself involuntarily opening your legs up wider and pushing your hips up towards his mouth, seeking more from the man who aroused you as much as he terrified you.

Pleased with your eagerness, he rewards you by eating you out properly, his lips kissing and sucking on your pussy while his tongue strokes up and down firmly–all the while his eyes continue to stare up at you, so big and bright and kind that you almost forget all the sinister things hiding behind his pretty eyes.

“Fuck,” He drags his teeth ever so slightly over your clit then opens his mouth wide to suck greedily at your pussy when your hips buck up into his face. With his fingers teasing at your entrance, he mumbles against your heat, sounding and looking as fucked out as you are, “Is this all for me?”

“Yes! Only for you.” You reassure him right away, scared that he wouldn’t believe you despite it being the truth.

“So needy.” He hums, pushing his middle finger inside you and biting his lip at the way your walls clench eagerly around it. “You’re so good for me baby. I love you so much.”

He puts his mouth on you again, moans and gasps slipping from the both of you as his tongue laps up your juices and his finger pumps in and out of your sopping pussy that just keeps dripping more, filling the room with the most obscene noises and goading him on. His actions turn crude and sloppy, and his endless moans permeate your sensitive skin and stimulate your nerve endings directly, pushing you over the edge.

“Ah, Wonpili, oh god, ah, don’t stop.” You cry out, your hands automatically reaching out to grab his hair as you cum on his mouth and fingers.

Wonpil happily lets you hump his face as you cum, and gradually slows down his ministrations as your body calms down. Sitting up, he pushes his pants down with his dry hand then proceeds to jerk himself off with his cum-soaked hand. “Baby, I can’t wait anymore. I have to have you. Can I, baby?”

You close your legs, not to deny him your heat but to rub your thighs together, still so needy even after your orgasm, too fucked out to care how twisted this is.

“Greedy little baby,” He drawls, forcing himself between your legs and lining his dick with your entrance. “Let me take care of that.”

He pushes in slowly– so, so slowly– letting out the breathiest moans with every inch that goes in, all while his hungry eyes eat you up, and you’ve never felt more aroused nor disturbed before. But the feeling of him filling you up so completely, your walls distended from the stretch, feels right and you’re scared that you won’t be able to experience a feeling so intense with another man. Not that Wonpil will let you. So when he tells you how good you make him feel and how much he wishes he could stay wrapped up inside you forever, you can’t help but whimper your agreement.

“You’re so pretty, my baby. I love you so, so much.” He gasps, barely moving his hips and yet you know he feels as overwhelmed as you do. “Do you feel me inside you? Feel how hot and hard I am, just for you?”

He pulls his hips back ever so slightly then thrusts forward, the engorged head of his cock hitting so deep inside you, you don’t know if it’s painful or pleasurable, but your legs automatically close around his waist and pull him closer to you.

“Want me to start moving, baby?”

“Yes, please.”

“Ah, shit,” He groans as his cock slides out of you, but he’s quick to silence your cry of protest as he pushes back in quickly, making you feel complete again. “Shh, baby, I’ll give it to you good. I’ll remind you who you belong to.”

You shudder at his words and his eyes seem to darken at your reaction, getting hazier the more scared you appear.

“You really drive me crazy, you know that?” He moans, thrusting faster. “You feel so, so good. Do I make you feel good too?”

You hastily nod, knowing better by now than to make him wait.

“Good. You better remember that because if I ever catch you doing something like this with another man… well, let’s just say that it won’t feel very good for the both of you.” He smiles wickedly at you, his hands going to push your shirt up and play with your breasts. “Only I can do this to you.”

Leaning down, he plants wet, sloppy kisses all over your chest, a contrast to the way his hips thrusts into you with deep, deliberate strokes.

“Who do you belong to, baby?” He growls, one of your nipples stuffed in his mouth still and you shudder at the gravelly vibrations. “Who owns you?”

“You do.” You shudder, clutching onto his hoodie helplessly. “I’m yours, Wonpil.”

“Fuck, yes, you are.” He grunts, his thrusts losing their pace as they get rougher. “Say it again, baby. I want to hear you say it again.”

Wrapping both hands around your neck, he positions his thumbs over your trachea, not pressing down but letting you he will if you refuse.

“I’m yours. I’m only yours. I belong to you, Wonpil.” You cry out, repeating what he wants to hear so he’d have mercy on you, but he ends up liking it so much he inadvertly chokes you anyway as he presses his weight forward so he can speed up his pace, nearing his end.

“Fuck, yeah, you are.” Wonpil stares down at you struggling against his hands, but he either doesn’t see or doesn’t care, not letting go until his cock jerks inside of you and his hot seed distends your pussy even more.

And that’s when you cum too, your whole body burning up as the orgasm tears through your oxygen starved body.

Wonpil pulls back to take in your ruined body, his eyes lingering on your neck that was savoring the imprints of his fingers and on your pussy that was overflowing with his cum.  Scooping some of the cum that trickled down your ass, he pushes it back inside, blinking and letting out a heavy breath at the squelching sound they make.

“You’re gonna drive me crazy.” He laments, as if he wasn’t deranged already. “I love seeing you dripping with my cum. I wanna fill you up every day and every night until everyone knows who you belong to.”  

He falls over you, and by now your body expects the breathlessness and scorching heat he brings about, and welcomes it.

And yet, Wonpil still manages to surprise you.

“Oh and baby, one more thing…” His tone is nonchalant against your ear but you could hear the wicked smile in his voice and it chills you to the bone. “I swapped out your birth control pills for vitamins.”

Your heart drops down your chest and into his hand that was caressing the skin over your lower belly lovingly. “That way our baby can grow big and strong inside you.”

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

A/N: This was the fastest fic I’ve written in like a year lol so please let me know what you think. 

[whumpiary]

continued directly from the last section of this post. the lead-up post is vignettey, so you can skip straight to the last section for context especially as majority of the warnings in the post do not apply for that section.

[content warnings: heevily referenced drugs and drugging, referenced past abuse, panic attack, mild dissociation, brief emeto mention]

-

He wakes up in Lou's bed. He knows it's Lou's bed because despite the chokers and studded boots, her bedroom is all bohemian patterns and peach tones and the doona cover is too. He doesn't move yet. He doesn't have it in him to bear it. 

It's a horrible, horrible feeling, drifting away in complete terror and walking up full to the brim of nothing but numbing calm.

It would be disorientating - should be - but honestly he's done this so many times that it feels like a well rehearsed play. His mouth is dry. His muscles ache. If he sits up to fast the dizziness will come crashing in. The headache won't fade until halfway through tomorrow. 

What he isn't expecting, when he rolls over to face the window, is Lou in the cane chair in the corner, curled up like a cat with her head on her knee. 

He doesn't say anything.

For a long while neither does she.

It's a long frozen minute, falling through space. 

"Hey," she says, not raising her head. He doesn't say anything.

Slowly, she uncurls herself until she's sitting, feet on the floor. Her bedroom looks nothing like her but suits her all the same. Crushed bright colors, too many pillows, a collection of knick-knacks too artsy to be accidental. Evidence that she has a soft side beneath the resting bitch face. 

Pity that side was twisted too. 

"You awake this time, or…?" she trails off, tilts her head to the side as she looks at him. She's got this soft worried look on her face like it matters to her what he thinks of her. Like it matters to her what he's feeling. 

"Did I do something earlier?" he asks. It happened sometimes, with sleeping pills. Or powders. Whatever they'd given him. Sleeping, sure, but sleep talking too. Walking, even. He'd heard stories of people driving all the way to work and clocking in before someone clued they weren't conscious. Full on sleep fucks.

"Sorta," Lou shrugs "Just lay there like that and then went back to sleep."

Silence again. She's watching him so carefully he feels like he might shatter. 

"Josiah made some pasta," she says, trying for light. It doesn't reach her eyes. He registers kind of apathetically that it looks like she's been crying "I don't know if it's any good but-"

“Not hungry.”

“I can get you some water?”

"You must think I'm fucking stupid."

Lou bites down on her tongue, lips twisted with the way it's shoved between her molars. She rubs her thumb across her temple. Sighs. "Yeah, that’s... fair."

He keeps watching her, like a tiger watching its keeper, and she keeps trying to pretend it isn’t making her nervous. She plays with the rolled hem of her shirt, inspects her nails like she’s considering biting them, smooths the edges of the blanket over the arm of the chair. And Cass just watches.

There’s a bird outside singing out without reprieve. Only it isn’t singing. Not really. It's a shrill sorta shriek. Like it’s screaming and screaming and screaming.

“I really am sorry, Cass,” she whispers, low enough that he wonders if she's hoping he won’t hear it. Cass revels in the fire that burns in his chest as she says it. It’s the stoking of violence and hatred and the worst kind of vindication.

Cass doesn’t say anything. He watches. 

He wonders when she took her makeup off. If it’d been last night — or whenever it was he’d been awake last — or if she’d done it just before coming in. A way of making her look more vulnerable. More open.

Look like the innocent flower etcetera, et-fucking-cetera.

“Cass, love. About last-”

“Where’s Josiah?” he says, trying very hard to make it seem like it’s just a question and not a way of counting bullets. She looks at him, almost scoffs just under breath. He watches the inhale, the hold, the exhale. The careful choice of words.

“Um. Last night, any time Josiah came close, tried to touch you... You were um...” 

He can’t remember but he can imagine it. He can imagine the pendulum swinging between kicks and bared teeth or begging and pleading. Or maybe he just cried.

That’s the worst one. When he cries.

Lou shrugs, almost trying to wave it off. “We just thought maybe you needed some space.”

Cass considers that. That could mean he left the house. It could mean he’s still here, just the next room over. Depends how much they want to trust Cass won’t leave with just one person watching. Lou sucks in an audible breath in preparation to say something, and he raises his gaze to meet hers, despite himself.

“Look. Last night. Before you fell asleep. When you were, um…” she starts. Stops. Clears her throat. Tries again. Like a stalling car. “Like, when… you know when you weren’t...-”

“After you drugged me,” he says, voice cold and flat. “That’s what you’re tryna say, right?”

Her eyes flick up to meet his and for a second they’re so full of defensive anger and fury that he has to stop himself from flinching backwards. He tilts his head back in the pillows instead, silently dares her to feel righteous right now. But the look fades as quick as it had sparked, replaced by shame and guilt and sorry.

“Stop talking bullshit, Lou,” he says, hopes beyond hope that she’ll give him the small mercy of ignoring the tremor in his voice “Or just stop talking.”

She takes a deep breath, looking at the ceiling. Holds it. Releases slowly. 

“After we drugged you,” she says, sentences punctuated by the firm clenching of her jaw, “You kept coming in and out of it. You were…”

He turns away from her as she talks, lying flat on his back. His eyes trace the cornices of the ceiling. This is an old house. One of those good bones sort of places. He’s never really noticed before.

“You were scared. You were really scared.”

Yeah no shit, fuckwad.

“You kept saying things. Like the time you had the fever.”

He closes his eyes, waiting for impact.

“You mentioned… him again,” she says, voice tight and strained “Bergen.”

He can imagine the way her face looks. That pained, apologetic expression that’ll be pointed at the ground and not at him. Pity and heartbreak and baby, it’s okay, I’m so sorry, let me make it better. 

Fuck her.

The bird outside pipes up again. Screaming and screaming and screaming.

“Cass, we didn’t know,” she says eventually “I’m so sorry. We both are. We didn’t know.”

Cass snorts.

“Yeah, you did,” he says. He’s almost startled by how strong his voice sounds. Low and steady. Dryly amused. 

“Sorry?”

“You knew.”

He turns back to face her and that look on her face — sorry and lost and a little bit hurt — God, he wishes he could photograph it and keep it forever. 

“Cass,” she’s shaking her head just barely, deer in head lights, beside the headlights, looking at the roadkill. “I swear to God. I swear to you. Neither of us knew. If we had’ve known what Bergen did to you, if we knew how it was gonna affect you...  Look, we would’ve done it different. We would’ve.”

"Okay," he says, nodding like he's considering that. He takes his time sitting up, doesn’t try to hide the dizziness or the way he has to slam his eyes closed as the headache spikes.

“So… remind me, because frankly my memory of last night is a little muddled-" she flinches at that and it sends a thrill through him "-but at any point did you try just giving me the thing and asking me to take it?"

Lou scoffs and looks away, fingers fidgeting together restlessly between her knees.

"Answer me, Lou," he spits. You owe me that. "Did you even once just offer me the fucking pill?"

"No", she says. Low. Flat.

“Why not?” he says, heavy on the faux-ignorance. Like he’s just genuinely puzzled by a weird social phenomenon “Honestly, I’m curious. Why didn’t you just ask me to take it? Wouldn’t that’ve been easier? Could’ve saved the fucking teabag.”

Lou hisses an in-breath through her teeth and tilts her head up to the ceiling, violently blinking tears away that both of them would rather die than see fall right now. “Cass, come on.”

“No, I want you to answer me," he says, calm and low."I want you to think about it and actually fucking answer me.”

When she looks back at him, her face is schooled placid, though her breaths nearly give her away, jumping in little suppressed hiccups in her chest.

"Because you wouldn't have taken it," she says, matter-of-fact, eyebrows arching up in that way they do when she's getting defensive.

He shrugs, like he doesn't get it. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re weird about that stuff,” she says, she sounds almost annoyed that he’s making it spell it out so obviously. “You wouldn’t even eat dinner, you get weird about that stuff."

"Then you knew, didn't you?" he says. In the silence that follows, in the moments it takes for her eyes to close in shame, he can feel his heartbeat start to pick up, caught somewhere between his chest and his throat “You knew, one way or the other what doing that would mean to me. And you did it anyway.”

"Cass-"

"Whose idea was it?" he asks, no chance for another excuse to come pouring out of her "Who came up with the grand plan?"

"Me. I did" but she says it too fast. 

"Right, so Josiah, then," he scoffs. It would almost be easier if it was the other way around. Lou usually meant for the best but sometimes she took a misstep. But Josiah. Josiah's meant to be the one who knows. 

"Don't be angry at him," she says. Fuck her for making it a plea. "Please, Cass. We were just trying to help you, we were trying to keep you safe. We were scared"

"You were scared?"

For once he doesn’t give a shit that his eyes are burning just a little. Let her fucking see him cry. Let it hurt her. It’s all rage anyway. 

"Jesus Christ, you're right. How could I possibly stay mad at you. You were scared"

"We were scared, Cass. We were scared for you" she says, "You weren't eating. You weren't sleeping. You said no hospitals, we didn't want you to fucking die"

"Ah, so it was for my own good."

"Yes," she all but growls.  

Cass laughs. 

"So where's the line, huh?" he says, dangerous manic smile splitting his face "Would you lock me up for my own good? Send me away? Hurt me?"

She looks away, bites down on her bottom lip, leg bouncing double-time with fury and shame while her fingers grip the edge of the chair.

"You know he did that too?" he says, catching her eyes, watching it wound "He was always doing things for my own good. Hitting me, starving me, holding me down.”

“I’m not doing this, Cass,” she says, a mask of stoic indignation “I’m not letting you get a rise outta me just so you can prove some messed up point.”

“But you’d be so good at it, Lou,” he pushes “Maybe not some of it, but we all know you can land a hit, don’t we?”

She crosses her arms, but she’s still sitting forward on the chair, like her body’s poised to launch up at the slightest provocation.

“I’ve always kinda been waiting for it, you know? I knew you were always waiting to teach me a lesson. I just always thought it’d be with your fists not with some weak-ass pussy bullshit in the bottom of a tea cup.”

“Stop it.”

“It fucking kills you, doesn’t it? That you don’t have control over me any more. You would love for me to be back in a Facility lab, waiting for you to dole out piss-weak kindnesses like some fucking psychic Mother Teresa hypocrite.”

There are tears in her eyes as she shakes her head, speaks through her teeth, "That is not fair."

Another laugh. “You're right. It's not."

“Cass, you never told us-"

"I shouldn't have to!” and he fucking bellows it, humor gone, teeth bared like a beast. Lou flinches the best way a fighter knows how, back straight, eyes wide, hands reflexively jolting into fists for an attack that won’t come “I shouldn't have to tell you about every shitty fucking thing in my shitty fucking life to for you to know not to roofie me.”

His heart is hammering hard, too hard and too fast for what’s happening right now. He has the stupid, irrational thought that he’s gonna go to Penance for yelling like that. But that’s… that’s wrong. That’s old thoughts. Old tracks echoing out from the heaviness of his bones right now.

But knowing that doesn’t stop the way his breath picks up, it doesn’t stop the darkening edges of his vision as oxygen refuses to make it to his lungs. He fixes his eyes to the carpet, tries to steady himself on the mattress because he feels like he’s gonna fall, even sitting.

“Jesus, Lou,” he whispers, words barely squeezing out his throat and he’s sure it’s closing up “You, you drugged me. You fucking… you drugged…”

This can’t be real. This isn’t real. Any second the world’s gonna fall away and either he’ll wake up on the couch with his tea still steaming hot and untouched or he’ll wake up back in Christopher’s lap and everything, all of this, will have been some sick, sick nightmare twisting his heart in the worst possible way.

There’s no way this has happened. There’s no way that he managed to find people that he trusts and he loves and who he thought maybe loved him only to have them do this all over again.

His eyes fly around the room as his breathing mutates into something entirely of its own. He’s not even sure what he’s searching for, what he’s hoping to find. An exit, maybe, or a thing that makes sense. Something that will make this make sense or make it disappear or will prove to him that his life can’t be this fucked up. It can’t possibly be this fucked up.

“Cass-”

He sees Lou shifting forward and he stutters back, pushing sheets down to the foot of the bed with his feet in the rush to fly backwards, the twisted-metal headboard digging into his spine.

“Don’t,” he spits, but it's full of sorrow and fear and he hates that it sounds so weak “Don’t you dare.”

And she freezes. Mercifully. Settles back down in the chair, fingers twitching along the woven cane.

The panic attack – and that's what it is, isn't it? the numbed, rational part of his brain provides him that much – builds and builds, uselessly.

Fear that can’t go anywhere. Adrenaline coming in too late to save him. He interlocks his fingers behind his neck, arms squeezing either side of his head as he closes his eyes, toys curling up, body curling up like that could possibly protect him from what’s happening.

He feels like the terror is never gonna leave him, never gonna stop, he’s gonna be like this forever, body shutdown and mind splintering a hundred, a thousand, a million different ways while the world spins on and on around him. But then all at once, it starts running out, like a dying motor.

This is silly, darling boy.

Like somewhere in his head, he’s decided that’s enough time-wasting for now.

You’ve done this a thousand times, what’s the fuss for?

His breaths stutter and slow and level out into wheezes until he feels hollow and numb. When he opens his eyes, he’s still staring at peach paisley bed-sheets, and he’s equal parts relieved and horrified that none of it was a dream.

This is real.

This happened.

Just another layer of kinda fucked up.

"Where are my clothes?" he croaks out, after a few minutes of hollowed-out quiet. He feels water-logged drained dry at the same time "This isn't my shirt. Where's my stuff?"

"You threw up," Lou mutters, chair creaking beneath her as she shifts "You were hyperventilating and... You threw up. So we had to wash it. It's in the dryer, it’ll be done soon."

"Okay.”

The bird outside had changed its tune. Or maybe it's a whole different bird, he's never been great at picking between them. It keeps giving off a low trill, persistent and badgering. Like it has something to say. He misses the screaming.

"I need water,” he says, the dry husk to his voice a testament to the glass.

"’Course. I’ll go get you a glass"

The look he gives her withers the suggestion straight away, “No, you’ll help me to the fucking sink.”

“Cass, come on.”

“No, Lou,” he snaps. He’s almost startled by the fact he has more in him right now. “You ruined it. You get that, right? You fucking ruined it”

He keeps thinking it. All the cliches.

You ruined it. I trusted you. How could you? I could’ve been happy here. You were meant to be safe.

They all feel so stupid. He feels so fucking stupid.

"Yeah," Lou says, softly. Apologetically. Tears stuck in her throat. Bird changing its tune. Or maybe singing the same one. "I know.”

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and manages to stand up by himself. But by the time he’s taken a step his legs are shaking so badly he doesn’t hesitate grabbing at Lou’s arm for stability, even at the desire to recoil at accepting the help, accepting he’s weak.

Her thumb runs a little circle along his fore-arm and his shoulder tenses up on that side but he doesn’t move to stop her or tell her any different. Too close to acknowledging he’s letting her touch him at all.

He wishes he didn’t know that he’ll forgive her by next week. He’ll forgive them both. Process, get over it, move on. He wants to hate them forever. It’d be so much easier to hate them forever.

He doesn't know why it hurts so much this time. He doesn't know why he feels not just angry but so, so sad. He doesn't know why and also he does and it's the knowing that hurts. 

By the time they’re in the hallway, Cass is crying freely, silently, the only sound the tiny hissing shudder of his breaths as they get caught on the grief in his throat.

“Love...”

Lou reaches up for his face and he pulls back. Not so much a flinch as it is a gentle turn of his face. A pleading for space.

“Don’t,” he says, a little hiccuping sob following the word “Please just don’t.”

She pulls her hand away and readjusts her grip on his arm. She lets him lead, awkward as it is with her arm holding the balance.

He lets the tears slide down his face. He’s too tired to stop them. Too scared. Too fucking sad.

And it’s horrible. The worst.

It’s always the worst. When he cries.

[n0irrrr]

e m p t y / 8

shingeki no kyojin | series [various x male!amnesiac!reader] summary: [Name], an amnesiac boy awakes in a unknown place – trying to remember anything makes him have horrible headaches. Who is he? And why he can’t remember his own face? masterlist

chapter eight — after dark

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The travel to the refugee was awfully slow. [Name] felt horrible all the way there, bearing the voices of adults and children suffering around him. Not even Beatrice hugging his head on her chest calmed his nerves. The poor boy still thought about his friends and what they where doing. If they were still alive.

He knew when the boat stopped because Beatrice told him as she got up, helping him stand up. [Name] hugged her leg, trying to hide from nothing in particular. He was tired, and so was Beatrice. Everyone followed the soldiers who guided them to the refugee, every person with torment in their expressions.

“Everyone! Get in line for the supplies! Women and children first!” A soldier yells to all the people, guiding them to where the food was. Multiple boxes were placed behind a desk where another soldier was preparing the supplies.

The soldier guided the women with their children first. Beatrice and [Name] got bread and water— the soldiers had said if they gave more there wouldn’t be more supplies for the next boats. Some people began to shout and yell against it, but the word was final. Beatrice thanked the officer and took [Name]’s hand, walking to the opposite direction of that place.

“What is going to happen now?” [Name] asked, not feeling hungry at all. His huge appetite was gone after such thing.

Beatrice was deep in thought. She had no family outside Shinganshina— her parents passed away a long time ago. Her husband’s family had practically dishonored him, and they wouldn’t talk to them. She knew if they go to where they were, they wouldn’t be welcomed. It would have been just a waste of time and energy.

“Maybe..." She whispers, nodding to herself, "we'll go to Trost. I have a friend who may take us in, if not..." She looks at [Name]'s eyes full of worry, but she smiles to calm him. "We'll manage, like we have always done, right?"

"Yeah..."

"I'll go to ask something to the soldiers. Stay here, alright? I'll come back quick." Beatrice smiled at him and left, leaving him alone. [Name] sat on a empty box far away from the group of people, resting his elbows on his knees.

He was upset, but he couldn’t cry. There was no sight of his friends here— he didn’t even hear them. Were they alright? Were they still inside that mess? He couldn’t even sent a letter— to where? They had no home. Shinganshina was no more. His house, Beatrice’s and his’ stuff... only the memories remained. But was that even a good thing? He couldn’t just resign— he couldn’t let them win.

[Name] frowned, feeling rage inside him. His home was lost, but not forever. Until he grows and enlists to the military, their home could at least have some possibilities to be regained. He just had to enlist to the survey corps and be free.

Where did we hear that before?

W̷̨̜͈̫̥̜͍͕̪͉͎͇͙̆͐̒̋͂̆̐̊̋͌̓̉̈́͋̾͝͝͠ē̷̡̲͇͖͙̭͓̹̃̓̓̈́̓͊̄̍̿͑̈́̈ͅ ̴̜̝̞̳͈̳̩̘̠̥̙͇̥̋̔̍̕͜a̶̢̛̯͇̠̙̺̦̹͇͍̤̤̬̜̾͗̒͆͌̔͛̃͐̈́͂͆̀̐̆̾r̷̢̡̡̞̱͙̤͙̪̟͉̪̘͕̳̗̓̇̾̊̒͝e̶̢̡̧̮̹̩̅n̷͙̜̩͖̹͍͇̖̯͗͂̓̄ͅ'̸̧̧̖̼̙́͋̍̃̔̄͛͊̌͘ẗ̸̛̟̪͙̼̽͂͗̔̄͆̆̍̍͗̋̾̑͠ ̶̧̛͉͈̤̲̹̬͎͔͕̬̹̈̏͂͒̾̊̒͌̽͗̍͐͘͝f̷̛̜̝͓̫̹̰̞͈̜̺̜̿̽̓̒̈́̊̾̐̏͌̈́̓̕̕͝͝r̸̛̖̽̒̓̀͌̾͆̌͝ē̷͕̻͙̘̥̼̟̱͙̳̜̠̖̟̪̰͆̐̍̃̅́̾͆̾̇͑͝ͅĕ̸̢̳̘̘̺̞͈̻͍̣̎̽̈͆̈́̂̑͗͘ͅ.̵̨̰̙̘̻̘̭̞̯͖̠̹͕͋̉͌̓̇͗

A huge pain felt on his head, making him whimper and hold it as he frowned with his eyes closed. He heard a voice, but he couldn’t understand what it said. Like the whisper he heard before— but this was different. Whatever it was caused him a lot of pain. [Name] wondered now what could he get to calm his pain, now that Dr. Jaeger wasn’t here no more. Did he make it? Did miss Carla make it too? So many people he wondered about could be lost, hurt, or even dead.

He was hurt.

Now that his headache was over, the boy’s eyes wandered around. He didn’t want to see the horror and misery some people had on their faces, so he averted them completely. It was enough with the sounds of their voices and the cry of children for his ears. When is Beatrice returning?

His [hair color] eyes catch something falling— bread? As three kids pass trough, not noticing they lost something. The boy stands up, taking the food from the floor and hurriedly walks to the three kids, immediately taking their attention. “Hey! You dropped this,” they turn around, and when [Name] meets the gaze of the tallest kid, he can’t help but wondering something, blinking repeatedly.

“Oh? Uhm, thank you.” The blond speaks first, taking the bread [Name] is handing over. It is noticeable the [hair color] haired boy is focused on their taller friend, and he can help but grow worried by it.

“Uh... a–are you ok?” The taller kid gently speaks, while the blonde girl stares at the quiet boy in front of them, wary.

The amnesiac boy tilts hid head, confused by the familiar feeling the tallest boy’s eyes have— it was... as if he saw them before. Somewhere else, but he can’t remember. “Have we met before?” He bluntly asks, getting slightly near the kid, seeing his eyes.

The sudden question does shock them a little— they are sure they have never meet this kid before, that was for sure. And even so, they don’t recognize from nowhere.

“I—I don’t think so!” The tall boy sweats, gulping.

The blond girl focuses on the stranger kid— but blinks repeatedly as she focuses on his unusual eyes. Her own eyes widened slightly, as if she recognizes him. Her expression returns to normal in a second, crossing her arms.

“Your eyes... are different.” She speaks loudly, making her friends turn at her in surprise before focusing on the kid’s eyes, holding their shock. They look at each other as if they were reaffirming something, but [Name] doesn’t notice or cares about it.

The [hair color] haired boy blinks unbothered, “they are.” [Name] lets out an ‘ah’, remembering where he had to be right now. Beatrice had told him not to leave the spot, thing that he obviously did. “Sorry for the sudden... question, but I have to return. Good... luck?” He tries to finish the weird interaction, his social skill obviously lacking. He turns around to leave, but the male blond takes his hand before he does.

The blonde reacts first before he leaves, taking his wrist. But as soon as they touch, the amnesiac boy feels a shock. [Name] feels in a daze for a couple of seconds, as if he’s seeing something that isn’t there, but it seems the other kid didn’t feel the same thing because he doesn’t react. "Wait! What’s your name?”

T̴̛̬͒̈̅͗͘̕h̷̩͓͉̝͂̂̇̈́̍̿̈́́̐̿̎̿̒̚ĕ̷̢͕͎͉͈̠̲̝̞͈̪̲̗͔̲̯̣̬͚̓̽̈͊͒̋̔̈́̑̃̅͝y̵̨̨̝͕̺͂͒͋̏̂̈́̈̉͒̉̒̃̓̒̐̔̚͝͠ ̷͈̉̾͌̈́̾̃̀͑̌ͅä̸̜̺͈͖͇͕͍̣̜̝̫͕̦͉̂̇͋͊̌͐͐̋͂͘r̴͚̦̞̗̙͚̽̀̾̌e̸̡͍̥̮̱͎̠̤̩͕͛̓̎̾̌͐̈̍̿͌̉̊̚͜ ̴̠̪̉̾͋͆̌͗̕͘͝h̴̛̛̜̲͎̘͚͉̪͓̎̒̊͋͌̅̋̀͂̓̋̈́̓͐͑̈́͂̊̚͜ĕ̷̡̽̈́̐̀͑̏̎̔̎͘ȑ̴̨̧̢̨̯̪̭̥͍̲̰̭͎̟̳͎̳̮̯̻̍̎́ë̷̛̲̺̳̯͇̲̥͙͖̠̫̯̹̪̬͙̠̮͇̖̉̊̉̌̅͑͑̑̍͗̏ ̵̧̥̣̟̹̄̆̊̆̄͛̏̅̅̑̿͊̈́̐̚̚͜͝͝͝ȁ̴̡̡̢̧͚͓̳̘̰̮̤̠̼̪̟̩̭͇̳͒l̵̨̲̫̜͖̪͉̙̝͈̞͇̪̬͔̠̺̺̖͍̼͒̆͛͒̋̌̓̾̑̅͗̂̑͆̉̿̕͝r̶̤̱̙̖͎͍̭͙̳̬̐̐̑ȩ̷̣̫͔͓͚̺̯͆̋͗͆̀̔̽̈̂͜͜͝ą̵̡̹̤͎̪͙̟̙̰̻͙̝̺͕̖͉̍̽͛̇͂̐̊̋̏͂̂̉̊͐̓͌̄͂͜͝ͅd̵̡̛̟̲̉͗͂͌͛̓̏͌̆͗̎͌̕͝͝͝ỷ̶̡̼͎͇̮̫̹̝͎̭̱͙̲̟̞̀̌̿͘͜.̶̨͙͔̪̣̮̠̋̈́͒̈́̓̐̈́̂̒̿͂̀̾̐̀͝ͅ

“[Name].” He answers bluntly, blinking and shacking his head to shake off the weird feeling.

“Uh— and where are you heading to...? Did you lost your home?” He pries, looking carefully at the boy.

“I’m going to Trost with my mom.” He wonders, “what about you?”

“We have nowhere to go to. We... lost our home.”

“I’m... sorry. But at least the three of you are together... I can’t say the same about my friends.” A somber look passes his face, a pain crossing his chest.

“You lost them.” The blond girl says, avoiding looking at him. They visually cringe at the revelation.

“I haven’t find them yet.” He tried to have faith. [Name] didn't want to believe he lost them.

“So you are not sure...?” The brunette pries, a little shy.

“I hope not. I... I have hope, if that helps.”

“W–What do you plan to do next?”

[Name] tilts his head, looking at the floor as he thought about before. His rage didn’t fade off— he was sure he would enlist in the military as soon as he could. There was no going back. “I’m enlisting.”

“Enlisting? To the military?” The girl spoke, raising a brow. [Name] nods. “For what?”

The stoic boy answers instantly, “to explore what’s behind these walls.”

“Why? Weren’t you there when the wall broke?”

“And?”

“And? You saw the titans! Aren’t you scared?!” This time the blond interfered, a look of shock plastered on his face.

“So being scared means I won’t do nothing?” He crosses his arms. “My home is lost— I can’t let it be just some memories.”

The children see him in amazement, well— only the two boys. The girl is wearing her usual frown, still looking at his eyes. “So you will enlist when you’re old enough?”

“Yeah," he blinks, "what about you?”

“We don’t know yet.” The blonde says hurriedly.

“[Name]!” The boy could hear Beatrice calling for him, making him turn around.

“What?”

“Mom’s calling for me.” He turns to see them, “I have to go now.”

“Well then, hope we can see each other again.” The blond boy tries to smile at him, receiving a nod from the expressionless kid.

Before leaving, [Name] looks at the brunette in the eyes, softening his gaze a little. The taller kid gulps unsure of what to say or do, and chooses not to say anything and just wait.

“Your eyes are pretty.” The sudden compliments makes the brunette blush— but he couldn’t say anything as the kid was walking away already. The three children stay put, looking at the unusual boy leaving with hurry. What a strange meeting... and rather lucky one.

“One thing to care less about.” The girl speaks, crossing her arms as her eyes follow the kid.

The children walk away. The blond boy frowning, the brunette still blushing and the girl looking behind her.

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“Good news! There’s a boat going exactly at Trost just now. They are making people get on already, so let’s hurry!” She took his hand and walked hurriedly to the boats’ direction. "If we get on right now we can arrive in one hour!"

[Name] noticed she looked rather happy. She was smiling— maybe to calm him. What happened was traumatic, even if they didn't have to face the titans like other people did. Even seeing them from afar was scary... [Name] wondered how Eren, Mikasa and Armin managed. If he had accepted that lunch invitation, what would have happen to him? Would he be with them right now? Maybe he could have helped them if he noticed sooner...

Ẁ̴̡̞̝͚̲͎̲̬̩̖̺̥͊̋̅̈́̏̊̅̆̽́̌ḧ̷̡̧̳̗̣̱̜̺͇̺͍́͆̃̓̽̈́͑̿̆̃͝͠͠a̷̛͓̒̔̎̎̋̆̃̚͝ẗ̵̛̙̻̖́͒̈̍̈́͑̀͂̋͘͝ ̴̗̟̠̪̮̬̪̦͙͖̯̝̊̓̾̅̈́̾̅̓̽̆̾̈̚h̷̼͉̿̽̿͒͊̀͛̊ȩ̸̢̢͎͚̝͓̞̘̬̩̭̭̍͐̈́̑̽̂̋͂l̴̢̢͕̩̰̝̜̲͑́̈́̎̈́̓̅͐̀͜͝ͅp̴̖̐͌̀̿̋͊̔̚͠ ̷̨̧̘̠̼̹̼̰̪̯̯̻̳̓̈͗̊̈́̂̽͑͑̑̽̈̒͠͠c̵̲̜̙̻̳̰͇̦̺̪̼̰̥̊̒ȯ̶̼͕͇̲̫̤̞̪͊͗̏̑̐͑̈́̔̊̅͆͜ư̷̡̩̳̝̼̦̯̬̹̯̮̥̼͂̍̚͝l̷̨̟̠̖̟͎̀̋͂͗̉̔̇͑͌͘͠d̷̨̤̺͚̬͚͉̿͝ ̸̺̟̺͔̟̭̣͔̠̯̪͆͜y̷͖̍̉̑͂̚o̵̧̢͔̖͔͍͈͖̫̯͙͍̪͚͑̋̎̋͋͑̀̈́͆̇̚͝͝͝ű̵̧̲͇̺͔̅̉̋͠ ̸͇̜̠͎̗̣̰͔̼̳͇͛̅h̸͍͉̞͇͑͊̊̍̾̚͝͝a̷̡̩͙͖̻̹̗͎̟͙̼̙̪̰͗͌͒͐v̴̛̭̦̙̟̣̯͙̹̈́̍͐͆̇̎̇̃̏̕͝͝͠ȩ̵̝̦̌͒̔̆̓̑͜ ̷͎̿̿̎̓͘b̸͖̟͉̥̤̼̻̫̝̻̈́̃͆͒̽͌̔͝͝r̷̡̨̠͙͚̰̗̙̪͉̋̆̑̊̓̒͒̏͊̏̄͜i̶̢͔̼̲̻̞̞̝̦̫͈̩̔́͂ņ̷͎̜̬̻̳́̇̿̚g̵̡͖̘̝̟̗̼͇͑́̋͌̏́̃̉̕͘è̸̢̺̣̹̤̰̭̩̱̮͑̄̍͑̀̓̚͠d̸̡̡͇̥̝͋́̅͒̍̐?̸̮͙̏́̾́̈́̓̇̓͑ͅ ̶̧̖̝͉͉̈́Ÿ̵̨͇͙̥͚̰͎͔͖̰̭̺̗̭́̀͊̆̒̎̓̑̈́̕ǫ̴̛͓̻̘̞͙̪̱̜͙̝̜̠̅̈́͝͠u̶̡̢̧̲̜̱̮͚̣̥̳̞̓͛ ̴̛͙̹̹͈͇̆̊͑̀̍̊̄̄͛̕a̴͚̰͙͚̯͉̝̭̤͋̓̎͊͒̐̌̿͛͝r̶̢̛͕͕̳̺͍͈̗̟̫̓̓̓͂̌͆̀̚͘ͅę̵̧͍̪͈͚͕̟̞͓͑̃̀͐͗̍̄͜͝ ̸̢̳̹̼͖͓̙̳̯̭͔͋͐̇̏͌̉̌͒̊̊͂͋͊̚͜ͅj̸̧͙̥̰̳̊͂̄̇̏̈ų̸̧͙͔͕̬̺̱̱̯̬̤̳͑͆̅̌̉̓̚͘͜ŝ̶̩͎͓͎̾̈́͌́̐̈́̎̉̄̈̓͘͝ţ̸̭͖̥̜̦͔̼̼̾̎͗̿̈́̓̎͐̚͜͝ ̶̢̜̯̰͉̟̝͈̲̜̙͕̋͗̿̇̚̚͠a̶̛͙̯̬̘̗͈͉͕͈̖̽̌͑͛̈́͑͒̓̍́͝͝ ̴̧̨͉̜̖̖̅̾͒̈́͊͗̃͑̓͘͝u̴̢̜̝̼̞̼̠̠͖̩̫͒̆̓͂s̷̛͙͉̈́͗̈̐̎͝ě̸͇̫̪̰͕̺̝̗̤̖̜͊ͅl̶̢̢͓͖̖̰̘̦̭̦̝̫̒̽͐̿̕͜͜͜ẽ̷̢̧͈̤̟̟̬̱̯̝̩̑̽̂̑̇͂͛̋̑͑̚͜͠͠ͅs̸͎̳̮̽ş̷̛̹̰̪̣̖̭̬̠̃͂͐̀̂͜͝ ̷̡͍̗̬̪͒̽͌b̷̢̛̘͇͎̠͓̝͇͕̱̠̻̹̗͍͂̎̋̋͋̐o̷̱̖̯͊͗͐̔̄͗̈́̈́̋̽̌̏͠y̷̧͙͖̣̞͕̲̌̆̃̾̅̃ ̶̨̬̜͖͔̖̰̗̉̆͐̈́̃͋͑̒̅̈́̑ř̷̡̬͕̬̗̄͒̃̇̀̚i̶̧̛̮̳̺̖͖̻͉͎͉͈̟̩͚̍̋̉ͅg̴͉̻̓͌̆͑h̸̙̺̝̦͖̎̄̔̉̈́̅̈͗̿̃́̅͝t̵̢̼̺̦̙̗̣̪̥̯̄͐͂̂̏͘͜ ̴̨̧̳̗͓̹̖̱̟̏̔͒̽̅n̸͕̟̕o̵͓͇̗̭̦̗̼̻͈͗̓̿̃ͅw̵̮͙̜͛̇̎̐̇̑͂̈́͘̕.̶̧̘̬͈̈̀̈́ͅ

He flinched, pressing his palm against his forehead. Gritting his teeth, the boy tried to not let go any sound— what was with this headaches now? They weren't that usual in the same day. Something was wrong with him; maybe what happened had affected him more than he thought? If so, his future managing this headaches didn't look bright. The only thing that was left with him was the herbs and the was he could bear with the pain.

"Well, there are people around..." Beatrice looked around, spotting the Trost's boat. There were soldiers shouting the boat's destination, making it easy to spot it. Both of them walked where they were, along with some other families that were already waiting the others to get on. They arrived just in time, it seemed. Beatrice sighed in relief, turning to [Name], who hided his painful headache with his stoic expression. "In Trost we go. Don't worry honey, I'm sure Lydia can take us in."

"And if she can't?"

Beatrice doesn't falters nor her smiles fades, "then, like I said before, we'll manage. Together, okay?" She squeezes his hand gently. [Name] doesn't answer verbally, rather, he sighs and shows a smile as he squeezes back. He's glad Beatrice is okay— if not, he would have been all alone by himself. Maybe he would even be back at Shinganshina, lost, not knowing what to do. When he find her, something heavy disappeared on his shoulders.

Beatrice talks all the time they are waiting to get on the boat, talking about how Trost is a good place to live. She says her pastries could charm the people from them if she plays her cards right. [Name] believes she doesn't have to play anything to love her as he does— someone nice as her is noticed by miles. If they don't like her or her pastries, is because they are dumb.

━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━

Beatrice was right —like she always is—, they arrived to the district in one hour. The boat was just tight— seems there were other people who had business in the same city. Once they got off, they stretched. They were awfully tired— if this 'Lydia' Beatrice talked wonders about didn't take them in, the would have to sleep on the streets because their energy was disappearing. Quickly after their little 'exercise', they got a move on. It was more tiring, because Beatrice didn't exactly know where her friend lived no more, and asking to person to person was taking all of their day.

Luckily an old woman who sold fruits knew exactly who she was talking about. The nice lady told them where Lydia lived with her son, and it wasn't far away from there.

"Yes! You have to turn left when you are at Jimmy's bar, then you will see her house. It has an orange door, so you can't mistake it."

"Thank you so much! I don't have anything with me to thank you now, but—"

"Oh, hush! You don't have to worry about it," the lady chuckled, taking two apples from her baskets and handed them to Beatrice, who blushed and shacked her head, "don't worry about it, dear! Take them! I can see your lovely son is hungry, and I'm sure you are too. So please take them."

Beatrice sighed and smiled, grateful for the help she got. "I'm very thankful, ma'am." She took the apples, handing one to [Name] who took immediately and began to ate it.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, what a handsome boy!" She laughed, "you two seem tired. Only god knows what you two went trough. I won't take your time anymore, so please hurry and rest."

Beatrice thanked her again before leaving, retaking their little 'mission' to find Lydia's house. "Everything will be alright," she spoke more to herself as he took a bite on the apple, looking ahead, hand in hand with [Name]. The boy looked at her with his tired eyes, squeezing her hand.

It only took a few minutes to spot the bar the lady talked about, and after they took the turn they spotted quickly the orange door. Beatrice sighed in relief before approaching it, knocking on it three times. [Name] realized his mom was nervous, seeing her tensed shoulders and pressed lips.

"Everything will be alright," he gently spoke, smiling. Beatrice looked at him in surprise, blinking. She smiled soon after, patting his head.

The door opened— both of them changed their attention to it. A chubby woman with brown tied hair looked at them in confusion, but before Beatrice could speak why or who they were, the woman's eyes widened and a "oh my!" left her lips, quickly after hugging Beatrice with happiness in her actions.

"Beatrice! It's been so long since I last saw you!"

"I'm happy you remember me, Lydia." Beatrice smiled, returning the hug.

Lydia's expression changes into a worried one, "I heard what happened in Shinganshina! Are you alright?!"

"Uh, well— as you heard what happen, I wanted to ask you—"

"You don't even have to ask, woman! You can stay here as long as you want to!"

━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━

"This is my son, Jean! Say hi to [Name], Jeanbo." Jean's mom happily said, taking a step on the right to give Jean some space.

Behind her was a boy taller than [Name]. His hair color had two tones, by [Name]'s surprise. It looks good on him. He had a frown on his face, and even if he looked irritated, maybe he was just shy.

"Don't call me that..." He said in irritation, before looking at the [hair color] haired boy with a blush on his cheeks. He grabbed his wrist, a little shy. "Hello." He only greeted.

Showing a small smile, [Name] tried to sound friendly and not that expressionless, not knowing if he succeeded. "Hello. Is nice to meet you, Jean."

Jean, blinking, said, "yeah, uh, nice to meet you too..."

"Beatrice and [Name] will stay with us for some time, so please be kind with them, alright?" She spoke to her child softly, and he only blinked in surprise and nodded in return. [Name] didn't know if he minded some strangers stayed at his house, but it seemed Lydia didn't. "Okay then, why don't you show [Name] your room? He will sleep with you just for some weeks before we settle this, okay?"

"My room?!"

"Jeanbo! Don't be disrespectful in front of our guests!"

"B—But—!"

"Jean."

The boy sighed, nodding. He guided [Name] where his room was, which was upstairs.

"I'm sorry if I'm causing you trouble..." Beatrice said, looking embarrassed.

"Don't be! Jeabo is just difficult, but he doesn't mind," Lydia waits until she sees the boys leave, then turns to Beatrice, "now, I can see you are both hungry AND tired! Let me make something for you. It's almost night."

━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━

The small walk to Jean's room was quick and filled with awkward silence. [Name] —who is not good at all at social stuff—, didn't feel particularly uncomfortable, just tired. Maybe he could sleep a little if he was allowed to?

"Sorry you have to share," [Name] spoke, taking Jean's attention, "I can sleep on the floor if you want."

The other boy blushed for some reason and averted looking at [Name], "I-It's alright. We can sleep t-together." Hearing that made [Name] relieved— he didn't want to sleep on the floor tonight. He was so tired, mentally and physically. Maybe he could even sleep one full week.

"Here's my room..." Jean opened the door, letting [Name] in. The amnesiac boy at the sight of the bed almost falls, and without thinking much he asked, looking at Jean with tired eyes,

"Can I sleep?" Jean's eyes widened, blinking. He just nodded slowly, seeing [Name] walk tiredly at the bed and drop himself on it.

Jean waited for a reaction, but there was none. "Did he fell asleep already?!" Jean approached the boy, getting near his sleepy face. When he heard the small snores coming out of his mouth he was sure the other fell asleep instantly— Jean didn't know that was possible until now.

Now that he was ‘alone’, Jean could pay attention of his new roommates’ appearance. Not that he didn’t... appreciate it when he first saw him, but now he could carefully see him. Even if his characteristics weren’t out of the ordinary, he looked different. But what looked obviously different was his eyes. Jean didn’t looked at them that much at first, but when he looked at him to ask if he could sleep Jean had the opportunity to see them.

They were... cool.

Jean blinked, realizing how weird he was being by watching carefully the other boy. Blushing, he covered his face with his hand before quietly walking towards the door to leave, not without glazing one last time at [Name], seeing his sleepy face.

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"Oh, where's [Name]?" Lydia asks, noticing the absence of the other boy.

"He fell asleep."

"He must have been so tired... my poor boy..." Beatrice sighs.

"Uhm—" Jean speaks, trying to let his question out. Beatrice, noticing it, looks at him with curiosity.

"Hmn? Is something you want to ask me?" She smiles kindly, stopping her actions while Lydia cuts some vegetables.

"Well... [Name]'s eyes are... different," he shakes his head, "n-not that is a bad thing or anything!"

Beatrice chuckles, "indeed they are, hmn?" Jean nods, shyly looking at her, "I think he was born with them... I've seen them since I first saw him."

"Oh? [Name] isn't your son?" This time Lydia pries, looking at Beatrice who shakes her head as an answer.

"I found him, or rather, he found me." She smiles as she remembers how scared and lost he looked before— like a frightened kitten. "Jean, [Name] isn't a bad boy by any means. He's... quiet and a little anti-social, so please be patient with him, yeah?"

Jean just looks at her with widened eyes before nodding. He couldn't deny he was interested in him— after all, it wasn't everyday he made some friends, even if he tried to don't make it obvious. And [Name] looked interesting.

"Finally you will have a friend, Jeanbo!" His mother chuckled, finishing making dinner. The boy grunted.

"I have friends! Y-You just haven't seen them...!"

"Sure thing, my boy..."

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[Name] didn't wake up until the next morning. And even so, Beatrice had to wake him up because Jean couldn't. The woman seemed she was get used to such sleeping problems, because she dealt with it fast.

"Here," Jean hands [Name] some clothes, "we will share clothes. I will show you the shower." [Name], still sleepy, yawns and nods, doing his best to walk straight. Jean gazes at him a few times, ready to catch him if he falls. Luckily that doesn't happen.

"Uhm, breakfast will be ready when you finish, so... go there...?" He awkwardly speaks, receiving a nod from [Name]. Jean is ready to leave, until his low but gentle voice speaks,

"Thank you," and then closes the door, leaving Jean alone. The boy looks at the wooden door for a couple of seconds before leaving to breakfast.

Lydia tells Jean to go to the bakery to accompany some bread to today's breakfast, but says to wait for [Name] so they can go together. Jean waits on his seat, until [Name] comes.

━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━

"Uh... let's go then," Jean says, looking at [Name] who yawns and follows him not before waving at Beatrice and Lydia, who wave back in return with a smile. Jean awkwardly does it too before closing the door.

Jean didn't want to ask, but his curiosity was growing on him. He knew [Name] was in Shinganshina when all of the titans came in and broke the wall... and the titans, such monsters that Jean have never saw and couldn't imagine, wanted to know everything [Name] saw. Was there really a titan as big as the walls? How did it looked like?

It seemed he was trying to keep his mouth shut, as [Name] saw how his mouth opened but closed a couple of times. [Name] knew exactly the other wanted to ask— and if he was honest, he wanted to forget about it.

"Just ask." He spoke rather loudly, irritated by the other's actions. Jean jumped at hearing his voice, blushing in embarrassment. He took a couple of seconds before asking,

"Is that true? A titan bigger than the wall?"

[Name] remembers it— skinless monster, moving its eyes trough the people, meeting his'. It's hand gripping the wall, rupturing it. "Barely."

Jean is surprised, but can't hold his questions anymore, "how are they? are they really that big? how many were there?"

Titans who smile for an unknown reason, who eat humans for a reason not known, "they are big, and they smile a lot..." He shivers remembering them, and even if he didn't see them close, their smiles burn his mind.

"Smile...?"

"Yeah."

Jean catches [Name]'s tone and stops prying. Luckily the awkward silence didn't last long, as the two boys arrive to the bakery, instantly smelling the bread. [Name] relax, remembering the times where Beatrice and he bake in her kitchen. Jean does most of the task, seeing as [Name] is not that great socializing. He only says a low hello to the baker, and when Jean takes their stuff the leave.

"Sorry If I pried to much... I was curious."

"It's alright."

"Ahh— but isn't it Jeanbo?" A mocking tone of voice that [Name] recognizes too well is heard behind them, making them turn to see who is it. Jean know exactly who, seeing his frown as he turns around. "And with a new friend I see!" The other boys behind him laugh.

Jean is in silence, and [Name] can't help but assume what is happening. He knows it too well— since Armin was bullied a lot, he knew exactly what type of people this kids were.

And he wouldn't stand for that.

"Aaaah! Look at his eyes! So freaky!" One of them gets near [Name]'s face, making the boy frown in disgust. "What?? You don't talk?"

"Leave us alone."

The bully takes Jean by his shirt, smiling disgustingly at him, "what? momma's boy has grown some balls now that your little friend is here?" Jean shut his mouth, trying to get out of the other's grasps but failing to do so. "Yeah, that's what I thought, momma's boy!" The bully lets out a laugh, following by his friends. But the bully sees what is Jean holding in his hand, grinning, he steals it from Jean's grasp, "ah! you have bread with you. How nice of you, Jeanbo! Now, let me take it—"

"You won't take anything." [Name] speaks, looking straight at the bully's eyes who looks surprised at him, but quickly changes his expression to his clown face.

"Ah? The mute can talk?" He says as he drops Jean, approaching [Name] to intimidate him. He is taller than him, but to [Name] it doesn't mean anything. "Look, I will explain you how things works here, you see—"

"Shut your filthy mouth. You are annoying." [Name] spat out, helping Jean stand up, who looks already frightened by what is about to happen.

"How dare you—!" One of the bully's friends say, but the leader stops him with his arm.

"Now, now, we have to teach him a lesson, don't we, boys?" The boys laugh devilish, nodding as they stretch and move their fists. "Now, why don't you cooperate and—" before he could continue his banter, a punch straight to the face shut him off, surprising his friends and Jean by the sudden force that made him fall. There's silence for a moment, but the bully, embarrassingly covering his bloody nose, yells, "what are you waiting for, idiots?! Get him!"

The two boys react and approach [Name] to give a punch, but the by easily dodges their attacks by kneeling and lifting his leg to kick one of them with full force, making one fall on top of the other. It seems he knocked-out the one of top, seeing he got unresponsive, as the one under him tried to move.

Jean thought this would be over seeing the fight ending quickly, noticing how people are surrounding them.

But [Name] wasn't done— he slowly approached the leader, who looked terrified as he tried to back off still on the floor. The amnesiac boy harshly took him by the collar, looking at him with deadly and frightening eyes, "you should give me that," he points with his head the bag of bread.

"Y-Yeah, all yours!" He quickly speaks, handing him the bag. But just as [Name] takes it, the bully's expression turns into a big grin, taking [Name]'s wrist to make him fall. "Hahaha! You thought you will—" An elbow to the face knocks him off, silencing him for good. [Name] drops to the floor without much harm, taking the bag and with Jean's help he stand up. He dusts himself without much thought before giving Jean the bread.

"T-That was... amazing!" Jean can't stop his surprise and the nice feeling of someone standing up for him. He admires the stoic boy, who doesn't look tired, dusting himself as if nothing had happened. He looks at Jean, tilting his head with a small frown.

"We should get going for breakfast." He began walking, but seeing as Jean wasn't following, he stopped and looked behind him with a raised brow. His humming made Jean's thought snap and run towards him with a blush, the two boys walking to their home as they talk all the way there.

Jean didn't want to admit it, but [Name] was pretty cool, even if he was a little weird. He looked forward to being his friend in the future... He didn't mind sharing his bed with him if it meant hearing him talk more.

Trough the walk to their home, [Name] hides his headache, more exactly trying to ignore the static that he hears.

Ḧ̴̻̩̘̰͖̯̫̼̼̼̮̤̼̭̩͉̟́̄̓̓́̍̕͘͝ͅe̵̡̨̡̢͓̜̻̻͇͚̖͂̾̐͑͌͛̃̃͂͘͝͝͝ͅ ̶̢̬̼̱͈̬͍̣͍̖̟͉̫͚͇̈́̀͊͋̊̅̾͂͗̈́̌̑̚̚â̸͇͚̩̰̊̎̿̍̐́̈́͘͘͝͠ͅľ̷̛͚̦̖͗̋̇͗͋́͝r̶̢̛̲̞͎͕̜͈̬̹ͅe̵͉͕̦͈͈̞̝͙͈̠͉̹̟̗͓̊̑͗̾͐͘͘͜͜͝â̵̢̤̟̭͕͍̥͈̥̈́̌͐̾̐͊̆͆͐́̒̑͐̌̚̚͠͠ḏ̵͔̫̻̪͔͖̮͓̮͎̋̾̉͊̔̉̐̌͗͂̒͌̍̿͘͝ͅÿ̵̢̬̙́̐̃͐͋̐̾̈́̍̋̇̀͊̈́̐̋̚͝ͅ ̸͈̘͔̯̩͐̑̔̿̃͋̆̅̒͌͌̍͝͝h̷̖̟̉̌̓̅̎̉̎̌̚a̶̱̼̙̮̥͕̥͔͈̽̍̅̊̈̏̂̂̍̕͝s̸̜̮͐̓̈́ ̷̳̫̳̙͒͋̽̃̈́̈́̏̈́̈̎͂͛͝͠ţ̵̲̩̣̠̲̝͙̜̻̣̲̀̿̃̿͆̆͆h̶̩̞̠̭̳̼͇̠̝̗̻̼̮̙̞̹̤̑̈́̂̒̓̇̔̔̈́̏͌̋͝͝͝e̵̡̮̙̺̯͇͚͕͕̫͛̊̅͂̆ͅį̸̹̞̱͍̫̥͓̻̫̈́̽̏͋̃̇̋͆͑̄͒̓́̔̒̚̕r̷͕̙̖͓̩̃͒̎͂͒̓̃̕̕͘͝ ̶̛͈̜̰̗͈̭̬̥͈̳͚̼͖̙̏͗̏̎̔̏̅̌̚͜͜͝p̵̨̡̖̰͈̬̮̗͓̘̂̐̒̂̈́̊ơ̴̧̡̨̧̙̟̯̞̻̪͉͕̫̝͎̜͗̄̈̊͆̊̓ͅw̵̡̡̡̺̬̹͇̠͓̟̘̹̱̺̾͐ͅẹ̶̼̦̜͙̹͎̥͌͆̓r̶̞͔̯̪͖͖͖̝̜̜̯̰̙̈́̌̐̑.̵̡͉̫̠͎̩̦̗̣̝̝̪̙̽̈́̓̄̚̕ ̸̛̛̫̘̲̓̈́̌̈́̓͑͒̀͘͝G̴̡͙̯͖̥͙̼͕̳̜̬̺̬͕̱̭͕̐͌̍̀̑͛̓̔̾͗̒̉́̇͑̔̚ǫ̷̬͚̝̭͚̳̠͙̺̖̞̭͖̉̍͑̊̈́̇̿̋͆̂͌̊͌̀̔̈́̚ͅọ̵̎̊̌̈̌̏͌̑͂̐̕͝͝d̸̬͙͆̽̊̔̋͒͐͝ ̸̧͈͓̱̗̂̄̃̇͊̒̅̏̀͊̚t̶̡͇̭̣̫̣̹͙̤̬̥̗̑̊͠͠h̷̬̬̙̣̙̭͚̦̝̦͇̻͖̹͂̅̄̓̈́͊̆̈͐̄͊͜͠͝͝ỉ̴̛͍͙͔̬̹̬̞̄̈́͐̅͒̌́̿̐̊͐̕͜ͅn̶̡̝̱̘̯̼̳̝̬͙̰̻̦̳̈͒̾͂͌͆̿̐̈́̈͠g̶̢̜̬̫̰̯̖̹̩̤͊̇̈́̓̓͂̓̐̚ͅ ̷̨̛̩͙̹̻̩̣̦̬͇̤̥̼̓̋̄͒̈̄h̴̩̲̠̥̳̹͇̮͇͕͔̝̤͗̓͗̈́͘ͅͅȩ̸̨̻͇̫̥̩̪̟͈̩̼̘̒̆͌̆̕͜͜'̷̨̡̡͇͍͖͈͎̣͈̞͙̼̖̠̲̭͖̳͛͋̎̂̾̆̅͒͘s̶̪͙̭͔̋͛͑̐͛͝ ̶̲̄̈́̈͂̽͒͋͗̊͑̂̈̈́̚̚͝͠ņ̴̡̥̦͇̗͕̖̜͖̞̒͋̑̇̌̾̈͗͝ŏ̸̤̈́̾͋ț̷̠͓̲̹̻͔̙̻͍͎̮̾̎̈́̂̅̉͌̓̋̒͐̊̌̽̿̑̚ ̷̨̢̤̲̥̹̰̼̗̰͍̮͖̥̺̠̾͂͗͂̓̑̑̔̎͛͗̿̉̚͘ͅa̵͎̫̳̲̙̤̟̦̺̗̣̞͉͉͒̇͊̍̎͂̍͛ͅ ̸͚͈͉̱͇̦̜̣͉̗̎̇̒ͅͅģ̸̦̱̠̣͔̼͉͗̉̒̈̓̃̾͝ơ̶̢̧̹̯̳̬̱̭͇̣̖͊̆͂͊͑͋͑͑̚̚͠͝͝o̶̧̬̹͈͎̯͈̼̰̫̲̣̜̥̊̀̔́̔̇͑͆͝͝ͅͅd̷̢͎̰̖͚͉͙̼͓̮̗̬̦̱͔͊̍̉̿̈̌̂̄̐̒̿̚ ̷̢̧̼̹̏͐̄̀͑̏̉͊̊͝ͅf̸̧̧̺͔͉͙̮͈͕̭̜͈̰̗̎͐̑̈́͑̀́̌͝ö̸̢̨͍̥̞̮̹̫̹͓̞̱̟͓̳̳͙́̎̽̿̑̀͆̾͝ͅͅr̶͇͍̱͚͖͚͑̓̈̋̌̌́̃͆͌͋ ̸̢͔̙̻̼̼̦̞̲̫̗͓̝̦̒͗̚ń̷̨͕̟̲̦̬͉͖̘̜̺̱̭̖͖͈́̋ͅơ̷̙͚͕̰̼͕̙̞̠̥͚̠͆̂͌̋͑̚͠ţ̸̠̜͔̭͐̓͋͛̾̽̊̓̓ḩ̵̧͍͕̙̱͈͈̤̑̔͜i̸̢̢̮͇̤̘̞̥͋̅̑̀̂̈́n̶͎͙̎̄̿̚g̷̢̻̩̟̳̲̩̫̝̮̤̞͈͎̹͈͗͂͜.̴̡̖̬͇̬̫̰͙̺̖̇͐̒̿́̎̔̈́̇̊̃̆̔́̉̾̕͠.̶̢̧̧͍̭̩̤̝̪̰̤̱̹͖̰͙̹̀͑͛̉͜͜͝.̵̳̲̦̼̞͚̅̿̈ͅ

NOTES i'm taking some canon-liberties rn, like * how can the warrior trio get to the refugees before eren and the others? * [name] nor beatrice saw the armored titan because their ship had already sailed * tbh, jean's ma doesnt have a name anywhere, so i named her to write more easily i hope you don't get too much annoyed by that hehehe

[moth-and-raven]

CHAPTER FOUR

The rest of the day passes in a haze. Loud cheers met Nadia’s announcement and Portia slipped into the rush just in time to board the carriage, tear-stained but determined to fight through it.

I must have been imagining things. I don’t want to think poorly of Julian, but I have to face facts: people will do and say anything to keep themselves off the gallows. He’s smart. He’s charismatic. He knows I’m working with the Palace. I can’t help but think he was just trying to endear himself to me, taking advantage of how obviously attracted to him I am. I can’t blame him for that. It’s my own fault for chasing what was a pathetic pipe dream from the start.

I retreat to my room after we return to the palace. It’s not unreasonable, considering I haven’t slept much in the past few days. From my bed, I watch spots of sunlight creep across the ceiling until I fall asleep. At least it’s dreamless this time.

Portia comes to get me for dinner in the late evening, when the sky’s turned purple. She’s itching with curiosity, peeking at me from the corner of her eye the whole way to the dining hall. Before we enter, she clears her throat.

“So, um.”

“It was nothing.” If I keep telling myself that, maybe it’ll hurt less. “Did you—?”

“Safe and sound. At least as much as he can be.”

“How long had it been since—?”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth just like he does. “Ten years, give or take. The last time I saw him was right after his apprenticeship. He came back to Nevivon for a few months while he was figuring out what else to do. I was only sixteen, so he must’ve been… twenty-five?”

The same age I am now. I didn’t realize he was that much older than me, though I suppose it makes sense. He’s lived quite a life. Yet more reason for him to see nothing of interest in me.

Portia pushes on: “What will you say to—?”

“I’m not telling her anything.” I shake my head and look away. “I don’t have anything to tell her anyway.”

That’s not a lie. I may know more about him now, but nothing pertinent.

“She’ll ask.”

“I know.”

I must not be doing as good of a job hiding my sadness as I thought I was, because Portia rests her hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. I don’t have it in me to say that whatever she’s imagining isn’t true.

I can’t do this.

“Could you tell Nadia that I—” Humiliated, I choke on my tears. “I'm— I’ll be in the library.”

I’m already around the corner by the time she agrees. I don't know what I’m going to do there, but at least I’ll be alone. Again.

I may not remember beyond the last three years, but I know in my heart that I’ve never been loved like I am in my dreams. I probably never will be. With all the beautiful people out there, who would choose me, the fat twenty-five-year-old virgin so gullible she falls for every man who looks at her twice? What could I possibly offer someone like him?

Nothing.

Painful, empty nothing.

I end up at the library eventually. At least I can navigate the palace better than I could the South End. My tears have almost stopped before I feel the metal arc of the crescent moon still hanging around my neck and break apart again. I manage to reach an armchair, nestled in an alcove near a half-flight of stairs, and curl up in it as best I can to weather the storm.

I’m so ugly when I cry. Thank god no one can see it. No one ever should.

When the waves settle and my breath doesn’t feel so foreign in my lungs, I press my palms to my eyes and sigh heavily. I have a headache now, as I always do after I cry like that. I know I should be hungry, but I’m not. I don’t know what I am.

But I made a promise. To Nadia and to Julian. Even if I never see him again, I’ll help him as much as I can. And with all of his research, all the palace staff who knew both him and Lucio, all the magic echoes swirling around waiting for someone to hear them, I think I can help him a lot.

------

I was always more comfortable at night. I sleep a little bit, curled up in the armchair, but it’s not very comfortable and I wake up sore. I’m glad I came to the library, though: Julian’s desk is a mess of torn papers and marked-up books, underlines and strikethroughs and question marks in the margins, and I have so little time to piece it all together. If I hadn’t slept yesterday away… yesterday. I shouldn’t be thinking about yesterday. It was nothing. It is nothing.

He’ll be nothing if I can’t figure this out.

Portia brings me something to eat in the very early hours, right before dawn. Without saying a word, she draws up another chair and starts sorting through things too. She can read his handwriting much more easily than I can.

And Count Lucio’s name shows up. And again, and again. Lucio’s temperature rising. Lucio says wine tastes metallic. Alchemical fluid in Lucio’s prosthetic turned red, wouldn’t survive replacement. Observations in clipped clinical speech, but scrawled with ever-increasing desperation. Lucio spitting up blood. Lucio not sleeping, complaining of bad dreams. Lucio too weak to eat, still alive.

Notes on the dissection of a beetle, a cross-section of a human brain, a map of the palace with large red Xs over half the rooms in the east wing. Peeking over my shoulder, Portia points at them.

“That’s the Count’s Suite. He had the whole wing, actually. No one goes up there anymore.”

I straighten up, my joints crackling from the hours I've spent hunched over. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Nadia had the whole thing blocked off. It’s really dirty, from the— all the ash and stuff. And people say it’s haunted.”

“By Lucio?”

“I guess. One of the other housekeepers swears they saw the ghost of a weird guy at the top of the stairs once. That it looked right at them with spooky red eyes. I think they’re full of shit, but maybe it’s worth a look?”

There could be a thousand things worth a look. If I had more time… “I don’t know. I have a couple spells that might be able to pin down a ghost, but I’ve never actually tried them.”

“If it is Lucio, though, wouldn’t he be able to say who killed him?”

“Hm. That’s true. Is the wing locked?”

Portia grins and fishes in her pocket. “Not if you have keys.”

The main staircase is close to the library. I feel the air get colder as we approach, and the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck start to stand up even before Portia unlocks the corridor that leads to Lucio’s bedroom. It’s eerily quiet, all gray and black, luxury gone to ruin in the wake of a disaster. I’ve seen reproductions of burned-out buildings that look like this, after heavy battles. It crosses my mind that destruction of that caliber had taken extremely powerful magic to accomplish, not the actions of a single man weakened by pressure and long hours in the midst of a plague. Julian can’t even do magic. He said as much during our long conversation at the Raven. I can’t imagine anything else that would do this much damage without bringing the entire palace down.

Interesting.

Cinders crunch underfoot. Charred paintings watch us pass. A primal fear creeps along just behind us, whispering then asking then screaming at us to flee. I can feel my heart in my throat and adrenaline in my blood, every sense heightened. Tattered curtains move at the corner of my eye: I’m terrified to look and even more terrified not to.

But I can tell without bringing magic to my hand that there’s nothing here. At least nothing that wants to make itself known. There’s just a spark of pure rage somewhere deep inside the wing, but it doesn’t want to be seen. No ghosts, no goats, no ghost goats. No spooky red eyes. Just soot and smoke stains and three years of neglect. The fear lurking in the back of my mind isn’t supernatural, just the normal human mistrust of the dark and abandoned.

We go all the way to the end of the suite to no avail. Part of me thinks I should stay, but I’m getting tired now and the idea of sleeping in these rooms isn’t appealing. Portia takes my sigh as an admission of defeat and pats my arm. It was a distant hope anyway.

Near the end of the corridor as we leave, a small glimmer catches my attention. If I hadn’t been looking that way to start with, I never would’ve noticed it.

“Hey Portia, what’s in there?”

She lifts up the lantern and peers into the room. “Bath chamber, I think.”

We see it at the same time, as the light catches the red gleam again: falling from the sink are drops of blood. More of it trickles across the floor. The walls are stained from it, up to the window.

“What the fuck?”

My sentiments exactly. What is this? It can’t be actual blood, can it? This is the top floor of the palace. Is it bubbling up through the plumbing?

“Nadia’s gonna want to know about this,” Portia says in a small voice.

“Wait. Let me check it out first.”

She turns to look at me, pale in the lantern’s glow. “This is way beyond whatever my brother might have done. It could infect the whole palace!”

“Do you think it’s infectious?”

Portia frowns. “Did you… Were you in Vesuvia back then? During the Plague?”

There’s no point in lying. “No.”

“Neither was I, but I heard about it. Before I left Nevivon, some sailors docked and told everyone what they’d seen. People died so quickly, there wasn’t space to keep their bodies. And they were all red, their eyes and their fingertips, everywhere you could see veins.” She shudders. “I can’t believe Ilya worked with it and… and…”

She must’ve been so scared, knowing that he could die any day.

“You know that big ugly crematorium out in the bay?” she asks.

“The Lazaret.” Everyone knows about that. You can see it from shore, a jagged silhouette reminding everyone of the toll the Plague took on the city. I don’t like looking at it: it makes my heart ache.

“Yeah. Even with that, there were too many bodies. So many people… There was a rumor that the Palace stored the extra ones, until they could be burned.”

“Where would they have been able to keep them?”

“Dunno. But there’s a huge tunnel system under here, all the way down into the cliffs. And the dungeon’s really big.”

I’d wondered how Julian could escape the prison cells, when the only way out was through the palace itself. Tunnels would explain that, I suppose. “So do you think there’s still something tainting the water?”

Her eyes are wide in the dark. “There might be. Kinda like here, no one’s been in the dungeons for ages. Probably since then.”

I frown. It’s unlikely, but I can’t deny the evidence right in front of me. I take another step into the washroom and trace the flow towards the wall. Some of the stones are loose now, after years of water damage. There’s more than enough room for it all to drain away between them.

Weak dawn sunlight floods the horizon as I stand up and glance out the window. I can see most of the city from here, out across the harbor to the Lazaret and down through the South End and directly into the lush gardens below.

And beyond the gardens, flowing from the palace along the channel of an aqueduct, is a stream of blood red.

------

Nadia scowls at the dripping red water, then summons her bodyguard to her side and dispatches them with a whispered order. Both Portia and I follow her out of the wing, but Portia splits off at the base of the stairs to see to her duties while Nadia invites me into the dining hall for breakfast.

A massive, gaudy painting hangs over the table, eyeing us as we pick over the array of egg dishes and sliced fruit. It depicts a celebration scene, I think, presided over by a muscular blond man with his arms spread wide over a crowd of adoring citizens. Nadia notices me looking at it and chuckles.

“Admiring my late husband’s art sense, are you, Reyja?”

I don’t want to offend her, but I think Count Lucio should’ve stuck to partying. “It’s, um, very vibrant.”

“That was typical of him,” she laughs. “Ostentatious to a fault.”

People don’t talk about Lucio much, unless they’re cursing his name for all the damage he did to the city with his warmongering and overspending. I’m trying to solve his murder, but now that I think of it, I don’t know much about the man himself. “What was he like?”

Nadia grimaces. “Much as you’ve heard, I expect. Loud, brash, insolent. Committed to his life of luxury. I would not have married him, had I been sober when he proposed.”

She must catch my surprise, because she fixes me in her dark eyes and raises a brow as if daring me to judge her.

Of course I won’t. “How did you two meet?”

“He was visiting Prakra,” she says. “To present himself to Empress Nasrin, my mother, as the Count of Vesuvia. He had been in power for some time by then, as I recall. I believe he told me that he’d first come to this city nearly twenty years before, on a mercenary contract.”

“He wasn’t from here?”

“No. He was of the Southern tribes.”

That’s confusing. “How did he get to be Count?”

“The former Count grew quite fond of him. Lucio was named his heir shortly after he arrived, and took the throne shortly after that. He spoke often of the battle in which he lost his arm—” She points at the painting. Lucio’s left arm shines, gilded in gold leaf. “—the same in which Spada was killed.”

Lucio may have been bloodthirsty, especially fond of the fights to the death at the coliseum Vesuvia used to be famous for, but everyone knew his roots as a successful mercenary. Even in his forties, when he died, he was strong and virile.

Which was why his death came as such a shock. Who would’ve thought such a man would die in his bed, ravished by sickness and weak enough to fall to an unskilled assassin?

“What about the Plague?” I ask quietly. People talk about Lucio a little bit, but no one discusses the Plague at all, as if the mere mention of it will cause its return.

Nadia nods. “It appeared nearly overnight, five years ago. No one had seen its like before. To my knowledge, nothing like it has been seen since, either.”

“Do we know where it came from?”

“I’m afraid not. Little is known of it, save that it killed thirty thousand of my people in two years.”

Her people. Nadia may have been Prakran by birth, but this was her city now.

“I had been visiting my sisters when it struck,” Nadia continues, gaze unfocused as she looks back through her memories. “As such, I was forbidden from returning until we were certain it had passed.”

I remember the parade that welcomed her back, but I didn’t realize she’d been gone that long. It’s been less than a year: she must be so busy, trying to pull Vesuvia together again. No wonder the search for her husband’s murderer hadn’t been her top priority until now. “I’m sorry.”

She tilts her head, looking at me. “Understand this, Reyja: if the Plague has not truly left the city, and what you and dear Portia discovered today is proof of that, then the search for Doctor Devorak must be set aside. I am eager to see justice done, but one man’s life, when weighed against the lives of thousands, will not tip the scales. I hope I may rely upon your services regardless of that outcome.”

Her visit to the shop feels very far away. I’m attached to this now, however big it gets. “I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. I have sent Yazakh to fetch an expert on the Plague from their estate. I hope they will return soon, but in the meantime, I urge you to rest. We may have much to consider in the coming days.”

I take a small pastry with me when I leave the table and make my way back to my room. I don’t doubt that she’s right, but even with this additional set of problems, I can’t keep my mind away from Julian. Thoughts of him cloud my head as I lay down for a nap and they’re still there when I wake up. My stomach isn’t happy with me, swirling with guilt and humiliation and anxiety, but I don’t know what to do about it.

The expert still hasn’t arrived when I go up to Lucio’s suite to check. I pass the library on the way back and my fingers fly to the silver moon pendant still around my neck, following the divot Julian’s own nerves wore in the metal. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look through his notes while I wait, if I can concentrate enough to get anything useful out of them.

I can’t.

When the sun sets again, I give up. Another day gone, and I’ve only discovered more things to do. I need something to focus on, something with a solution, something… something that might distract me from the fact that I’m no closer to clearing Julian’s name.

I can follow that water, if nothing else. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but maybe I can learn where it’s going. And I can get out of the palace, maybe work off some of this nervous energy. And I won’t be surrounded by pieces of him, distracting me from my mission. It’ll be perfect.

---------------

prev || next

[bugaboosandbees]

Duchess Noir Part 6

Hello all. I apologize again for how late this is (especially to you, lovely anon). Thank you again SO MUCH for commissioning me to write this chapter. Things are really difficult right now and you helped make my life a lot better this week. I really appreciate it. :) (To make up for my tardiness, this chapter is extra long.)

Now, on with the salt show!

Gabriel

Gabriel Agreste sat at his desk and ran a hand across his face. He was getting a headache again. The feelings of all of Paris pressed down around his mind and he couldn’t help the rising tide of derision at how… petty they all were. How dare these people feel such despair at the most commonplace of everyday mishaps. They didn’t deserve to feel that pain, that anguish. They hadn’t lost everything. Raising his head, he turned in his chair to face the portrait of his wife behind his desk. The sun streaming through the windows gave life to the gold of her hair and the emerald green of her eyes. Gabriel reached out a hand towards the painting -- and then curled over himself in pain. He fumbled for the buttons that would take him to his lair as his head split apart. God, he had never felt such despair. Through the pain, his mouth split open in a shark’s smile and the floor dropped out from underneath him.

“Noroo, dark wings rise!”

As soon as the cold magic of his transformation wrapped around him, Hawkmoth called down a butterfly and reached out with his mind as he poured his energy into it. Just who was this, filled with such pain? This utterly broken soul would be his masterpiece, he could feel it --

“Adrien.” His lips parted around the name in horror. He threw the butterfly away and whirled on his heel, dropping his transformation as he went. He barely registered Nathalie’s surprise as he ran past her and up the stairs, bursting into his son’s room without consideration for an excuse as to why he’d done so.

He found his son in the wreckage of his room. He looked around with wide eyes at the dismembered foosball table, the upturned couch, the shattered CDs that littered the floor, and the boy in the middle of it all, tears streaming down his face and with an expression of such murderous rage that even Gabriel felt a frisson of fear shoot through him. Adrien muttered something too low for him to hear.

“What did you say, son?”

“She took it from me.” Adrien bit out, mouth cutting around each syllable as though it were a knife. “SHE TOOK IT FROM ME.”

Gabriel was confused. Who could have taken something from his son? What did the boy value enough to feel such rage? He wanted to ask for clarification, but before he could even open his mouth again, Adrien went on, almost growling.

“How dare she?! We were chosen for this -- we’re soulmates! Why can’t she see that? It’s destiny -- the Ladybug and the Black Cat are meant for each other. She can’t love anyone else but me -- she’s mine! ---”

His son was still speaking, but Gabriel could only hear the words “Ladybug” and “Black Cat” as they chased each other around his mind over and over again. His eyes were drawn to Adrien’s hands -- and to the stark absence of the ring he’d noticed that his son had taken to wearing.

“So close.” He muttered. “I was so close!” He stepped closer to his son and raised his voice. “Oh Adrien, I understand. You’ve done so much for her -- it’s only right that she realizes that.”

Adrien’s face broke wide open like the sun -- the model’s smile that he’d spent years cultivating making him look every inch the angel. “I know! Thank you, father!” Then his face twisted down into a snarl again. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t see it that way.”

Gabriel felt his own mouth twist up into a smile. “What if I told you that I have a way for you to make her see?”

“But how? She took my miraculous -- what can I do without it?”

“Noroo?” The elder Agreste called for his own kwami, and the timid purple butterfly flew out of his suit pocket.

Surprise played across his son’s face before settling into a feral, cat-like grin.

Chloe

“Give me your hand.”

Chloe had been just about ready to head out to meet up with Sabrina for a picnic their class was having in the park when Plagg spoke. She turned to meet his cold green eyes. Her heart sank. It hadn’t even been a day yet and he’d already decided that she was a bad idea. The fact that she’d almost expected it didn’t make it hurt any less. Screwing her eyes shut in a futile attempt to stop the coming tears, she offered her right hand to Plagg, using her left to begin twisting the ring off of her finger. Funny… it had gone on pretty easily, but it was proving a bit difficult to remove…

“What are you doing? Are you giving up already?”

Chloe’s eyes flew open. “I -- I thought that you wanted the ring back. That… that you decided that I’m not worthy.”

Plagg huffed in a manner so bizarrely reminiscent of an actual cat that for a second she almost forgot what he was. “No, kid. Tikki trusts you, and that means that you’re the bug’s best hope right now. Frankly, with how Hawkmoth’s been escalating, we really don’t have time to find and train someone new. Unless you really mess up -- which you’re not going to” he punctuated his statement with a glare “I’m not going to take the ring back.”

“Then what are you doing?” Chloe blinked back the tears that hadn’t quite fallen, trying to win some composure back so that Plagg would think she was worth his time.

“I need to change what the ring looks like, just in case the previous Chat Noir would see you and figure things out. Just hold on a second.” Plagg placed both tiny paws on the ring on Chloe’s finger and closed his eyes.

The kwami and the ring glowed such a bright green that Chloe had to look away from them. When the light faded, she turned back to find Plagg already halfway across the room swallowing an entire wheel of camembert whole, and a much slimmer gold ring on her finger. She lifted it up to her face, examining the way that the light played across its surface. “Wow.”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re astonished by my amazing magical powers.” Plagg had flown back over to her, carrying another wheel of camembert in his arms. He held it out towards her. “Now, if we’re going somewhere, put this in your purse.”

Chloe eyed the wheel of cheese with horror. “In my purse?! But -- that smells awful! And my purse is Gucci!”

“If I’m hungry, I won’t be able to transform you if there’s an akuma, and if I can’t transform you, you won’t be able to help Ladybug,” Plagg stated smugly.

“... Fine.” Chloe took a deep breath and shoved the stinky cheese into her designer purse.

Adrien

“Why can’t you just akumatize me?” Adrien asked petulantly. His father and Nathalie were conversing in quiet tones underneath the large butterfly window in what Adrien had discovered to be the lair of Hawkmoth and Mayura.

Nathalie nodded sharply at his father and pulled something from her pocket, pinning it to her lapel. After an explosion of intense blue light, Adrien saw a peacock kwami fluttering affectionately around Nathalie’s head. She offered the small being a piece of chocolate, pulled from another pocket.

Father turned towards him, steepling his fingers in thought. “We must know if a new wielder has been found for the miraculous of the Black Cat. The Guardian may be keeping it still, or he may have hidden it, intending to send Ladybug help in the forms of the other miraculous in his keeping. To rescue your mother -- and to make your Lady see sense, of course -- we need both miraculous. We will strike our most powerful blow when we have them both in our sights, not a second before.”

Adrien huffed, but make the sort of careless, permissive gesture one might expect from a Prince. “I suppose that makes sense. But the second I see whatever imposter has Plagg…”

His father’s lips quirked up in a malicious grin. “You’ll get your vengeance, son.”

Chloe

Chloe arrived at the park fifteen minutes later than she’d planned to see the party in full swing. The class had formed up into a clump around a bench facing away from Chloe and seemed to be very engrossed in conversation with… kwami dammit. Chloe’s eyes rolled skyward and she suddenly acutely regretted letting Sabrina convince her to come out to “hang out” with the class on her precious day off. Of course, they’d all be holding court around sausage hair. Still, she was here, and she was trying to be a better friend to Sabrina. Maybe she could convince the other girl to ditch the rest of the class and they could have a spa day instead? Deciding that the thought had merit, she approached the class.

“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.” Chloe barely restrained a laugh at the liar’s honestly horrific fake crying but sobered as she continued. “I’m sure that Marinette just forgot that she told me she’d bring the picnic blankets and snacks today. I was just so excited about today! I’ve had to miss so many of the class events because I’ve been so busy working with Prince Ali on my environmental initiative… I -- no, that’s silly.”

Alix leaned forward like the Italian’s ridiculous hair had some sort of gravitational pull. “What is it, Lila?”

Rossi made a rather unconvincing show of pretending that she had something that she shouldn’t say before simpering “Well… I almost wonder if she didn’t come on purpose.” She raised her hands like she’d said something the rest of the class wouldn’t like and didn’t want them to be mad at her. “I mean… I know that you all really want to believe the best in her, but Marinette has been awful to me ever since I transferred here! She says such awful things to me when none of you are around to hear. Honestly… if you all weren’t such good friends, I probably would have transferred schools by now just to get away from her. Even when I asked her about having this picnic, she told me that she’d tell the rest of you to come. If I hadn’t texted you all separately, would anyone have even shown up? Or would I be sitting here all alone again?” Rossi hid her head in her hands as she started crying, presumably preventing the rest of the sheep in their class from realizing that no actual tears were falling.

Chloe’s heart sank as she looked at the rest of the class. It looked as though a verbal bomb had been detonated. While a few (Cesaire and Lahiffe) hung back and looked uncertain, no one was exactly jumping to defend Dupain-Cheng from Rossi’s accusations. Worse, others, like Alix and Kim, were starting to look absolutely murderous. Did they actually believe this shit?! And then, just when she thought the situation couldn’t possibly get any worse, Chloe spotted a flash of blue hair over Max’s shoulder. Shit. She wasn’t the only one who noticed. Double shit. She tried to make gestures at Dupain-Cheng to get her erstwhile nemesis to turn around, but Kubdel was already up off the ground and halfway to the bluenette. Without really thinking about it, Chloe ran after her.

“Some fucking nerve you have showing up here! Did you come to laugh at her?!” The pink-haired girl was inside Dupain-Cheng’s space, shouting in her face.

“I -- don’t -- what?” The bluenette was understandably confused, but this only seemed to make the other girl angrier. She raised a hand as if to slap Mari- Dupain-Cheng, and Chloe was moving before her mind caught up with her. She jumped between the other two girls, grabbing Kubel’s wrist before it could hit its mark.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She hissed.

Marinette

Chloe Bourgeois was standing up for her. Her -- Marinette Dupain-Cheng -- not Ladybug. And Alix had been about to -- No. She couldn’t hear what Chloe was saying to Alix over the roaring in her ears. Her eyes drifted over the blonde’s shoulder and landed on the rest of her class gathered around a bench on which Lila Rossi was sitting, face twisted in a poor approximation of despair. Her scattered mind began putting the pieces together. She met Alya’s eyes amid the crowd. Bright, warm, fearless Alya. The first best friend she’d ever had. The other girl looked at her with something like regret, one hand stretched out as if she meant to come to her side -- and then the moment passed, Rose grabbed her arm and she looked away. Still, Marinette couldn’t quite suppress the flicker of hope. Maybe Alya was starting to see. Maybe, despite everything, she could get her friend back.

Marinette was brought back to herself by a gentle hand on her shoulder. Chloe stood in front of her, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “-Cheng. Dupain-Cheng… Marinette, are you okay?”

She opened and closed her mouth several times. Was she okay? Honestly, she didn’t know. She was so tired, of Lila, of Hawkmoth, of Chat, of everything. She gave a minute shake of her head and pitched forward into Chloe’s arms, seeking out the embrace that had kept her sane over the past month. It wasn’t until the blonde stiffened against her that she realized that she was Marinette now, not Ladybug. Chloe didn’t… She tore herself backward, took one glance at the confused blue eyes in front of her, and she ran.

Nathalie

Mayura landed gently on the top of the Eiffel Tower. She extended one hand to brace herself on the metal supports and reached into a pocket with the other to bring out a nondescript pen that she’d grabbed from her desk. She grabbed a feather from her fan, focusing her thoughts and the power coursing through her until the feather joined with the pen, a bubbling dark mass springing into being before her as her sentimonster was created.

The large being stood in front of her, what passed for a face level with hers as it clung to the tower with heavy limbs.

“I am your Master, Mayura.” She told the thing that she’d made. “Go into the city and destroy it. Draw out the heroes and hurt them.”

Chloe

Chloe heard the crash almost as soon as Marinette had run off. She shook herself out of her confusion and looked over the rooftops for the noise. In the distance and saw what looked like a large monster trampling through the city. She swore underneath her breath and used the confusion that had suddenly overtaken the park to dash to an isolated alleyway, opening her purse once she was sure no one could see her. Plagg emerged, looking serious.

“Are you ready kid?” He asked her.

She looked back at him with determination in her eyes. She would not let Ladybug down. “Plagg, claws out!”

The energy that washed over her was colder and less controlled than Pollen’s warm light. It felt almost like standing in the middle of a raging storm, with dark lightning lancing along her skin. She’d thought she’d known what being a superhero felt like -- what power felt like. She had been wrong. She felt the power of destruction roiling inside her and shuddered at the thought of the previous Chat Noir with this energy at his fingertips. No. It was hers now. And she would protect it and Ladybug both. She grasped her baton in a daintily clawed hand and sprung up onto the rooftops of Paris.

She wasn’t quite as fast as she’d been as Queen Bee, but she could feel the strength in the magically reinforced black leather of her armor and knew that she’d pack much more of a punch in a fight. Still, it didn’t take long to cross the expanse of Paris between her and the akuma? Sentimonster? She paused behind a chimney to observe the monster, see if she could locate the object that needed to be broken… But its indigo skin seemed almost formless -- it didn’t look like it could hide any sort of object. Shit. She wanted to look longer, to see if there was anything that she had missed, but the beast moved forward, one giant leg descending towards a mother desperately trying to remove a baby from a stroller whose wheel had caught in a crack in the road.

And just as she had not five minutes earlier, Chloe moved without thought, leaping down into the street below.

Marinette

Stupid. STUPID. She couldn’t believe that she’d messed up like that with Chloe. She didn’t stop running until she was sure she hadn’t been followed, ducking into an alleyway and leaning over, hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

“Marinette, are you okay?”

She looked down at Tikki’s concerned face and attempted a smile. “Yeah, you know. My friend tried to hit me and my bully-turned-only-person-keeping-me-sane stood up for me without realizing that it was me --” she laughed almost hysterically and ran a hand through her hair. Her kwami was still looking at her, large blue eyes filled with concern. Then, she heard the crashes and the screaming. Her face hardened. “We can talk about this later.”

“We will talk about this later.” Tikki looked unusually stern. Marinette’s lips quirked up at her kwami’s protectiveness.

“Tikki, spots on!”

The familiar warmth of Tikki’s magic washed over her, and Ladybug jumped onto the roofs of Paris, already running towards the trouble in her city. She saw the large monster from a distance -- it was hard to miss, a ten-story tall formless shifting mass of blue and purple with arms and legs like clubs. Her heart dropped. It was huge. And she couldn’t count on Chat… who knew what her new partner was going to be like… She was on her own. Her yo-yo deposited her on a rooftop just behind the monster and her eyes roved over its form desperately, looking for any sort of object.

Too late she noticed one of its large feet hurtling toward the earth, and toward a mother and her child unable to flee fast enough. She flung herself in motion, but she knew she wouldn’t reach them in time -- but then a figure all in black swooped down and grabbed both mother and child, leaping away from the chaos and leaving the civilians safe. The new Cat -- her new partner -- leapt up onto the roof just ahead of the monster. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” She challenged.

For a moment, Ladybug simply looked at the new hero. Her weight rested indolently on one leg, a daintily clawed hand resting on a cocked hip. Golden piping ran down her costume in the same color as the ponytail that waved behind her like a banner and the slitted cats eyes that glinted from her mask. Then, the monster roared and her new partner’s golden baton extended and she leaped forward, claws bared.

Relief shot through her. Although she hadn’t yet spoken to or truly taken the measure of this new partner, she held onto the thought that Tikki had chosen whoever it was and that they would have her back. She wouldn't have to do this alone anymore. She ran forward, jumping off of the roof she was on and throwing her yo-yo at the monster’s head, trusting it to catch her. She had a partner to help.

Adrien

Adrien looked up as a beeping emerged from a screen in his father’s -- Hawkmoth’s -- staff. Nathalie -- Mayura -- must have sent him a message.

His father turned back toward him, eyes glinting inside his mask. “It appears that they’ve replaced you with an imposter after all.” He reached out a hand, and a white butterfly landed on his glove, beginning to glow with a corrupted purple light. “Chat Blanc, I can give you the power of unlimited destruction to win back your rightful place.”

He clenched his fists so hard that his nails drew blood.

“With pleasure, Hawkmoth.”

Tags:

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[chibbybish]

Here With Me (Juice x Reader) !NSFW!

Part 4 (Final Part)

requested by @kchavez666

tag list: @everyhowlmarksthedead

[word count: 2400]

[reading time: 00:19:10]

-I recommend listening to this while reading-

A/N: I really did go through an emotional rollercoaster while writing this.

You slowly opened you eyes and looked around.

"Tara?" You yelled as you remembered what you were doing at St Thomas.

Tara entered the room holding your newborn which instantly brought tears in your eyes.

"We're here to see mommy, yes?" Tara said softly and gave you little Theo to hold him.

"Hello little guy." You kissed his forehead. He looked so small and you were so afraid that you would somehow break him or he would explode.

"Congratulations, (y/n), you're the strongest woman I know." Tara kissed your cheek.

"Please tell everyone to come in, I want them to see him." You tried to wipe your tears.

"Of course." Tara opened the door and told everyone to come in the room. They all came in, silently and were left speechless when they saw baby Theo in your arms.

"Hi, hi, baby!" Chibs whispered.

"He's so tiny. I'm sorry I'm gonna cry my eyes out." Tig sniffed.

"Hi little angel." Jax gave him a little Sons Of Anarchy cap.

"Oh, uncle Jax is giving you presents!" You told your son.

"Is he gonna explode?" Happy asked, making some of the guys laugh.

"Hello there! Hello!" Gemma caressed the baby's little hand.

"Everyone is here little Theo!" You kissed his forehead again.

"Well not everyone." Clay sighed.

You looked at him, curious.

"I see everyone." You smiled. And then you saw him. You saw Juice entering the room and panic filled your whole body.

"What are you doing here?" You growled. You gave Theo to Tara and she took him out of the room.

"I asked you something." You stormed.

"Baby I-"

-Baby? After all this, you have the audacity to call me baby?

Everyone looked nervous.

"We're gonna leave you two have a chat, shall we?" Gemma said and everyone started exiting the room.

Once you were left alone, Juice attempted to approach you.

"Don't come closer, I'm gonna freaking scream." You barked.

"Please (y/n), let me explain." He cried quietly.

"Explain what? That you left me because you're an asshole? You left me alone! I was calling your name when I was in pain while you were probably cheating on me with some bitch on birth control!" You raged.

Your whole body was shaking. You couldn't yell or be mean to him because you just loved him too much, but he deserved it. You were the most forgiving person but, at that time, you knew you shouldn't forgive him for leaving you like this.

"I didn't cheat on you!" He tried to explain.

"Yeah, right." You shrugged not being able to believe a word he said.

"Please." Juice kneeled down next to the bed. "Please believe me, I never cheated on you." He mewled.

You didn't say a word.

"Please, forgive me, please." He held your hand. "Please, don't leave me." He added and his crying became harder.

"Don't leave you?" You took your hand away from him. "Do you now how much sleep I lost when you left me?" You shouted.

The door opened and Chibs came in.

"Come on Juicy boy, let's get you out of here." He tried to take Juice out of the room but he wouldn't move. "Come on brother, Theo is hungry, we have to leave him with his mother." He added.

"No, I wanna stay here, he's my son too!" Juice sobbed.

You grabbed the collar of his t shirt, feeling nothing but anger. Chibs stopped pulling him back.

"You should've thought that when you were leaving me." You seethed. "Don't you dare call that baby your son, you hear? He's my son and mine only. His daddy left him before he was even born." You released Juice, having left both him and Chibs speechless.

"(Y/n) please-"

"Leave, Juice. It's the only thing you know how to do best." You growled.

"Come on, Juice." Chibs grabbed his arms and walked him out.

Tara brought Theo in the room and gave him to you.

"Hello baby boy." You kissed his forehead. "Let's feed you, okay?"

A few days passed and the only thing that was on your mind was Juice, begging you to forgive him.

Little Theo was now home with you, with Tig, Chibs and the rest of your friends occasionally visiting you.

You parents were in Hawaii, having the time of their lives and you could only contact them via video call.

"Is that my grandson?" You mother squealed in one of your video calls.

"Say hi to grandma Theo!" You lifted your baby up.

"Hi baby! Oh my god, Karl, you have to see this!" She smiled and nodded to your father.

"Oh hi, baby! My little angel!" Your dad exclaimed.

They both came when you died twice after giving birth to Theo but they had to leave a few days after.

"Now baby, tell me; did that Juice come back?" Your mother asked.

"Yes but he's not part of our lives anymore." You kissed Theo's soft cheek.

"Girl power, baby! He left you first." Your dad approved.

"I like your dad!" Tig exclaimed.

You laughed and looked at the time.

"Oh, I'm sorry guys, I have to feed Theo now, okay?"

-Of course sweetheart! Take good care!

-Okay mom!

-We love you pumpkin.

-Love you too, dad! Have fun!

The video call ended and you went to sit in the living room.

"There's no way mommy's gonna ever lose weight, you hear?" You told Theo and laughed.

"Don't listen to her, it's not your fault. Your mommy is as sexy as ever!" Chibs interfered.

"You heard grandpa Chibs!" Tig approved and you laughed.

After feeding your tiny son you took him in your room and carefully placed him on the bed.

"Mommy's gonna eat some ice cream, okay?" You kissed his forehead. He seemed very sleepy and hungry at all times, which made him the most adorable little baby you had ever seen, and no one had a different opinion on that.

You went back to the living room where Chibs and Tig were sitting, reading newspapers and books.

"My boobs are suffering." You complained, physically hurting.

"Oh the pain of being a mother!" Tig said, dramatically.

"Fuck off." You said making both of the men laugh.

There was a knock on the door.

"I'll get it!" Chibs stood up.

When he opened the door, he saw a very very sad Juice, looking exhausted.

"Oh shit." Chibs mumbled.

"Who is it?" You stood next to him and your big smile vanished once you saw Juice. "I told you to stay away from me and my son." You brked and your hands turned into two angry fists.

"Please, please let me talk to you, please." He kept saying.

"Tig?" Chibs yelled. "Let's go, brother." He added, and they left you alone.

You made room for Juice to come in. He seemed lost, as if he didn't know where to stand or sit.

You walked passed him and into the living room.

He quietly followed you and sat on the sofa across the couch you were sitting on.

"I'm listening." You crossed your arms waiting for him to speak.

"I am not going to tell you how much of a mess I am, because you already know that." He said, calmly. "But I am a mess and I was so scared when you told me you were pregnant." He sniffed.

"What were you so afraid of, for God's sake?" You growled.

"I was afraid I was gonna ruin his life, (y/n)." He said. "I was so afraid I wouldn't be a good father!" He ended.

"Well, that has just been confirmed." You ironically laughed. "I don't want you near that baby, I don't want you anywhere near us!" You yelled. "Chibs and Tig are more like fathers to him than you'll ever be, you hear me?" You seethed.

"I know and I'm so sorry, please forgive me, please. I didn't mean to hurt you!" He trembled.

"If you didn't want to hurt me then why the hell did you leave me?" You yelled, fed up with the audacity this man had.

"I can't say anything to justify myself, there's nothing to say. But I'm so sorry, please let me be in your life again. Please." All the drama caused you a headache.

"No, please leave." You stood up and showed him the exit.

"(Y/n), please don't do this."

-You left once, couldn't be hard to leave again, a second time, right?

-(y/n), please, please.

He approached you and grabbed your hand, kneeling before you.

"Please." He kept saying.

"Don't make this any harder, Juice." You said, coldly.

"I'm not gonna give up until you forgive me." He said. Damn right, he wouldn't, you thought.

A few tears were threatening to roll on your cheeks but you made them go away.

"Please leave." You told him again.

"You're breaking my heart, please forgive me." He kissed your hand.

"Did you ever think about my broken heart?" You pushed him away.

"I've learned my lesson, I've paid for my mistake, please forgive me." He bawled.

Finally, the tears that were threatening to escape your eyes where now rolling on you cheeks and falling from your chin.

"I hate you." You cried.

Juice stood up and tried to hug you but you just started hitting his chest with your fists.

"I'm so sorry baby." He said when he was finally able to hug you.

"God, I missed you so much." You clenched your fists around the fabric of his t shirt and burried your face in his neck. Only then you realised that you had missed everything about him; his smell, his touch, his presence in the room.

"Juice, Juice." You kept saying. You broke the hug after a few minutes and looked at him in the eyes.

"I will never leave you again, never, never." He kissed your cheek and then your lips; deeply and passionately. He was hungry for you and you were hungry for him.

"I need you, I need you right now." He said out of breath and started pushing you until you were right outside the bedroom.

"Theo is sleeping here!" You whispered, while Juice tried to undress you. He nodded and guided you in the living room, helping you lay on the couch.

"God, I need you." He helped you take your pants off.

He put his face between your legs and kissed your skin,sending a shiver down your spine.

"Oh Juice!" You gasped when you felt his tongue entering the most sensitive part of your body. He just kept on slurping and tasting you as you tried to moan as quietly as possible.

"You drive me crazy!" You said, taking off your t shirt and bra.

Juice stood up and took off his clothes, as fast as possible.

You started kissing again, while Juice started playing with your boobs.

You moaned his name as he put a finger inside you.

"Oh how I missed this pussy." He groaned and put a second finger in you.

"Please, I want you right now!" You whined.

"What do you want me to do, baby?" He asked in a raspy voice while he kept fingering and leaving wet kisses on your chest and boobs.

"Fuck me, I want you to fuck me." You begged him. His member was already hard as a rock.

He entered you, making you moan with pleasure.

"Oh yes!" He groaned and grabbed your legs. He started fucking your pussy faster and harder and at the same time he played with your boobs.

You almost had forgotten how this felt like. You hadn't had an orgasm in a few months and what was happening right now was amazing.

"Harder!" You yelled as you felt your whole body shaking.

"Oh baby, oh baby!" Juice groaned as he kept fucking you. He put his whole member inside you and kept going fast and hard.

"I love you, I love you!" You moaned as you started cumming on his hard member.

"I love you too!" Juice moaned and took his dick out, cumming on your boobs.

He kissed you gently and went to bring you a towel.

After you both had cleaned up, you lied down on the couch next to each other.

"No matter how many times I'll apologise, it will ever feel like it's enough." Juice kissed your nose.

"Shut up. Let me enjoy this, it's been so many months." You smiled and closed your eyes. You buried your face on his neck, letting his smell flood your lungs.

"I love you baby." He kissed your forehead.

"I love you too." You kissed his chest.

After a few minutes little Theo started crying.

"Oh we woke him up!" You stood up, naked, and started walking towards the room.

"Wait, you're naked!" Juice laughed.

"So are you." You said and wore your panties. "Come on, you have to see him."

Juice wore his boxers and just quietly followed you.

When you entered the room, little Theo turned his face to look at you.

"Did we wake you up baby?" You lied down next to him, feeling exhausted.

Juice was still standing in the hallway, not being able to say a word.

"Are you gonna sit there, or are you joining us?" You laughed trying to calm baby Theo down.

Juice entered the room and lied down next to his son; Theo was now between his parents.

"Hi little guy!" Juice took his little hand in his and kissed it gently.

"Say hello to daddy." You pushed the little baby towards his father, gently.

"Hi, hello." Juice put his hand around him. "You are so cute." He kissed his little forehead and then turned to look at you. "Can you please wear a bra? I'm trying to focus on my son but your boobs won't let me." He whined.

"Shut up!" You laughed and crawled closer to them. You kissed Juice while putting your hand around your baby.

"I swear I will do my best and be the best husband and daddy on this planet." Juice said and a few tears escaped his eyes.

"Husband?" You asked surprised.

"Will you marry me, (y/n)?" Juice smiled.

"Hell yeah!" You exclaimed and kissed him.

Little Theo yelled something no one understood and threw his small hands in the air, while kicking like every baby does, making both you and Juice laugh, happily.

[swhurtcomfort]

Hey! I love your writing! You're so good at creating the perfect balance of hurt and comfort and how each character properly reacts to being sick/hurt. If your prompt are open, keep going. If they're not, just ignore this bit. Anakin!whump is my absolute favorite, and you do it so well. If I may, can I request a whatever length you desire on Anakin having a high fever in the field (whether it's from sickness or infection is up to you) and Obi-Wan taking care of him

“Do you really think we are getting anywhere with these people, Master?” Anakin asked, slouching back in his saddle. “If they’re really going to join the Republic, they’ll have to send representatives to Coruscant—and they’re gonna find out that the rest of the galaxy is full of big, scary speeders.”

“Jedi do not mock other peoples,” Obi-Wan corrected him. “We have been invited here to negotiate, the least we can do is respect the lands that they hold sacred.”

Anakin sighed petulantly. His guapa craned its head down to snatch a mouthful of the tall weeds and he responded by giving the rein a sharp jerk. The beasts had been lent to them by a local congressman, because aircraft and motorized vehicles were forbidden to cross this particular stretch of moorland.

“All I’m saying is that we could be there by now,” he huffed.

“I know,” Obi-Wan conceded. They were both already saddle-sore from two days’ ride.

“This could’ve taken an hour instead of three days, if it weren’t for the stupid—”

“Padawan.” Obi-Wan shifted in his saddle and looked askance over his shoulder. “What has gotten into you today?”

Anakin ducked his head at the reprimand. Obi-Wan rarely called him that anymore, he was entering his third year as a senior padawan, and would be a knight candidate soon—if Obi-Wan ever decided to recommend him for the trials. But he realized that the way he was acting wasn’t exactly demonstrating his maturity.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Anakin said. “I’m just a little out of sorts.”

“And why is that?”

Anakin shrugged.

Obi-Wan turned around again to raise an eyebrow at him.

“My head just hurts,” he admitted. He pulled his guapa’s nose up from the weeds again.

Obi-Wan nodded in understanding.

“We still have a long way to go,” Obi-Wan said after a pause. He unclipped the canteen from the saddlebag that held his bedroll, and passed it over. “You should stay hydrated so it doesn’t get worse.”

Anakin accepted the canteen and took a drink, thankful that he hadn’t received a lecture.

They rode until the sun was low in the sky, then stopped to let the guapas drink from a small brook. Anakin slid off like a sack of potatoes.

“How’s your headache?” Obi-Wan asked, offering him a hand to steady himself, which he ignored.

“Ugh,” Anakin reported. He got to his feet and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“I’m going to stretch my legs for a bit,” Obi-Wan said.

“Whatever.” Anakin sat down to rest against scraggly tree.

Obi-Wan frowned in acknowledgement and left to wander further up the path, coaxing the stiffness from his limbs. When he returned, Anakin was resting his forehead on his knees.

“I found—”

“Could you possibly speak a little quieter?” Anakin groaned. He lifted his face from his knees, and Obi-Wan’s frown deepened. He was quite pale, with fevered blotches high on his cheeks.

“Are you coming down with something?” Obi-Wan asked, whispering for the sake of Anakin’s throbbing head.

Anakin ignored the question.

“There is a decent clearing up ahead,” Obi-Wan continued. “Why don’t we just make camp here?”

“There’s at least another hour of daylight,” said Anakin.

“Even so. We have plenty of time tomorrow to make up for it,” he said. “We should take the opportunity for some extra rest, we’ll need our strength for the last leg of the journey.”

Anakin got the sense that the decision had been made for his benefit, but he was too tired to act indignant. While Obi-Wan untacked the animals and hobbled them so they wouldn’t wander too far from the campsite as they grazed, Anakin just laid out his bedroll and curled up on it. Obi-Wan woke him once he had a fire going for dinner, but Anakin grumbled something about not being hungry and rolled back over.

The morning came too soon. Anakin was shivering in his sleep and clutching at the blankets. Obi-Wan woke him with a hand in his brow.

“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan whispered. His suspicion from the night before was confirmed - Anakin was burning up. “Come on, Anakin, we’ve slept in already.”

Anakin made an unhappy sound and pulled the sleeping bag up over his face. “I’m sure you feel dreadful,” Obi-Wan agreed. “But I’m sure you also want to sleep in a real bed tonight. And perhaps when we get to town, we can get some medicine for this flu you seem to be nursing.”

“’s just a headache,” Anakin protested.

“And a raging fever,” Obi-Wan countered. “We can wait a little while, you can eat something and take a painkiller. But then let’s go.” He tugged at the sleeping bag.

“Ow,” Anakin whined, squeezing his eyes shut against the daylight. Then a slightly more panicky, “Owww.”

Obi-Wan’s heart thudded in his chest. “What is it?”

“I can’t turn my head,” Anakin whispered. He inhaled and exhaled quickly “Why can’t I turn my head?”

Obi-Wan crouched down closer to his side. “Are you sure you don’t just have a crick in it from the way you slept? Can you try to straighten it out?”

Anakin moved his chin a fraction, but could go no further. “Ow,” he whimpered as he struggled.

“Alright, stop trying, it’s alright.” It occurred to Obi-Wan that this might be something more serious than a cold or flu.

“Can’t we just stay? Even just half the day?”

Obi-Wan almost said yes. They had enough supplies, certainly. He knew the ride would be a miserable one for Anakin in this state. But the illness had come on so quickly, and without warning. And it seemed like the pain and stiffness were spreading downwards from his head to his shoulders.

“Anakin,” he said apologetically. “I don’t want to be stranded out here if you get worse. I think we may need to get to a medcenter.”

Anakin was frightened—he tried to shield it, but Obi-Wan could tell. Awkwardly he got to his feet, working hard to avoid jostling his stiff neck.

He let Obi-Wan do most of the packing up and saddling the guapas. When he was finished, he handed Anakin the reins to his mount. Anakin took them, and shoved a foot into the stirrup. He tried to swing his other leg over, but his knee gave out beneath him.

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” Anakin grunted as he made another attempt, this one even less successful than the first. “Give me a boost?”

Obi-Wan moved in behind him as Anakin put his foot in the stirrup for the third time. Obi-Wan placed a hand near Anakin’s elbow to steady him.

Anakin nearly kicked Obi-Wan in the face as he swung up onto the animal’s back with a little too much momentum, and barely stopped himself from slipping down off the other side.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Anakin nodded as he swayed and nearly toppled over again. He was holding the reins slack and gripping the saddle with both hands for balance. “I’m trying,” he bit out.

He wasn’t going to manage it. That was clear. Obi-Wan stood silently for a moment, weighing their options.

“Sit tight there, Anakin,” he finally said when he made up his mind. “I’ve got an idea.”

Obi-Wan unloaded Anakin’s share of the gear and baggage from the saddle, and secured it all on the other guapa’s back. Then he brought the reins forward over the animal’s head, and gave them to Anakin to hold.

“Now take your foot out of the stirrup,” he instructed.

He put his own foot where Anakin’s had been and swung up behind him. The saddle was barely big enough for both of them, but at least this way he could keep Anakin from falling off. The guapas nickered to each other uneasily, and Obi-Wan gave the one carrying them an apologetic pat and clucked his tongue at them. Obi-Wan took the other guapa’s reins out of Anakin’s hands so they could lead her along behind.

It was hard, unforgiving terrain, and Anakin couldn’t help but cry out whenever the guapa stepped over a rock or made a jolting movement. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, or if Anakin was getting sicker as the hours plodded by.

“Are you okay?”

Anakin shrugged. He reached for the canteen and took another sip of water. He was still keeping a death grip on the horn of the saddle, and he’d been slouching further and further forward, still holding his shoulders rigid.

“Has your neck loosened up at all?”

“No,” Anakin said softly. “It feels really hot, and stiff.”

Obi-Wan thought privately that this was sounding less and less like the flu. He was grateful he had made the call to keep pressing on towards civilization.

“If you need to lean on me, it’s alright,” Obi-Wan suggested.

Anakin took him up on the offer, and shifted his weight backwards into Obi-Wan. His hands were cold and clammy, but Obi-Wan was pretty sure his fever had gotten higher.

“Your heartbeat is so fast,” Anakin observed from his position with his head resting on Obi-Wan’s chest.

“I’m worried about you,” Obi-Wan admitted.

Anakin’s groans of discomfort grew more and more frequent. Obi-Wan wondered if he was getting delirious. He urged the poor guapas to walk a little faster.

They rode into the town and to a farm belonging to a relative of the congressman’s, where they handed the beasts off to a stablehand. Anakin needed to be lifted off of the guapa’s back. He was drenched in cold sweat.

The local officials had sent a speeder to bring them to the next city over where the negotiations would be taking place, but Obi-Wan directed the driver to the nearest clinic instead. Anakin managed to stumble into the building without losing his feet, but once he was offered a bed he collapsed down onto it gratefully, breathing heavily. Obi-Wan sat with his hands in his sleeves while they waited to be seen.

A doctor pushed past the curtain and immediately began examining Anakin. “When did the symptoms start?” she asked without looking up. She placed the end of her stethoscope beneath the neckline of his tunic, pausing to listen.

“He started complaining of a headache about twenty-four hours ago,” said Obi-Wan softly. “Anakin—?”

Anakin gave the tiniest nod of confirmation. “Around then.”

“It all came on so fast,” Obi-Wan tried to say, but he was cut off.

“But no other flulike symptoms?” the doctor asked, now placing a thermometer in Anakin’s ear. “No cough, congestion, sneezing or anything?”

“No,” Anakin mouthed but no sound accompanied it. His hand found Obi-Wan’s on the railing of the bed.

The doctor called her assistant into the room and rattled off a long, incomprehensible string of orders. The sinking feeling in Obi-Wan’s stomach grew.

“Anakin, we’re going to give you some IV fluids and a mild pain reliever for now, but we need to admit you to the medcenter upstairs and run some tests.”

Anakin was looking too exhausted to advocate for himself, so Obi-Wan stepped in. “What kinds of tests?”

“Are you the legal guardian?” she asked without acknowledging the question. “If you’d be willing to come with me and take care of some of his intake paperwork, they can get started right away.”

Reluctantly Obi-Wan left Anakin in the hands of the assistant and a medical droid. He signed the documents he was given distractedly. “What kind of,” Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Tests are they doing?”

The doctor met his eyes with a serious frown. “They’re going to draw blood and do some scans of his skull and his spinal cord, and we’re also going to do something called a spinal tap, if you’re familiar with that, to draw a sample of cerebrospinal fluid.”

Obi-Wan heard his own heart pounding erratically in his throat, and remembered Anakin’s comment about it earlier. He swallowed. “So you must think he has meningitis?”

A sharp nod. “We’ll know for sure soon.”

“But…but he’s been vaccinated. I made sure of that, years ago.” Obi-Wan had to make a concentrated effort not to tap his fingers on the desk nervously.

“The vaccine very effective, but only against certain strains of bacteria. A lot of things can cause meningitis. But in healthy young adults, it usually isn’t fatal.”

Obi-Wan got the sense that she intended the statement to be comforting, but it wasn’t in the slightest.

Obi-Wan finished the datapads and followed the doctor to another part of the medcenter where Anakin had been moved. The lights inside were dimmed. The assistant met them at the door, reporting that all had gone well.

“Is he awake?” Obi-Wan interrupted to ask.

“Sure,” the assistant said. “We did the procedure under local anesthetic, just to numb the area on his back.”

“Run those right now,” the doctor said, gesturing to the vials in her hands. “These things progress quickly.”

Anakin was curled up on his side within. Obi-Wan took a seat beside him wordlessly. Anakin blinked at him, but kept the silence. Obi-Wan reached out and freed an unruly lock of hair from beneath the nasal cannula, and tucked it behind Anakin’s ear.

Half an hour later, the doctor returned and announced, “Blood culture and imaging results came back. We’re not going to waste time waiting for the rest; the sooner we start antibiotics, the better chance he’s got.”

“It’s definitely meningitis, then?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Diagnosis is actually meningoencephalitis, which is a fancy way of saying that both the meninges and the brain are inflamed. The spinal tap results will give us a better idea of what bacteria is causing it, but a broad-spectrum antibiotic is better than nothing.”

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispered. Anakin didn’t look particularly awake, with his eyes glazed over.

“I’m also going to give him an anticonvulsant, otherwise I’m worried he’s going to seize at this point.”

Obi-Wan looked up at her, startled.

“The first 24 to 48 hours are often critical. That’s why we’re starting treatment now instead of in several hours when he have all the test results. We’re doing everything we can to give him an edge on this thing,” she reassured him.

Obi-Wan nodded, unsure of what to say.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked in a low voice. For a moment Obi-Wan thought he might be regaining some alertness.

“We’re in a medcenter, Anakin.” Obi-Wan took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re very ill.”

Anakin returned the squeeze, but he still looked confused, whimpering deliriously.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispered back. “I know.”

The threat that Anakin could seize, or crash, or have a serious complication at any moment hung over Obi-Wan like a dark cloud. It was hard to believe that a day and a half ago, they’d been riding across the moor with no inkling that anything was wrong. He thought of where they would be if he had let Anakin try to sleep it off at their campsite, and he shuddered.

At some point in the night, they switched out Anakin’s antibiotics for a more targeted cocktail for the specific bacteria he was fighting. Anakin alternated between feverish mumbling and sleeping quietly. While he slept, Obi-Wan tried to sleep, but he couldn’t honestly say he caught more than brief snatches of rest.

“Hey,”

Obi-Wan was closing his eyes, resting his chin in his hand while his elbow balanced on the arm of the chair. The hoarse voice startled him.

“Hi,” Obi-Wan replied. Anakin’s eyes were clearer than before.

It was morning already. “Well, you made it through the night,” Obi-Wan remarked. “That’s a good sign.”

Anakin laughed, and Obi-Wan forced a smile. It hadn’t altogether been a joke, but if Anakin didn’t realize how dire the situation had been then there was no need to discuss that right now.

“How are you feeling?”

“Still hurts,” Anakin admitted.

Obi-Wan nodded in sympathy.

“Are we still going to the city?”

“I think you’re going to be laid up here for a few days at least. Don’t worry about it right now, just focus on getting better.”

Anakin nodded. Obi-Wan thought he saw his bottom lip wobble.

“I think they will postpone the membership negotiations until we can be there. If not, I’m sure the Council will send another team,” Obi-Wan continued.

Anakin raised his eyebrows, unguarded surprise replacing the sadness on his face. “You’re not going?”

“No,” said Obi-Wan, as if it should have been obvious.

“You’re going to stay?”

The look on Anakin’s face before suddenly made sense. “Of course,” he promised.

“I mean, I’m almost a knight now, I didn’t know if—”

“Anakin, I’ll always take care of you.” It was a reckless thing to promise, especially for two people in such a dangerous line of work. Obi-Wan promised it anyway. “That will never stop being my job. Of course I’ll stay.”

[raleigh-ocean]

the sarah’s and their drunk s/o | headcanon

Billie Dean Howard + [the hungry drunk]

She is so…speechless. Billie for sure didn't expect you to be like that but she is enjoying it too much. She was really late for the after party thanks to some last minute issues, so when she finally walked in you were way way ahead in drinks. Asking for you around the house, she finally found you in the kitchen fighting to open the biggest bag of chips you had found. As she could see, you pretty much had a feast of whatever you had found around. "What are you doing all alone here sweetheart?" she giggled, flickering her cigarette and hugging your waist with one arm before pressing a kiss to your cheek. "They didn't let me order a pizza, told them those…things weren't enough, I was so hungry Billie," your voice was very affected in between munching, as you still struggled to open the damn thing while Billie found it adorable and hilarious. She helped you open after a few tries, holding her cigarette between her lips, and then laughed when you gave her a sloppy kiss in return. "Oh shit, do you want a drink?" you said while holding your own glass, which she took to prevent you from spill it and doing a mess. "I'm finishing yours, then we can go get that pizza, what do you think?" and when your eyes lightened up, nodding with enthusiasm, Billie thought that at least you wouldn't be so hungover in the morning. She much preferred having you hungry than crying or raging around, but she still was impressed about how much you had drank since she didn't see you before like that.

Lana Winters + [the broken drunk]

When Lana found you hiding behind a three, being the absolute mess all by yourself, something inside her broke a little. She had watched you fell more silent as the night went on, Kit keeping the drinks getting to you while he danced happily with her daughter, finally married. You weren’t too fond of dancing, but you never stopped Lana from enjoying her little guilty pleasure. Until she went to the restroom for a second and when she was back you were out of sight. She didn't know what to do then, standing by your side in silence, but as soon as she was about to say something your voice came out all broken and slurred. "Why is she so pretty and why she won't ever notice me?" that really caught her off guard, looking past her shoulder in case you were heard. You clutched your glass against your chest, sobbing like she never saw you before. "About who are you talking about?” it’s a mere whisper and you didn’t seem to turn around to see who was talking to you. “Lana! Who else!?” Lana frowned a bit, puzzled but with the knot in her throat easing almost immediately. How much did you actually drink to even forget that you were her girlfriend from several years to this day? Chuckling, she sat by your side and hugged you with one arm, putting her head in your shoulder. “I’m sure she can’t take her eyes of you.” she reassured you, kissing your cheek. “Are you for real?” you sobbed again, kinda more happy but at the same time breaking Lana’s heart. “As real as I can be, dear, as real I can be.” Lana doesn’t like to see you that drunk, it’s like you lose yourself in darker times, so she always tries to have an eye on you in case the scenario arise again.

Cordelia Goode + [the naked drunk]

“Y/N what are y-OH MY GOD” She almost had a heart attack when she saw you crossing the front door at 4 a.m without your shirt and heavily drunk. You always went out with the girls to make sure they didn’t put up a show, but it seemed that they finally convinced you to give in and drink. The first question she landed was obviously where were your missing pieces of clothing. You were too worried about whatever Queenie was telling you, both trying to not wake the whole house, so Zoe had to tell Cordelia that you lost it at some point of the night and you didn’t remember. And you are quick to tell her. “Deliaaaaaa I lost my shirt!” you are smiling a lot and she is too worried about trying to make you lower your tone and cover you with her robe. “How can you-How did she ended up like this!?” Cordelia would be all about yelling-whispering, trying to ignore the fact that you are telling her sweet nothings. “One moment she had it on, second moment she was flashing us Cordy,” Madison shrugged, way too drunk to barely hold herself too. You bet your ass later in the morning, she’s going full throttle for sure. But even hangover, you still are a bit flirty and all “Well, you don’t need to worry baby, the only one I wanted to flash was you” and Madison is all ‘woah snap’ and Cordelia is just Not Having It ™ - so the next time y’all go out she goes with you to prevent you from getting a arrested or something. She for sure was not expecting you to get like that...and your drunk behaviour will make quite some messes around the Academy at some point (as when you presumily sent a nude to the staff group chat and Cordelia forbid you from being there and therefore started the group chat wars aka @shineestark and I have a full hc built around this and this reader is the same as in all Delia’s stuff I wrote!).

Bette and Dot Tattle + [the touchy-feely drunk]

Bette is all over the roof, and Dot...too but in a lower level than her sister. Having you holding their hands or with your arms around their waist or even snuggled in their chest is like heaven. And Bette takes this opportunity to kiss you as much as she wants, giving you love without having Dot’s nagging voice in her head telling her to not be tiresome. She is taking full advantage of your state just to keep pampering with her kind of love at least. Dot is more worried about you throwing up all over them and at first will be wary of you being that close to them just in case, but as the night goes by and you don’t leave their side at all...well, it makes Dot start to warm up to your ‘love’ too. They don’t quite like the part where you can’t actually speak much or at least speak something with some sense, but having you all for themselves it’s always a really nice thing. It’s weird to see you like that, since you hardly ever drink, but it’s a nice weird thing. It also lead to you asking them to spend the night together for the first time, so how can they do about that? Saying ‘no’ to you? Bette will always laugh at how Dot blushed fiercely when you fell asleep with your head nuzzled in her neck.

Sally McKenna + [the violent drunk]

Oh God, Sally absolutely feels some particular things seeing you that worked up, but it also worries her that you are not near her if you get like that. It’s something you don’t even like of yourself, but sometimes you get a couple drinks and then your whole mood is thrown over the roof. Sally had to held you back several time because one of Will’s model acquaintances is getting too close to you and it anger you to no end for some reason. She knows how to handle you, how to move around people so you don’t end up in a Situation ™ and therefore being in trouble. But Sally is just one woman and she can’t be by your side at all times, so obviously you end up about to punch someone when she was away, trying to get you something to eat to help you get sober. Sally is quick to her feet to drag you out of the party, redirecting all that negative energy towards...other activities. You only had been that drunk around her a handful of times, all in those events the high fashion socialité has thrown at the Cortez, and after that last one she is adamant about not letting you get to that point in any way. And you agree with her wholeheartedly.

Audrey Tindall + [the sloppy drunk]

After the tenth time Audrey has to save one of her things from breaking thanks to your new found ‘curiosity’ she thinks she’s going completely insane. At first she found your ‘butter-hands’ syndrome somewhat endearing, just because you keep on saying ‘sorry’ every time you are about to break or take down something without noticing. But you are now way to drunk to even do that and she has to keep herself checking what are you doing and where are you going in case it get out of hand. She hates avidly whoever decided to keep giving you shots and is kinda annoyed at you for your behaviour, but Audrey takes a deep breath every time she is about to kill you reminding herself that she loves you and she can’t actually do that. When your sloppiness start to get out of hand, aka you starting to do reckless stuff out of the blue, she would be vocal about it with you and sent you to your share room in order to sober you up with a good cold shower. Audrey doesn’t like that part of you especially and she would remind you about it once you are not with a massive headache.

Ally Mayfair-Richards + [the sentimental drunk]

At first Ally found funny how you kept being by her side, clinging to her for your dear life, but at the same time it ignites a little jealous flame inside her watching you proclaim your love for everyone. It’s not the first time she is seeing you like this, but still the flame is always there. You aren’t that...open with your feelings in a regular setting, but when you had your share of drinks your tongue loosen up and go full throttle. From experience, she knows better than having you reach that point since you later barely remember what happened, but she can’t do a thing if you made your way to your current state before she could do something. In exchange of your behaviour, Ally stays close to you and give you kisses as much as she can to remind herself that even when you are like that you still loves her the most. In your drunkass haze, you pick up these gestures and you soon pull her in your lap, sitting away from everyone at the party and start to pepper her face all over with kisses and words full of all those deep feelings you have for her and only for her. And maybe you might make her shed a tear or two, but it’s just because hearing you proclaiming your love for her always caught her by surprise and warm her heart at her fullest. However she still doesn’t like you being that drunk.

Wilhemina Venable + [the happy drunk]

If you are already a happy person without having to drink, Wilhemina can’t believe you could keep leveling up in that just by being totally wasted. She is getting used to be in a formal relationship with you, loving every second she gets to spend with you, but she had still to see that part of you. You two were at a bachelorette party from one of your friends and everyone kept going full on ‘remember when Y/N used to beat us all drinking’ and they got you drunk before Mina arrived. You welcomed her without any kind of restriction and the biggest smile on your face. At first she didn’t notice you were that wasted and it only gave it away when you made her laugh with the most stupid thing that crossed your mind, almost you falling to the floor in good laughters. She is actually worry that you end up throwing up and try to get you controlled in case you decided to keep drinking, but at the same time...seeing you being that carefree and dancing and laughing and trying to keep her entertained and happy just moves something in her heart. She doesn’t really care to see you in this state as long as you are feeling ‘okay’ in the sense to not lose yourself, the extra happiness is always more than welcome in those times and situations when she doesn’t feel the best at it -like social events, per example.

Tammy Robinson + [the horny silent drunk]

For Tammy is something normal, something she has got used to. But for the rest of the group? It’s their time to freak out because they never saw you getting a) that drunk and b) like that. Lou actually had to ask Tammy why she is laughing so much every time you get near her. All of it is because you whisper some indecent proposals to her ear and she had to calm you down lightly with promises and some touches in right places. It’s something fun, if she was being honest, overall because aside of getting closer to her for that you are not really talking much and just moving along her everytime she moved. Like lost puppy, but make it horny. And she kinda likes the attention? So she let you be for a good while until it start to weigh on her and then she’s quick to push you into the nearest room and let you do whatever you last said to her. But once you got what you’ve been yearning for all night...Tammy has to help you get to the nearest place in which you can lie down and nap. It only earn soft laughs from the rest and even from her, but for sure later she will remind you about it just to see you get as red as a tomato.