#and the iv one reminds me of when iii also 'held' the light like a lightsaber

[blue-lollipops-and-ice-clouds]

Sleep Token (Vessel, III, and IV).

(Source - courtesy the beloved and talented Adamrosssi)

[hookedsworks]

Edge(ING) Fitness - Chapter 42

II's POV

warning: angst/cliffhanger ahead!

reminder: the next chapter will be posted tomorrow

ao3

word count: 1115

“Vessel!” II called out on seeing him come through the gym door. He was soaked. It was raining hard out. A big raindrop slid off his lashes. III came in behind him. He smiled, seeing them together. He knew that Vessel had been stressed out recently, because III had been ignoring him for reasons unknown. “III, Ives is in a class right now, but he should be out in about ten minutes if you want to see him,” III nodded and walked deeper into the gym. I really should make him get a membership at some point. 

“Do you have a minute, love?” Vessel didn't normally ask to chat. Not when he had a workout lined up. 

“Um, yeah, I have a moment,” he flagged down one of his employees, a new guy that Ives had brought on from his team. The guy pulled his headphones off one ear. “Can you watch the desk for a second?” 

“Yep,” he leaned on the desk, watching the door and popping his headphone back over his ear. 

“Back office?” He asked, turning to Vessel and holding his hand out. Vessel took his hand and followed. Once they were alone in the back office, he turned to Vessel. “What’s up?” 

“III saw us together, after my opera. That’s why he’s ignored me for a week,” 

“What do you mean? He brought me to your opera. Why would he ignore you after that?” II was confused, and kind of angry. III took him there, he doesn't get to be mad that they were together after the show. Hell, he took him backstage. “I can’t believe he would bring me there and then get upset about it,” Vessel giggled once, twice. He held a hand over his mouth, trying to compose himself. 

“N-no,” another giggle. His giggles are so cute. “He uh…let himself in the next morning. Around six?” 5:39 AM in soft red light. II could not help his outburst. 

“He watched me blow you?!” Vessel flinched at his volume. “Sorry, sorry. Um. He watched me blow you?” he brought his voice down into a reasonable range. Vessel nodded. 

“He did, apparently. He came to my house today to talk to me about it,” 

“What was there to talk about?” II was relieved - III hadn’t gotten mad at Vessel for his own actions. He didn’t think III or Vessel would take to his lecturing the same way Ivy did… though Ivy did not seem to be tolerating it as much as he used to. III had given him a lot more spine than normal, he thought. But…then again. III watched him pleasure his partner. What fucking business did III have doing that? Why was he just waltzing into Vessel’s home? 

“Well…apparently he has a fantasy about it now. He wished he’d had his boyfriend there, wished they could have joined us,” Vessel met II's gaze, still almost giggling. II stared at Vessel. He watched for any give away as to what Vessel thought of that idea. He wouldn’t say anything. Held his face in check. “He also thought we were hot. Said you were talented,” Vessel laughed then. He followed that with a shrug. “I guess…I think he’s hot too. I like the idea anyway,” Vessel got shy when he said it, looked down at the ground. II wondered about it. Thought it would be hot, actually. He had ignored it, but he did think III was attractive. Though, he was really annoyed that III had silently watched him blow Ves. But Vessel had mentioned Ivy being there too. He tried to downplay the thrill starting to run through him at the idea of having more men, especially Ivy, in his bedroom. The idea of being at the center of all of that? II felt his face warm. Letting himself think about Ivy, remembering Ivy in all the maddeningly attractive states II had seen him in. The shorts… the smile. Drenched after a game. Relaxed on a couch on a Sunday, reading. Ivy… He'd look perfect, sex drunk and curled around Vessel. Vessel. Vessel was looking at him. He must have been staring into space. 

“I don’t mind that he watched us. Or wants more. He can think we’re hot,” II shrugged, downplaying his interest. The thought of Ivy on his knees, of Vessel in Ivy’s mouth… his own mouth ran dry at the prospect. He had never really considered it before, but with the idea in front of him. He desperately wanted to try it at least once. 

“Vessel, please leave,” the voice came from behind II. Ivy’s voice was so twisted with anger, II just barely recognized it. The last time II had heard that voice, it had been the day Roxy had tried to assault him. In some misguided attempt to hurt Ivy, she had broken into his place, made Ivy sit with her until he got home and then tried to fuck him. In front of Ivy. It was horrific, the cops had been called, it was a mess. 

“Oh, um, hi Ivy,” 

“Leave. Now.” Vessel shot a look toward him. II looked over at IV, saw anger twisting Ivy’s face into something pained.

“Go, Vessel. I’ll talk to you later,” Vessel slunk out the door, shooting a nervous glance between the two of them. The second the door clicked shut, Ivy unloaded. 

“He can think we’re hot!? Are you fucking serious? Why do you always have to take someone away from me? First Roxy, and now III? You know I love him!” II wanted to rear up in self defense. He hadn’t meant that. Ivy hadn’t caught a majority of the conversation. He didn’t, though. He bit every word back. Ivy was spitting mad, raging at II now.  

“Ivy, please. Calm down. That’s… it isn’t like that. How much did you actually hear?” 

“I heard you saying my boyfriend can think you’re hot! How the fuck could you ever find that appropriate? Especially after Roxanne?” II’s head snapped up when he heard Ivy use Roxy’s full name. He never normally did that. That meant he was beyond angry. Shit. 

“Roxanne wasn’t my fault,” was all II could think to say. He didn’t explain, couldn’t explain, needed to explain. He didn’t know how to tell Ivy that it was III who had said it, didn't know how to tell Ivy that III had wanted Ivy there too. 

“I could fucking kill you,” IV snarled. He was at a loss. Ivy turned away, throwing his hands up and storming out of the back office. II knew he had fucked up this time. 

Nevertheless, he put one foot in front of the other, running to catch IV. 

[alcinadimitrescuwu]

This Woman's Work Part IX (Alcina x Female Reader Fanfic)

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII

“You’re almost there, Maman. You’re doing great. Just a couple more steps.”

You take a deep breath in through your nose and blow it out through your mouth and push forward at your daughter’s coaxing, your arms gripping the railing that had been set up in your bedroom. The wound in your side is in agony but you take another step, biting the inside of your cheek hard to keep from crying out in pain.

It has been three weeks since that horrible night. You had already lost a lot of blood by the time Karl and Alcina arrived at Donna’s place. In an incredible stroke of luck, Donna had surgical thread in her sewing kit and at Salvatore’s instructions (he was having one of his good days) sewed up the place where Alcina’s claws had torn through. You were in and out of consciousness, but every time you opened your eyes Alcina was there by your side holding your hand.

Alcina is sitting nearby in her chair now, gently burping Ecaterina after her feeding. She looks up at you and you see concern in her golden eyes and another emotion that has been a mainstay for the past couple weeks: guilt.

Things had been...awkward between the two of you since that night. No matter how many times you assured her that all was well and you had forgiven her, she refused to forgive herself. You had only been intimate one time since that night and it ended quickly after Alcina had forgotten about the wound in your side as she cupped your hip and you couldn’t hold back the scream of pain that came out of your mouth. Alcina had immediately gotten out of the bed and as far away from you as she could, as if afraid touching you would cause any more damage.

She had sunk into the chair and began sobbing brokenly. You had wished to go to her, but your Bath chair was already on the other side of the room. You braced yourself against one of the bedposts as you said gently, “Darling, it was an accident. The pain’s already subsiding. Please come back to bed.”

Alcina covered her face with her hands, but you could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t even make love to my wife without causing her pain. What kind of wife does that make me?” The raw self-hatred in her voice broke your heart.

From that point on whenever you had settled down for the night, Alcina kissed your forehead and turned out the light and that was the end of it. She kept to her own side of the bed and you greatly missed the feeling of her muscular arms about you with your shoulder tucked under her chin, her curls kissing your cheekbones.You had the sense that if you tried to move closer she would move away so you didn’t even try.

You try to take another step and suddenly the room spins around you and you fall forward. Daniela, however, quickly grabs your arm and puts her arm around your shoulder before you hit the ground.

“I think that should be enough for today, Maman,” Bela says soothingly.

You set your jaw. You only have three more steps to go before you clear the railing. “No, girls, I can keep going.” But your ragged breathing and forehead shining with sweat give you away. You push your tongue to the inside of your cheek and taste coppery blood from where you had bitten into it.

Cassandra rolls your Bath chair over to you. “Maman, you don’t need to push yourself so hard. You’re not gonna be of any use to Ecaterina if you run yourself ragged.”

You smile at Cassandra’s brutal honesty as she helps you into your Bath chair. “You’re right, dearest.”

Alcina stands up, having finished burping Ecaterina. She looks affectionately over at her daughters taking care of you and you see one of the first genuine smiles from her that you’ve seen in weeks. “You’ve been so good to Maman these past few weeks, dears. She and I really appreciate all the help you’ve given to us and Ecaterina.” She rests the hand not holding Ecaterina on the back of your chair and you take her hand in yours, kissing her knuckles. Surprisingly, she doesn’t pull away this time. “It’s time for us to put Ecaterina down for her nap and for me to change Maman’s bandages. If you’ll excuse us, loves.”

The girls nod in agreement and vanish into their bug shrouds. Alcina turns around and settles Ecaterina into her cradle. Ecaterina gurgles, her eyes mirroring the gold in Alcina’s. Alcina gives her a tender kiss on the forehead before turning to you. She motions for you to stand up and you obey as she kneels down to your level and helps you take off your day dress. Standing there in your slip with her hands on you reminds you of how long it has been since you have last felt her touch.

Alcina lifts up your slip ever so lightly and peels off the gauze bandage wrapped around your waist. Alcina sets her jaw as she uncovers the gashes she herself had inflicted on you. She takes off her gloves, dips the pad of her thumb in a jar of salve and applies it to your wounds. There is an unreadable expression on her face.

You try to give her an encouraging smile. “I talked to Sal the other day,” you posit. “He says that even though the wound is deep,if I don’t expose it to too much sunlight it won’t leave a scar!”

“Not a physical one at least,” Alcina mutters.

Ok. You’ve had enough. You turn her head to face you. “Darling, we’ve been over this,” you say, rubbing her cheekbone with the pad of your thumb. “Are you going to keep punishing yourself forever?”

Almost despite herself, Alcina leans into your touch and interlaces her large fingers with yours. “I can’t imagine how much physical pain you must be in, my love,” Alcina whispers. “And all by my hand.” Tears begin forming in Alcina’s aureate eyes. “I nearly killed you.”

“You didn’t though, Alcina!” You move over to her lap and she gently almost tentatively wraps her arms around you and holds you close. You lean your head against her chest and resist the urge to sigh. It’s been so long since you’ve been held by your wife. “I know you were under Miranda’s control but something held you back from killing me outright. I know it.”

“You don’t know what it’s like being under someone else’s control.” You can almost feel Alcina’s body shudder as she recalls that night. “It was like I was outside my body watching myself. I was screaming at myself to stop when I kissed that woman.” The memory of your wife kissing Mother Miranda so passionately pops into your mind briefly but you shut it out as she goes on. “And when I stabbed you, I-” Her voice cracks. “I was practically begging myself to stop but my body just moved on its own.”

“Don’t you see, then, darling?” you ask. “You weren’t yourself when you were under Mother Miranda’s control. The person that kissed Mother Miranda, the person that stabbed me, that wasn’t you, so please.” You cradle Alcina’s face in your hands and stare into those beautiful discs of gold. “Please stop blaming yourself for this. Mother Miranda is dead. I’m alive. Our daughter is safe and healthy. That’s what matters now.”

Alcina kisses your forehead lovingly. “When did you get so wise?” she asks, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. You can see that you’ve finally gotten through to her. Her body posture is more relaxed, her jaw is loose, and her shoulders aren’t so tight. She carefully places the new bandage over your wound and you feel a pleasant tingle as you feel her bare fingers brush briefly over your tender skin.

She moves to pull your slip over your new bandage but you take her wrist before she can withdraw it. You hold her gaze as you take the strap of your slip off your shoulder and your slip coils in a pool of silk around your ankles. She takes you in her arms and brushes her lips against yours briefly. When she pulls aways, you see the same desire in her eyes. “Are you quite sure, ingeras?” Alcina asks, brushing the back of her knuckles against your cheekbones.

“Yes” you rasp. “Take me to the bed.”

Alcina picks you up as you wrap your legs around her waist, taking care not to touch your sensitive wound and carries you over to the bed. She gently, almost reverently lays you down on the bed. She lowers herself down to kiss you again and you bury your fingers in her curls. Alcina deepens the kiss, her tongue coaxing your mouth open as you unfasten the pearl buttons on the back of her dress. “I’ll go slow for you, draga,” Alcina murmurs against your lips.

“Alright, let’s see how our little patient is doing today- JESUS CHRIST! What the FUCK?”

It seems like Heisenberg has decided to check up on you today.

With a frustrated growl Alcina moves quickly in front of you while holding her own dress up. “Yes, Heisenberg, that is in fact what we were setting out to do before you arrived.” Alcina shakes her head at him derisively. “You seem to have impeccably bad timing, as always.”

Heisenberg’s face is beet red again, you note with amusement. “Well, excuse me for trying to check in on my sister-in-law and my goddaughter! Speaking of which, really Alcina? Getting down and dirty with the kid in the room?”

Alcina’s cheeks are also sporting a lovely red color. “Ecaterina was asleep.” Amidst all the commotion, Ecaterina has already woken up and is crying. “Well, she was until you came in.”

The girls suddenly materialize into the room. “Mother!” Cassandra chirps. “I thought I heard Uncle Karl in here and- JESUS CHRIST! What the FUCK!”

Alcina covers her face with her hands. Bela takes the book that Daniela is holding and holds it so it’s covering the image of you and your wife on the bed. “Really Mother,” Bela tuts to herself.

Daniela doesn’t seem to mind. She turns to the two of you, unperturbed by the state of your undress and asks, “Can Uncle Karl stay for dinner, Mother, Maman? Please? It’s been so long since we’ve all had dinner together!”

You smile indulgently at her over Alcina’s shoulder. “Of course he can, darling,” you say.

“Fine,” Alcina mutters. "Now if you please, will all of you kindly get out of our room?”

The daughters vanish into the bug shrouds, chattering excitedly about what Cook is making for dinner. Heisenberg leaves too, chuckling softly to himself.

You turn to your blushing bride and give her a chaste kiss on the lips before you both get dressed and join your daughters for dinner.

Together. As a family.

[nicasiia]

Come Away To the Water. Book VI

(read book I here) (book II here) (book III here) (book IV here) & (book V here)

Come away little light, come away to the darkness To the ones appointed to see it through In the shade of the night we’ll come looking for you Come away little lamb come away to the water Come away little lamb come away to the slaughter Give yourself so we might live anew

fandom: midnight mass pairing: Father Paul x 2nd person OFC (Helena Belleforest) summary: “That’s my job. To know the people in my community.” “You mean the sheep in your flock.” “Especially the little black ones that like to wander off.” His voice is so tender. You wonder if Jesus spoke with this same tenderness. You think, if he did, you would’ve defied Rome for him too.

(playlist) a/n: picturing Luca as Oliver Jackson-Cohen because where was he Mike?? We were robbed. So I wrote him a role. Also, yes we will be addressing vampire lore in the next chapter, fear not! By the way I'm not making up the fact that there was a Bishop named Paul at Emperor Constantine's Nicene conference/ in his court. Do yourself a favor and google it, it's hilarious when you look at everyone else in attendance having the most Latin names ever and then there's just... Paul. taglist: @shannon-posts @seraphiiii @witchy–owl @allergic-to-reality @viatenebrosa @lucie-pevensie (if I missed anyone just lmk I'm so sorry if I did!)

Luca walks you back from the feast at Hadrian’s palatial estate on the Tiber river. Your father has many chariots of bronze and gold that could carry you, but on clear nights when the breeze is warm you like to walk the streets of Rome. Especially with Luca at your side. Taken as a child hostage from Gaul, he’s grown into a fine legionnaire. Fought bravely on the frontlines of the Germania many times. Your father likes him well enough, but you're not naïve. You know he’ll never let you marry a soldier.

Your steps slow when you find the Bishop from Neocaesarea standing outside the temple steps. Your temple of Sol Invictus.

Was yours. Is now his.

Gods, you’ll never grow used to that.

Luca pauses with you, his eyebrow arched as he takes note of the steady gaze held between you and the Bishop. You feel the muscles of his forearm tighten defensively as he rests a hand on the heavy sword at his belt. Luca has never been one for religion. The bronze pendant of Mars you gifted him stays proudly pinned to his red-wine robes. But only because it reminds him of you.

Still, he knows how you grieved over the loss of the temple to these Christian barbarians. His resentment on your behalf runs deep.

“Mind your manners, Bishop. You are to kneel before the daughter of your Emperor.”

Bowing his head politely, Paul refuses to bend. He doesn’t even spare Luca a glance.

“I am no citizen of Rome, good soldier. I kneel only before the son of God.”

Taking a threatening step forward, Luca reaches for his sword. But your arm swings out to stop him from moving any closer to the man. Your father and grandmother have both recently been baptized as Christians. You know that challenging the clergy won’t end well. Brushing your knuckles up along the underside of his smooth chin, you turn your eyes on the legionnaire beside you.

“Go on ahead for me, my love. Ask the serving girls to bring some wine to my chambers. I’ll be along soon.”

For a long moment, Luca just eyes you. You can see it in his eyes, he doesn’t like to leave you alone on the streets of Rome at night. Particularly with a blaspheming foreigner. But you don’t budge. You’ve never really been afraid of anything, least of all a priest. Finally, he loosens the grip on his sword, only to grip your waist and make a show of marking his territory with a deep kiss. Nose knocking your own with a nod of obedience, he gives Paul one last murderous look of warning before stalking off.

“See you have no need for new friends.” Paul muses, wandering down languidly from the temple steps.

“There’s always room at the table, Bishop. My father taught me that.”

“Indeed, the table of Rome has been most hospitable from my experience.”

“Seems a shame your prophet experienced otherwise. Wonder what he would say to see you here in the lion’s den.”

“Considering we’ve convinced the emperor of Rome himself to convert… I suppose he would be proud, my lady. Of course, it is only a guess. I cannot speak for the lord.”

“Can’t you? Is that not the role of a priest in the Christian church? Hm. Our priestesses speak directly to our gods.”

“Your gods, hmm…” He sounds amused. “I’ve found the cults here to be truly dizzying. Saturn, Venus, Pluto, Sol Invictus, Mars. So many to keep up with. In honesty, I’m surprised there exists no cult around you in this city, my lady.”

“There does, you have simply never been invited to worship in its temple.”

“Hmm. What a fine altar that must be.”

“Silk of Damascus. Cotton of Egypt.”

“Your father is a wealthy man.”

“And far too generous.” You eye him pointedly, not making any secret of where you stand on your father’s decisions with regard to the Christian Church.

“Particularly with his soldiers, it seems.” Paul counters, easily keeping pace with your biting wit.

“Our emperors always serve proudly as soldiers before they serve the people. My father himself fought in the campaigns across the continent and the western isles. He knows well how loyal a good legionnaire can be.”

“I suppose a leashed dog is always loyal, is he not? Even one who was kidnapped as a pup.”

Your bright eyes flash with amusement at his nerve. Licking the sharp edge on one of your canine teeth, you take a slow step forward.

“Tread carefully, sir. He may be only a soldier, but I do care for him. And my gods are not as forgiving as yours.”

“I would imagine not. It wasn’t my people who nailed a man to planks of wood and then broke his legs. Any government who treats its subjects thus, must have blood thirsty gods indeed.”

“Crucifixion is simply the price of rebellion. We make no secret of our laws, Bishop. Surely you, with all the vows your church requires, understand how breaking the law requires punishment.”

Carefully, Paul treads the rest of the stone steps that lead down to the street on which you stand. The torchlight that brightens the temple’s entryway flickers across his handsome features. Standing so close to you now, you’re forced to tip your head back just to keep eye contact with the man.

“Believe it or not, my lady, I do not wish to make an enemy of you.” His voice is lower now. Intimate somehow. You don’t like the way it makes a shiver run down your spine.

Your eyes fall to his mouth for a moment. He has a beautiful, cupid’s bow shaped mouth though it’s half hidden in a thick, black beard. Fucking barbarians…

“What then? Cast off all hope of converting me, Bishop. I promise you that cause is lost.” You can’t help the soft laugh that bubbles up at the thought. You’d rather die than worship any but the gods of Rome.

“Are you really trying to convince me that your soldier is… a formidable match for you?” At first, his eyes brush over your robes. Then his pointer finger taps lightly at the side of your forehead and his implication is clear. Sure, making love to Luca feels like the stars are aligning over you. But does he ever truly challenge you? Paul seems to know as well as you do that the answer is no. “Why do I get the feeling that a loyal dog resting at your feet, always ready and willing, always hanging on your every command...isn’t quite what you need.”

His voice is so low you can barely hear him and it tugs at something feral inside of you to know the words he’s speaking aren’t meant for any ears but yours.

“And your needs, Bishop? Is Christ’s body and blood meeting all of those?”

“Not nearly, my lady.”

For a long while you both just stand there in the flickering torchlight, sizing each other up. You can imagine yourself letting him kiss you. It would be so easy, he’s standing so close. But finally, you give his chest a gentle push. Giggle under your breath as you step back.

“Shave your beard first, old man. And find some clean robes of cotton. Leave your wool to the barn animals. You’re in Rome now.”

His lungs expand around a deep shaky breath as he watches you walking backwards towards the palace once more.

“As I am ever reminded.” He nods once, bowing his head politely. “It must be strange to learn not everyone lives as indulgently as you.”

“See, that’s the beauty of the Roman pantheon… while you Christians seek out pain and suffering, we worship with our indulgences.”

“Then I hope you enjoy worshiping your gods tonight, my lady.”

“And you, Bishop. I do hope your prophet’s love keeps you warm in that cold, dark temple.”

~~~

The bright light of a flashlight in your pupils triggers a grimace to contort your features.

With a slight jerk, you push yourself up from the bed underneath you.

Your bed.

Your grandfather’s bed.

Was his. Is yours.

Gods, you’ll never get used to that.

Sitting next to you is Dr. Sarah Gunning, flashlight in hand. Clicking the light off, she offers you an apologetic smile.

“Welcome back. I was about two steps away from hauling you off to St. Mary’s myself. Thank goodness you found her when you did, Father.”

It’s only then that you notice Paul standing behind her. He looks so pale. Shaken. Around his sunken eyes, the black of his hair falls in disheveled, dirty curls. Even in your half-conscious state you can tell he’s in desperate need of a long shower and an even longer nap.

“Wh...What happened?” Rubbing at the skin between your eyes, you push yourself up slowly.

“You don’t remember?” Paul’s voice is the hush of low tide as he moves to sit on the edge of your bed. His hand is cold and a bit clammy as it takes yours. “I found you lying in the road. You must’ve fainted from exhaustion or… perhaps just from stress. I’m not sure. How are you feeling?”

Honestly? You feel better than you have in years. Like you’ve just come back from the factory with a full reset. Bouncy-ball-brand-new and shiny too. Maybe that’s how you know his words are a lie. Slowly, the murky puzzle pieces of last night start to float to the surface of your mind. Those eyes… what on earth could stand up right and have those glowing eyes? Like a cat those eyes… and wings? Are you remembering that right? Was it a dream?

No...it can’t have been. You dreamt of Roman streets and flickering torchlight and… Paul?

Rubbing at your face, your lungs let go of a heavy sigh. Shifting to sit up, you scoot closer to the man sitting at your bedside. His arm wraps around your shoulders protectively and it’s honestly just instinctual the way you tuck yourself against his side. A baby bird made to fit under her mother’s wing.

“You know… a trip to St. Mary’s might still be a good idea…” Sarah glances between the two of you as she stands, tucking her chair back under your grandfather’s desk. Thankfully, she’s kind enough not to comment on the very obvious intimacy between yourself and the local priest. “The last thing you want is the after affects of a concussion sneaking up on you in a few days time. In the meantime, no heavy lifting, stay out of the sun, drink lots of water. Just let yourself rest, alright?”

Nodding, you glance out the window, half expecting to see the demon that had stood just fifteen feet away from you on the rectory lawn. Instead you’re greeted by bright sunshine sparkling on the ocean. The clouds are big and pure white, moving lazily with the breeze. How funny, you had taken in a similar horizon yesterday afternoon and concluded that it meant you were safe here…

“Thank you, Dr. Gunning. I’ve actually been meaning to come and talk to you, um… when I was in pre-med I read the research you published on the links between social isolation and early onset dementia. It was brilliant work.”

Stunned into silence at first, a smile finds Sarah’s mouth moments later.

“Thank you, Helena. That’s… That means a lot to me. I was actually… well, I was hoping to get a step closer to trying to reduce this phenomenon. As much as possible. There’s just too many people like my mother who suffer through that alone. But… I don’t know that anyone else on the island has ever read my work. So thank you.”

Features warming at the interaction between the two of you, Paul turns to Sarah.

“If you happen to have a copy of the publication, I’d really love to read it myself sometime.” As tenderly as the man always speaks to you, he’s never quite used that tone before. There’s almost an undercurrent of heartbreak. Like a father with only partial custody, handing his child off to its mother after a visitation weekend. You wonder if it’s just sympathy for Sarah’s mother or something deeper.

“Of course, Father.” Sarah offers him a polite smile before fixing you with a pointed look. “Lots of rest.”

Her eyes brush between the two of you as if implying that she knows damn well staying in bed next to Paul all day may not actually mean you get any rest. Priestly vows or not.

A crimson heat creeps up your cheeks and you bury your face against his shoulder once the woman leaves. Gods, now everyone’s going to know. Not that Sarah is some horrible gossip or anything. But when the island realizes their golden boy is camped out at your house looking after you… well, it’s not like you can claim he came over to give you last rites.

The gulls caw loudly outside and for a long while there’s just silence between you two. Eventually, the crushing weight of holding back your sarcasm is too much to bear and you cave.

“And here I thought Bev Keane was the only monster on this island.”

“Jesus, Lena. You almost died last night.” Sighing in frustration, Paul stands. He rakes a hand through his already messy hair, pacing the wooden boards of your bedroom.

“Thou shall not take the Lord’s name in vain.” You offer, trying to coax out a smile from the man.

“Thou shall not suffer a witch.” He counters a little too easily, no smile in sight.

Arching an eyebrow, you realize now just how upset he is that you hadn't listened to his demands of prayer the night before.

“Been holding that in your back pocket for a minute, huh?” You drawl lazily. If you’re honest, you have too. It’s hard not to hear the warning in your head every time someone on the island looks at you like you might come sacrifice their cat to Baphomet in the night.

Pausing by the window, you can see the regret over his choice of words flash across his achingly beautiful features. Resting a hand on the wall, his eyes fix on the horizon. For a long while, he just stares out at the sea. As if maybe the answers will come floating up onto the beach with the tide like a shipwreck. No such luck.

Finally, his soft voice breaks the silence.

“Forgive me. You know I would never hurt you.”

Standing, you cross the room to him. Curl your arms around his middle and rest your cheek to his broad back. You can feel his breathing. You can feel the light rattle in his lungs when they expand. One hand resting on your forearm, he uses the other to tug out his handkerchief. Coughs into it. The wheezing that undercuts his breathing draws a wince across your face. The spill of dark red you’d seen across his mouth last night floats back to your memory. He’d fed you wine after you went down, so maybe that...but wine would just roll off his skin. Not stain like that. Had it been his own blood or…?

“I do know that. No forgiveness necessary.”

Finally turning around, he tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket before you can inspect it for blood. His lips are cool on your forehead and despite the tenderness you can feel wrapped in his kiss, worry twists in your stomach.

“You scared me last night.”

“... I scared you?” Resting your hands on his lower ribs, you can’t help but give him a look. Is he serious? “A demon landed on your lawn and you told me to pray about it, Paul.”

“Angel.” He corrects you, looking perfectly serious.

Your mouth opens to argue, then closes again. Brows knitting together hard, you have to lean back just to keep from reeling.

But you have to admit, you’ve never actually seen an angel before. So what is it you plan to present as evidence that he’s wrong? Racking your brain, you scramble to think of some shred of biblical citation. Your memory bank seems to have only tiny fractional horrors to offer up. Whirring wheels, a hundred eyes, flashes of lightning. But where did that come from? Was it...Ezekiel?

Striding across the room, you open the closet where you’d tucked away most of your grandfather’s religious artifacts. Crosses of stained glass made to hang in a window. A creepy praying Madonna carved from wood. And his bible.

Flipping impatiently through the pages, you come to the first book of Ezekiel and speed read through the text.

“Now as I beheld the living creatures, behold one wheel upon the earth by the living creatures, with his four faces. The appearance of the wheels and their work was like unto the colour of a beryl: and they four had one likeness: and their appearance and their work was as it were a wheel in the middle of a wheel. When they went, they went upon their four sides: and they turned not when they went. As for their rings, they were so high that they were dreadful; and their rings were full of eyes round about them four. And when the living creatures went, the wheels went by them: and when the living creatures were lifted up from the earth, the wheels were lifted up.”

Arching an eyebrow, your eyes lift to find Paul’s. He’s not biting. He’s laughing.

"That night you came to my home and you saw the Book of Enoch, you knew exactly what you were looking at. You really want to look me in my eyes and with a straight face, tell me you don’t know the nine orders of the angels? You expect me to believe you don’t know the difference between Cherubim and Archangels? Helena, you’re smarter than that."

Dragging in a breath, you start flipping again. Why do you feel anxious? Why are you so desperate to prove him wrong?

Because the implications of that thing you’d faced down with on his lawn truly being an angel are worse than being devoured by it.

Alright, fine. He wants to talk Archangels? Book of Daniel it is. In the 10th chapter you find a description of Michael. You know exactly where to look because you’ve always been a little fascinated with Michael. God’s flaming sword and all. You always thought, if you were going to be an angel, you’d be the bloodthirsty hand of God too.

“I lifted up my eyes and looked, and behold, a man clothed in linen, with a belt of fine gold from Uphaz around his waist. His body was like beryl, his face like the appearance of lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze, and the sound of his words like the sound of a multitude.”You pause and read the passage back to yourself silently. Setting the book on your grandfather’s writing desk, you rub at the corner of one eyebrow absently. A nervous habit you’ve had since you were a girl. “Eyes like flaming torches... “

Paul moves to stand behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders. You can feel the satisfaction radiating off of him. It isn’t smug. The man isn’t capable of elitism. No, he’s proud of you for fitting the puzzle pieces together yourself. But have you?

“So… when you told me to pray…” Turning to face him, you wonder if he can still see the whirring gears of your mind. “It was because…”

“Because it has a rational consciousness. It knows which side its on. You saw it in action. When you invoked Lucifer, it fled. When I prayed, it restored me.”

Blinking slowly, you lift your eyebrows, waiting for him to explain. With a heavy sigh, he tugs his wallet out of his pocket. Lays it face open on the desk.

You want to ask him why he has Monsignor Pruitt’s ID. But maybe you already know. Suddenly, the blood on his mouth makes sense. Leeza. His highs and lows of energy. Heightened senses. The coughing up blood. All of it is connected to this.

“I'm sorry, did you… did you drink its blood?” You can barely hear yourself.

“I was lost and afraid in the desert between Damascus and Jerusalem. I ventured into a cave for shelter. It…” Wetting his lips, his eyes search the room for words his mind is grasping to conjure. “It saved me. It drank of me first. It seemed ready to let me pass away without a second thought and then when it heard me pray it gave pause…when it put its open wrist to my lips the blood was flowing before I could stop it and...”

Motioning to the ID, he gives a helpless shrug before rubbing at his neck, knowing no other words will do the situation justice. Knowing that he can’t just tell you. That you have to connect those lines yourself or the knowing won’t really be there.

“If it’s an angel, why would it be hiding in a cave?” There’s a part of you that wants to grow angry at him for lying. For pretending not to know you when he was the one who performed your baptism. For giving you a false name. But you know it would be a fool’s argument. Would you have believed the truth, you ask yourself. Gods, of course not. “Why would the light of my wards have bothered it so much?”

“And the angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day. Even as Sodom and Gomorrha, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.” He recited the memorized text in a rush, as if it’s a mere formality and you aren’t wrestling over questions of theological warfare.

“Book of Jude…” You murmur, with a small nod. Dragging in a deep breath, you shift to scoot backwards and sit on the desk behind you. “So you think this is a fallen angel.”

“A repentant angel.” He clarifies, sliding his hands up to rest on your thighs as he comes to stand between them. “An angel which understands his wrongdoings. An angel who… misses home.”

Brushing your hands up his chest, you let your lungs expand around a few silent breaths as your mind turns all this information over. When Paul (John? You’re not sure you’ll be able to get used to that...) rests his forehead to yours, you don’t push him away.

All of this is completely insane. And Paul isn’t even Paul. And worst of all, angels are real. Which means God is real. Which means…

Swallowing hard, you wrap your arms around his tall frame and pull him closer. Whatever his name is, whatever his age, whatever lies he's told you or beasts he's befriended... you know at least one thing will stay fixed in place. You know none of it will stop your loving him.

[bitchassbucky]

.zip

Word Count: 2k

Warning/s: toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, gaslighting and manipulation, abduction, injuries were mentioned, stalking, dark!bucky x dark!reader, emotionally/mentally unstable!reader, dismemberment (not gore-y but still), three very special character mentions, shady corporate stuff, career sabotage?, food mention, sedation/drugging, f-words.

A/N: oh my god, this is the final chapter of CTRL. to all who read from the start, thank y'all so fucking much - from the bottom of my big-ass heart, thank you so much for coming along with this journey. this is my first FINISHED series, oh my god. to @babyboibucky (CTRL's number one fan), @sarge-barnes-sir, and @borikenlove thank you so much for indulging my inner degenerate GHJSDFG and for screaming (affectionately) at me when i first let y'all read the finished draft.

BUT THIS IS NOT THE END (just yet), i will be uploading TWO epilogues very soon: the explicit version and the not-so-explicit version. stay tuned!

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

epilogue:

.eps (explicit)

.eps (cut)

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Your demeanor, character, even tone, changed.

Calculated, cold, unnerving.

But you sat there like a housewife in front of her husband, eating spaghetti and meatballs. Acting all dandy like there isn’t a man strapped onto the chair four feet away from you.

“C’mon, darling, eat! I made your favorite,” your eyes twinkled as Bucky helplessly tugged on his restraints, “oh, sorry, you’re tied up.”

Hm, sick in the head, bad for the heart.

“What do you want?” Oh, wow, even talking hurts for him. His throat is all dried up, he tasted something bitter under his tongue.

You chuckled, moving half a meatball around your mostly empty plate, “for you to stop treating me like I’m stupid.” You spear the meat with your fork, swirling it in the sauce, “I know you’ve been… checking in on me, Bucky.”

Oh, fuck.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was-- I mean, look at you--” He’s making it worse. You’re mad. You’re angry because he was being a good friend.

He only did that because you were lonely and he’s right: you are lonely.

So lonely that you’re willing to kidnap a grown man to keep you company, “I’m so sad for you.”

“You’re aware you’re the one’s been tied up, right?” You’re curt as you should be, scooting over near Bucky to feed him.

“I can’t eat that—” If he wasn’t sitting down and tied, Bucky would’ve vaulted over you and called the neighbors, she’s fucking crazy!

You giggled, rolling your eyes as if he had the freedom to make a choice right now, “if you’re thinking of screaming… More than half of my neighbors are felons or on parole, I doubt that they’ll call 911.”

Jutting forward the fork, you let the prongs gently touch Bucky’s lips, “now, eat! We have so much to talk about.”

“No. I don’t-- I’m not hungry.” He shakes his head, the fork hitting his chin and clanking down the floor.

“Just eat the fucking food, Steve!”

Bucky flinched at your sudden outburst. The words—the name—seeping in a moment later. Steve? Who the hell is Steve? Was he your husband? Boyfriend? His head throbbed again, his mouth filling with saliva like he’s about to throw up.

You kneel down, pulling a napkin from the table to wipe the meat and the sauce from the floor.

“This better not stain.”

—

He promised thrice.

Once over pasta and meatballs, once over dessert, and once when you were clearing the table.

You relented, of course. Half because you love him and half because it’s getting annoying.

“As long as you don’t leave me, okay?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t leave you.”

Bucky’s still seating on the dinner chair, slightly slumped without the ropes holding him up, “look, I’m really sorry about the anesthetic, I went overboard with it.” You look over to him—at least he’s regaining his fingers and arms again.

“It’s okay, babe, I wouldn’t trust me either.” If he could stand up, he’d go over and hug you. Helping with the dishes, peppering you with sweet kisses.

A genuine laugh slips out of your lips, “ugh, still… I’m really sorry.”

The last of the plates were neatly stacked, cups and cutleries were placed gently on a drying rack. It was getting late, you could tell.

“I’m not mad, by the way.” You muse, prompting Bucky to lean forward, listening to you.

“What do you mean?” He takes your hand into his, ever so gently.

“You did that,” you squeeze his hand back, gazing into his soulful eyes, “because you love me.”

Did you know that some people could read microexpressions well? Bucky went through a whole lot of them before answering, “of course, I do.”

Contemplating whether you call him out on it or not, you hum, placing a gentle hand on his jaw, “it’s okay, you’ll learn how to love me.”

He has to. He has no other choice.

Bucky clears his throat, “have you seen my phone?” His tone was hopeful, upbeat, maybe he can reach out to someone, anyone, before you can do any more damage.

“Yeah, ‘s on the couch.”

He tried to move, he really did. Bucky’s fairly strong, he can bench an easy 140 on a good day. But even the beefiest motherfuckers have no match for Propofol.

“Don’t worry about your friends, they’re not worried about you, Buck.” The coolness of your tone sends Bucky into a panic—again. “D’you wanna check your messages though? There’s a lot of ‘em.”

Grabbing his phone, you asked Siri to read him his latest notifications.

Urgent: Notice of Immediate Termination

From Joaquin: Where are you, man?

From John W.: Do you have copies?

Urgent: Notice of Immediate Termination

Urgent: Gross Misconduct

From Joaquin: Bucky, what the fuck?

From Samuel Wilson: Pick up the phone, Barnes. You’re fired.

17 missed calls from an unknown number

From John W.: I knew you were a freak but holy shit, dude!

72 text messages from an unknown number

Bucky never really liked horror movies. It made him jumpy and anxious. Too paranoid, even. But now? Now he’s sure that people have never experienced sheer fright before.

His toes cramped inside his boots, his feet were cold, sweating. The little hairs on his legs stood up, goosebumps littering the entirety of his body. If he held his breath, he’s sure he could hear his heart hammering out of his chest. The blood rushes past his ears and onto the base of his skull—he’s gonna be sick.

“What,” he gulped back the saliva pooling in his mouth, “what did you do?”

You’re irritatingly calm, “well, I mean… We’re already together, what do you need those for, right?”

Putting a warm hand over his forehead, you cooed, “poor thing, you look sick.”

—

Bucky thinks it’s well past midnight when the anesthetic wore off.

His limbs were heavy, he had to lean on the wall every couple of steps to regain his balance. Helpless. He’s helpless and you both know it. As if it’s a bear trap, Bucky carefully took his phone from the coffee table.

Why would you leave it unattended?

The screen lights up as soon as he picked up, his lock screen littered with ‘fuck yous’, ‘sicko’, and his personal favorite, ‘motherfucker.’

Ignoring the glaring messages, he went straight for the emergency dialler and—you took out his SIM card, snapping it into two neat pieces, placing it beside the phone.

Bitch.

The golden surface of the card was scratched too, he can’t do anything, use it as a toothpick, maybe? His phone was just as good as a paperweight.

He looks out of the window, limping towards it. Even if he could climb over, it would take him forever to get onto the street. Your neighbors would probably think that he’s just on a bad trip.

“It’s bolted shut. Perks of living alone as a single female.” Your voice made him flinch back, like a kid whose hand was halfway down the cookie jar.

Bucky plays it off with a cough, he can’t be weak now, “no, babe, I was checking out a noise. You ready for bed?”

You smiled softly, taking his hand and draping his arm on your shoulders as you prop him against you, “almost, big guy. Gotta get you settled in bed first. Are you tired?”

Nodding, Bucky kisses your temple, “yeah.” He just needs to play with your sick little games until he regains his strength.

Where would he go? His reputation and his job are besmirched, his apartment is probably crawling with forensics too.

“You fell down and banged your head earlier. Nasty cut on your head too. I told you to not tire yourself much.”

You hit and drugged me but I digress, “Yes, darling. ‘M sorry.”

“You scared me, Buck. I thought you were dead.” Are these tears forming in your eyes?

“I’m not leaving you, not by any chance. I promise.”

He promises a fourth time.

—

Your bedroom was bigger than he thought. But of course, he only saw your desk and your bed through the webcam.

Save from the Ted Bundy-esque corkboard you have in front of your workspace, he feels weirdly at home. You tucked him in, reminding him to wake up every two hours for the painkillers.

“You’re not going to bed?” He muses from behind you, all cocooned in your blankets.

“Just need to take this phone call real quick, babe.” Your back was turned from him as you work on your company laptop. He noticed that the webcam is covered with white tape.

The sound of an incoming call filled the room before you quickly answer it, your voice turning hoarse and raspy as if you’ve been crying.

Hi, Mr. Wilson. I’m so sorry for the late call. Do I- do I need to come in tomorrow? I just... I don’t feel comfortable facing everyone—I used all my home hours this week and—

Miss L/N, I’m glad you reached out to me. Is it okay if I record this call for security purposes? It’s just for you, me, and the HR department.

You turned to Bucky, your face is stone-cold but your voice belonged to someone so utterly helpless.

No, you don’t have to call into work tomorrow… Or any other day.

A dainty gasp and a fucking sob comes out of your mouth, your eyes were telling a different story.

Am I fired?

God, no. Please, Miss L/N, don’t worry about that. We want you with us through this entire debacle. We want you to take some time off—paid. We’ll also grant you… a grievance package.

You could almost hear what he would say next.

As long as you don’t talk to any members of the press or any journalists until our friends in the PR department can clean this up.

A triumphant smile creeps on your bare features, putting a finger in front of your lips, you mimic a ‘shh’ gesture to Bucky.

You round up another mirthless sob as the CEO drones on about the bureaucracy of this whole thing.

He was really nice to me, you know? He took me out on dinners and lunches. He even brought me to his place and I– nothing happened but I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’m really sorry, Miss L/N. I thought he was…

A good guy? I really thought so too.

Please stay offline for a bit, just for the weekend, alright? Someone from the HR department will be in touch with you for the process. We don’t wanna be a hassle more than what Barnes is. On our behalf, please accept our deepest apologies.

Jesus, this guy had the PR department cook up an apology letter.

Thank you—thank you so much, Mr. Wilson. I’ll keep in touch.

You burst out in laughter a second after the call ended. Hearty laughter, the one where you can feel your belly tightening.

“Did you hear how good I was, baby? Oh my god, we had them fooled.”

We? Fuck your ‘we.’

You slide over the covers, propping up yourself with your elbow as you turn to face Bucky, “don’t worry, you don’t need them anymore. You have me, yeah? We have each other.”

—

Out of the most bizarre things that happened to him last week, finding dismembered fingers in the fridge was the least of his concerns.

“Honey!” Bucky calls out, holding the ziplock bag with a pair of tongs.

You bound down the stairs, your laptop in hand as you squint, “what am I looking at?”

Bucky hesitated, maybe he’s going insane too, “fingers. Dismembered fingers—are these yours?”

Setting down the laptop onto the table, you peck him on the cheek, smiling as if him holding a baggie with human remains is just your Sunday normal, “god, I hope not. I need my hands to do things.”

As soon as you look back at him, you dropped the facade: “those are Steve’s. Well, used to be.”

Bucky’s afraid to ask the question where’s the rest of him?

“You know the term pinky promise, right? Well, it has a dark origin.”

Just as fast as a bustling train, Bucky rakes his brain for all the times he promised you something. Hoping that he won’t end up with a stump for a hand.

One vividly bright memory is seared into his brain though, the days blurred together with sharp edges and mismatched colors: we love how we were taught to love.

So, who taught you how to love like this?

[goldencorecrunches]

Hello ur wangningxian fic had me fucking SCREAMING hello hello I was trying to practice driving but I was too busy YELLING anyways amazing job I'm so fucking hyped for pt 5!!!!

YOU’RE SO NICE HELP I KEEP STARING AT THIS MESSAGE ME HEART MELTIN HERE YOU GO HON -- (Part I) (Part II) (Part III) (Part IV)

--

They don't return to the table. It had been a stupid idea anyway, Wen Ning thinks; too serious, too tribunal. Wei Ying doesn't like to talk about it, like he doesn't like to talk about anything that's really fucked him up, but he knows family dinners for him growing up weren't the most comfortable affairs. Instead he and Lan Zhan budge over on the couch, though there's already enough room (there's always enough room, if it's for Wei Ying), and Wei Ying, tripping on his tiptoes the way he does when he's nervous, perches on the L-shaped edge of the cushion. The reflective vest Lan Zhan has bullied him into wearing whenever he goes out night-running dangles off one shoulder, coquetry in neon orange. 

He is too far away. 

Wen Ning extends a leg and prods at Wei Ying with his toes, making Wei Ying yelp, ticklish, and for a moment nearly smile, until Wei Ying gives in to what he clearly wants and scoots up against Wen Ning's side, the third overlapping piece in their tableau. A very wiggly tableau it will be, indeed, now that Wei Ying has joined it. They would not have it any other way. "So you guys kiss now," Wei Ying says, into the hole in the leggings over Wen Ning's thigh. Wen Ning keeps thinking he should fix that, and then forgetting. "How long has that been going on?"

"Just tonight," Wen Ning says, making his tongue go slowly. Behind him Lan Zhan makes a small noise, negative; one of his hands withdraws from Wen Ning's waist and reaches for his phone. They wait while he types, Wen Ning looking at the contrast between Wei Ying's cheek and his own black spandex, Wei Ying staring into the crack where the cushions meet the back of the couch. He seems like he's worn himself out; he curls around Wen Ning's leg like it's a stuffed toy.

It is times like this that Wen Ning is reminded of how much slighter Wei Ying is, than either himself or Lan Zhan. He imagines lifting his leg and carrying Wei Ying up atop it, like a fragile sparrow, hollow-boned, fluffed up against the cold. "Almost nine days," the lady in Lan Zhan's phone says. "When Wen Ning brought you back from the library. Kissed him then. Did not plan it. But." His fingers have stilled; Lan Zhan types with one whole hand, cradling the phone in his other, instead of with his two thumbs like everyone else. It's hopelessly endearing: our little old-fashioned man, Wei Ying calls him, and then tugs at his hair or tweaks his ear. "But you liked it? Mm. Can't blame you for that." Wen Ning can feel the flex of Wei Ying's jaw as he mumbles. A small hum like the vibration of a string starts at the top of Wen Ning's scalp and travels down through his body. The nausea has not left him, or the guilt, but Wen Ning plunges his hands into that hum and lets it fill all his corners. Now that they are speaking, it is better; though they've barely begun. The waiting was the hardest part. It's never as bad as you think it will be, he tells himself. He bites his tongue to get moisture back into his mouth. "We did- we did-, we haven't done anything between then," he says. Lan Zhan's arms tighten around him. Wen Ning leans back against him gratefully. "Um. When we went to that weird cafe with Lan Zhan's brother? That was what we were talking about." Behind him he feels Lan Zhan nod. "I wondered," Wei Ying says. He curls tighter, the movement like a brace before a leap. "Were you going to tell me?" Oh: Wen Ning's lungs have been stolen away. One of Lan Zhan's hands leaves him again, this time to reach out and press down on the top of Wei Ying's head. It's a bad angle; he has to strain, and even so he mostly gets the end of his ponytail. Wei Ying hides his face in the crook of Wen Ning's knee. Wen Ning has to blink rapidly and swallow, twice when the first time isn't enough. He's not sure what he means to say; what comes out is clumsier and more honest than he wants. "I didn't want you to feel left out. I'm sorry." Against his neck, Lan Zhan grunts agreement. He's petting the rough-chopped ends of Wei Ying's hair, the ends sticking up between his knuckles and then smoothing flat again. "Just," Wei Ying says. It's difficult to hear him, pressed as far as he is into Wen Ning's leg, but Wen Ning doesn't imagine he or Lan Zhan are right now giving him anything but their complete intent focus. "You have to tell me if you don't want me around any more, okay? That's rule, ah, rule eighty-nine of being my friend." He laughs, his shoulders twitching. Wen Ning needs to hug him so badly it's rooted his ass to the tasteful cream-colored microfiber. "Okay," he says, chokes on it. "Yeah. D-deal. Definitely want you here though. Right Lan Zhan?" "Mn," Lan Zhan rumbles emphatically. Wei Ying droops. He goes from light upon Wen Ning's knee to hundredweight, sinking like a stone in water. Somehow, Wen Ning manages to curl his leg and reach his arms and get Wei Ying bundled up against them both, his hair splaying out over Wen Ning's throat and his sharp wrists tucked up against Lan Zhan's sternum. He's still laughing, a little, and Wen Ning listens carefully in case the tears he can hear behind them start to spill over. "'S funny," he's saying. Wen Ning slings an arm over his him and wraps even closer. "I thought, hah, I thought out of all of us it would be me who would fuck up and accidentally kiss someone, but wow, Lan Zhan! Who knew you had it in you!" His body can't seem to decide whether it wants to tremble or to sag. It tries to do both, with different parts. Wen Ning looks up from under his eyelashes to see how Lan Zhan reacts to Wei Ying's implication that he'd kiss him, and sees Lan Zhan staring solemnly back at him, the same emotion reflected. He frowns and reaches to set Lan Zhan's hand on Wei Ying's hip where his has been. Lan Zhan resists him. "Like, you guys are my best friends, you know? My best friends, and I've told you this but I mean it, and if you two want to go off and kiss I'm really really happy to let you do that I don't want to get in the way and make you not want to be around me any more because I'm--" Lan Zhan is trying to communicate something to Wen Ning with a frustrated glare and the minute tilt of his chin. Wen Ning has an inkling what it is, and staunchly ignores him, because despite the warm-butter feeling spreading over him Lan Zhan is wrong. "--and I was like, to myself, what if it doesn't break everything? But obviously that's absurd, I always break everything, and--" "Wei Ying," Wen Ning says, in desperation, as Lan Zhan gives up all pretence of fighting fair and begins attempting to shove Wei Ying completely into Wen Ning's lap. He knows Wen Ning won't try to pull away when Wei Ying needs to be held, the bastard. "If you, when you, you, you, you-- kiss Lan Zhan! Please! He wants you to!" It is an uncomfortable position to be frozen in, for the beats that follow. Wei Ying's elbow is digging into the soft part under Wen Ning's ribs, and Lan Zhan's ankle is somehow twisted underneath them all. There's a heavy thud from the apartment above; as the three of them clutch at each other and stare, barely breathing, they hear harried footsteps and the muffled tones of a child being scolded. "Ooh, someone's in trouble," Wei Ying says. And then: "Wait, no. I meant. What?" Lan Zhan is glowering in abject betrayal at the wall over Wen Ning's right shoulder. His ears are slowly turning pink. "Hhhn," Wei Ying says, like a untied rubber balloon, and then-- frantically, scrambling over their tangled legs-- It is not that Wen Ning isn't jealous of what they have, Wei Ying and Lan Zhan. It is rather, to be witness to so wonderful a thing feels like a privilege. When Lan Zhan's hands come up to frame Wei Ying's face, when Wei Ying's lips part, it is more than beautiful; it is necessary. Wen Ning can feel himself grinning, wide and goofy, even as he loses feeling in his calves. It's just-- it's been such a long time, and he's-- he's happy for them. He's so happy. He's...crying? "Oh," Wei Ying says, "Oh, oh, oh," and twists in a violent motion, and Wen Ning is, for the third time in his most immediate history, completely blindsided by the knowledge of a mouth over his own. I haven't brushed my teeth, he thinks, which is a nonsense thing to think, because he did brush his teeth this morning, of course, and he hasn't even started getting ready for bed yet, and also, he had Lan Zhan's tongue in his mouth not even an hour ago, and he had Lan Zhan's tongue in his mouth and now he has Wei Ying's-- He becomes dimly aware that Lan Zhan is stroking his arm, where it's curved to trap Wei Ying flush against his chest. Wen Ning makes the executive decision to panic about this later. There are too many things happening right now to keep track of freaking out. For example: the discovery that brushing the tips of his fingers over the soft skin behind Wei Ying's ear makes him gasp and shudder all over. "Lan Zhan," Wen Ning says, amazed. It's too momentous a thing to keep to himself. "Look." He does it again, and they both watch Wei Ying's eyelids flutter. It feels like there's a volcano under his skin. "M-maybe we should stop and talk ab, about this like adults," he says. It comes out breathless. He does not want to stop and talk about this like adults. "Nonononononono," Wei Ying says, hands shooting out to fasten on their shoulders. "We did talking, now is kissing, can we do more of the kissing? I like kissing. I like kissing you. Both. Both of you." His face screws up. "You might have a point. I think I might pass out? But in a good way?" Lan Zhan looks deeply alarmed. He and Wen Ning maneuver Wei Ying so he has his head between his knees, their hands meeting over the bony seam of his spine. Lan Zhan squeezes Wen Ning's fingers. The volcano turns into a horde of extremely peppy wind-up toys. Or maybe this is what butterflies feel like? "Running," Lan Zhan says, gathering the strands of Wei Ying's hair back from his face. It takes Wen Ning a moment to understand; in his defense, he's fairly certain his brain has been forcibly disconnected. "Right, um, electrolytes. And sugar." He peels himself away (Wei Ying makes a pathetic noise, which twinges at Wen Ning's heart, but he's in good hands) and nearly faceplants on the edge of the rug as pins and needles shoot up his legs. Because Lan Zhan is a good and righteous man, he has the kind of orange juice that's full-sugar, and without bits. Wen Ning pours them all glasses just to be on the safe side, and also takes the opportunity to stick his head in the freezer and think thoughts that are not about confirming his love for his two closest friends via double fellatio. When he returns Wei Ying is sitting upright, Lan Zhan's arm around him. He refuses to drink until Wen Ning is cuddled up with them. See, Wen Ning's therapist says, as he tucks himself against the long line of Lan Zhan's body, Lan Zhan's eyebrows knitted as he rewinds the movie back to the beginning of the scene the left off on. Wei Ying slaps indiscriminately across the limbs within reach when Lan Zhan reaches the right spot; he makes the whole couch rock, and Wen Ning thinks he might burst, from loving them. Not as bad as you thought, at all. So much better.

[heavencey]

What is love? What forms does it take? How does the world around you change? How does it change ourselves?

I don't think my work is good enough to express the depth of this beautiful feeling. Still, I wanted to express my thoughts, my own feelings and perceptions through these illustrations. After all, these guys touched my heart and I’m an artist.

You may have noticed that the colors used for Zhanyi are soft, calm. While at Tianshan they are saturated and expressive. I didn't want to show the difference in the strength of their feelings, but color is a very great tool for affecting perception. This is a way to show the difference in the image of love between these two couples. And I don't think I need words to make you understand what I wanted to convey.

So what forms does love take?

It’s breath is as natural as life. Pure and imponderable. The breath you need to live. Likewise, the friendship created from their very childhood helped little Jian Yi overcome loneliness, open up, breathe deeply.

After all, in order to be able to laugh, you need to breathe freely.

“If you don't breathe, your body will d.ie.

If you do not love, your soul cannot be born.

Think of love as the breath of the soul.”

---

It’s an awakening flame that gives strength. To live, to fight. It is pa.ssion shaking your whole being. This art may have seemed a little pai.nful, but my intentions were different. I just wanted to convey these acute, piercing feelings that awaken him. Flame, gradually enveloping him all.

“Flame ran down my cheeks,

Adding color to music of feelings.

A flame of love blossomed on my lips.

My heart burned with a kiss ...”

---

It is a knot of two souls held together by unbreakable bonds. Friendship, love. Feelings beyond definite names. Full acceptance of a person, to his very core. An unbreakable bond that Zhan Zheng Xi treasures incredibly. Past, present, future – their shared journey. And whether it be a calm sea or a terrible storm. I am sure they will overcome this. Together.

“Let's create a bond

Fear will scatter like dust.

It will not become a burden

It will be wings.”

---

It’s a beautiful effulgence that can fearlessly cut through the darkness. Since childhood, He Tian lived under the veil of shadows. And yet, in spite of everything, this child was drawn to warmth, he was looking for it. And he found it. Even if it is awkward, even if he does not know how to do it right, he is trying to save, protect, preserve this light. He Tian needs a person who can illuminate his path, his life with his light.

“When it’s dark, it reminds us that there is light nearby Patiently waiting to dispel the darkness We just have to search and realize the source From where light can penetrate the darkness And fill each and entire cosmic realm…”

---

There is one more thing I wanted to talk about. Symbolism that I use in almost every work.

Flowers.

The meaning that they contain. Their language. “Hanakotoba”.

For a very long time, I decided on the flowers that could personify them.

Jian Yi

Lily of the Valley – happiness, sweetness.

Zhan Zheng Xi

Lavender – faithful, devotion, silence.

Mo Guan Shan

Mimosa Pudica also called “touch-me-not” – sensitivity, keenness.

He Tian

Edelweiss – noble courage, daring, power.

You can also notice a difference in how the guys hold the flowers. It’s a small touch to their personality.

---

P.S. Sorry for my poor english ^^

---

Part I «The Breath» is here

Part II «The Flame» is here

Part III «The Knot» is here

Part IV «The Effulgence» is here

[wyn-n-tonic]

Golden, Like Daylight -- Part VIII

Word Count: 1,304 Warnings: PTSD. I don't think anything else needs a warning? Message me if I'm wrong though, I'll fix it. Author's Note: Thanks for your patience in getting this chapter out! Last week was difficult and then I had friends come over for the weekend (FRIENDS! AMAZING!). I'm not super proud of this but I'm also proud of this. We're getting to the end of this series and I'm just really... in fucking awe at all the nice things that have been said to me about this. Like, I'm genuinely over the moon and losing my mind every time somebody says something nice to me. Thank you so much for reading!

MASTERLIST | PART: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX

He slaps the passport against Pope’s forehead, starting a long held tradition between the two and he knows this will be the last time as he slowly says, “Nos vemos.”

See you.

The flatness he gives the words lets Santiago Garcia know, as he takes his friend and brother in, if he sees this man again, it will be through exchanged nods at functions for the others.

Santiago steps forward and Frankie embraces him but it’s wrong. It’s all wrong for who they are to each other. Who they were. It’s wooden, the weight of this mission—this mess—adding a new kind of density to the pain he carries. Frankie’s out for the count. For good.

“Cuídate,” he whispers into his friend’s ear.

Take care of yourself.

And he walks away, heading home where he belongs. A place he shouldn’t have left in the first place. Out of all the regrets Santiago has, dragging that man to Colombia might just be one of his biggest.

Leah was right, Santiago is never the one picking up the pieces. —————

He has to knock.

She disabled the doorbell the day they moved in, placing a small sign where delivers and visitors could easily read:

A combat veteran lives here, please knock gently.

She didn’t want any loud, sudden noises to trigger panic attacks. Wanted him to be comfortable in his home.

He didn’t tell her it would be today, wasn’t sure when he’d be able to get a flight out so he didn’t want to get her hopes up. But it had all worked out and he hadn’t had time to call and he doesn’t have his keys.

He didn’t take any identifying information with him. No phone. No keys. No wallet. Just the black tags that now sit heavy against his chest. He slipped them on mid-flight and walked back into the country with them to a quiet, welcome home, soldier from the customs agent. He didn’t even notice as he stamped the little blue book that the name stamped into the metal was completely different.

Frankie scratches his smooth face and stares down at the near bare feet standing firm on the wood of his front porch.

He made it.

He packed light back into the States, dumping his clothes and boots in the trash. All he has now is eight thousand in cash, a couple gifts for the girls and the fake passport he’ll be running through the shredder tonight. He picked up the flip flops at a vendor where he bought some of the shit to stuff with the cash.

Another steadying breath drags through his lungs and he looks around his silent neighborhood, the one Leah insisted on because of its proximity to the base. Illegal to set off fireworks this close to government property.

She shot down every house he found in any other part of the city and he didn’t even know why until the Fourth of July when his back bristled in anxiety waiting for the attacks to take his mind for the night.

Tears well up in his eyes as he finally brings his hand down on the sturdy wood.

She loves me so much more than I deserve. —————

“You stole my goddamn shirt, Francisco Morales,” she mumbles sleepily into his chest.

They haven’t left the couch all night, both his girls with their faces firmly planted into his chest. Their fitful sleep eased by the peace of his beating heart against their ears.

“I brought it back,” he laughs, smoothing her hair back, “but I won’t take it again, baby, I promise.”

And he means it. The only reason he took it to begin with is because she wears it as often as he does, her smell wrapped up in his and he brought it for comfort. But the rain and the saltwater of the sea wiped that scent away and he’s not doing this shit again.

“Because you’re not going anywhere again, right?” There’s a slight panic to the words, no matter how slowly they roll out.

He pulls her closer, “never, mi alma.”

“Good,” she looks up and he breaks all over again at her bloodshot, tired eyes, glassy and searching. Her pain meeting his but unspoken in favor of quiet reunion, his heart breaks because it wasn’t just him almost losing everything on a risky at best plan and he never even stopped to consider it was her everything too.

He saw it when she opened the door and instead of crumbling inwards with their daughter resting against her chest, she opened her arms and let him crumble instead. It was there when she excused herself to the bathroom and when she came back, falling apart in stolen moments of peace and quiet.

“I won’t do this again,” he says, the pad of this thumb sliding across the curve of her cheekbone; skin already raw with tear stains where they’ve run like rivers around her. She breaks into him then, arms tight around his still sore body as she buries her head into his broad chest. He instinctively moves to running his hand through her hair—his large hands turning her to jelly with each brush against her scalp—before he speaks again, adding reassurance to his words.

“And if I didn’t think you’d love it so much, I’d never even want to go back to St. John's.” He stresses that last bit, because it was the least stressful part of it all and still stabbed at him. Pulled at him. Reminded him that he was away. That he did this to his family.

“If you don’t want to be there,” she hiccups, “then I’ll never love it.”

And she means it. —————

Frankie cuts the last box open to begin sorting through the goods shipped home. The system follows that Frankie unloads the boxes, Benny separates the goods and Will counts the money. It’s worked flawlessly over the weekend as everything is accounted for, including the stacks that bought their way back into the country.

“How do we go about this shit anyway?” It's the question that’s been on Frankie’s mind from the jump, hoping he doesn’t find himself in another goddamn mess to maneuver away from.

“We can’t deposi—“

“No shit, William, so what do we do?”

He doesn’t need more crimes on top of all the ones he’s already committed. Money laundering on top of murder. Doesn’t even know where to start and a hundred thousand is hardly something to open a carwash about. He feels a stress settling in as he realizes he didn’t fully think this through.

“Just be smart about it,” comes the younger Miller’s voice, “keep it in the house, use it for groceries and other errands. Anything small that can be paid for cash, pay for it in cash. It adds up so your bank isn’t hit with constant fees, you can use that for the big shit. If you get in a pinch, deposit a couple hundred but never more than that. If you do need more, give cash to a friend and have them transfer it to your account.”

Benny looks up and finds the stunned faces of his brothers, “what? I dated a chick who was really into that Dave Ramsey guy.”

Frankie just continues to look at him in confusion, not expecting any of this information to come from Benny of all people and it seems Will wasn’t either because he follows it up with,

“Who the fuck is Dave Ramsey?”

“You know,” Benny continues to separate the goods into piles to be donated, “he’s that guy who talks about the money, I think that's the best way to go about it. We can’t exactly Breaking Bad this.”

“You're not smart enough to Breaking Bad this,” Frankie tells him.

“Nope,” he smiles, “I'm smarter.”

TAG LIST: @justanotherblonde23​​ | @notcookiebelle​​ | @greeneyedblondie44​​ | @icanbeyourjedi​​ | @princess76179​​ | @knivesareout​​ | @phoenixpascal​​ | @lexi-b-writes​​ | @empress-palpat1ne​​ | @mouthymandalorianalso​​ | @starlightmornings​​ | @soyelfuegoquearde​​ | @darnitdraco​​​ | @hyperfixatingmenever

[ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa]

Addicted To You

Part VI: Hold On Loosely

Summary/Author’s Note: ITS BEEN SO LONG. I MISSED FRANKIE SO MUCH. also. Holy shit, I love you guys. Part I -- has been my first fic to reach 500+ notes and that is just bananas to me and also wild that it was Frankie that did it. He deserves all of the love. 

So, for those who have seen the movie know what is about to happen. But it might not be in the way you think. We get a little bit more Reader and Pope interaction and someone mentioned wondering about her relationship with Benny and I was like Oh perfect timing for this then...Enjoy. Gif credit to @pascalplease 

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Pope’s Sister!Reader Word Count: 4.1k Warnings/Rating: R/18+ Language, TOM (yeah he moved up), No one fucking listening to Frankie, Frustration, Intense situations, FUCKING murder, pining/longing, getting slightly turned on by Frankie piloting again--don’t lie we all do it, Frankie distress, blood/injuries

Part I * Part II * Part III * Part IV * Part V (bold means smut**)

[MASTERLIST]

--

“What’s my name?!” he yelled over the wind of the helicopter behind him.

“I-I don’t know,” She hugged her own body, clutching the duffel bag to her chest and looked at him with uncertainty. The wind blew her dark hair around her face and she made it a point to put herself between her younger brother and the man in front of her. 

“Your buddy back there--” he swung his arm around and pointed. “What’s his name?” She shook her head and he raised an eyebrow. “I can just go ask him!”

“I said I don’t know!”

“Now,” he touched her arm and she had to fight not to shrug him off. He dipped his head and his tone was condescending. “When you two finally had sex--and you rolled over and said, ‘what’s your real name’--what’d he say?” 

“That never happened!” She shrugged him off then and snarled at him. “He told me you served together...and that you were honest.”

“Why’d he say that?” Tom leaned back in mild surprise.

“Because I asked if he trusted you.”

“Why?”

“I was worried about you cheating him…”

The chopper had landed on the Peruvian border just like Pope had promised. They had dropped off the informant and her brother and although you couldn’t hear what was being said, you could tell by Tom’s dramatic body language and the disgust on her face that it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. Your brother handed her their cut of the money and touched her face tenderly as she held onto his arm and they said their goodbyes. 

Tom stormed back onto the helicopter and sat down, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. You couldn’t help but think that he reminded you more and more of a child throwing a tantrum instead of a hardened military veteran leading a mission. It was as if he knew you were staring because he opened his eyes and looked at you. You averted your gaze quickly. 

Pope cleared the threshold of the copter and took Benny’s seat as the younger man went up to take his shift with Frankie in the cockpit. Your brother put his headset on and opened his arm so you could lean against him and hug his side. 

“You liked her, didn’t you?” you asked him, looking up with your head on his chest.

“I’m just glad she’s safe.” He said vaguely and you knew not to push the subject. He rubbed his hand up and down over your arm as if to warm you up and you let out a sigh of contentment. 

“She’s lying,” Tom’s voice crackled through the coms on the headsets and both you and Pope looked at him. 

“No, she’s not.” Pope said firmly and glared at the other man. 

“You know what we should have done?” Tom let his thought remain unfinished and you felt your brother tense under your arms. Your stomach dropped as you realized what Tom meant. Before either of you could say anything, Will spoke up, always the voice of reason.

“That’s one you wouldn’t come back from, brother,” he said. He was leaning back against a few of the duffel bags with his arm propped up to keep his side un-strained.

The four of you were quiet for a long time, each mulling over Tom’s words in your own way as the chopper whirred around you rhythmically. The dark sky was crystal clear and you watched as the city below you slowly started to disappear and give way to the dark tops of the trees. 

“You still doing okay?” Pope asked and you nodded. 

“I’m exhausted,” you said, trying your best to stifle a yawn with his shirt. “But I’m worried if I sleep I’m going to wake back up in that mansion.” It was the first time you had admitted it out loud, but, however ridiculous, it was the truth. Every time you closed your eyes, it was as if you were back in that room, tied to that chair. The darkness that enveloped you wasn’t from sleep, it was the goddamn blindfold being put back over your eyes and it made your heart start racing as panic built in your chest. 

“Hey,” Pope said, dipping his head to look at you. “You know I was going to find you no matter what, right?” He gave you another squeeze. “I wasn’t leaving this fucking jungle without my little sister.”

You released a heavy breath and laid your head back against your shoulder, smiling slightly and forcing your mind to remember that you really were safe. Before you could start to drift off, you opened your eyes and leaned back enough to look at him. “If I promise to try and sleep, will you go check on Frankie?”

Pope chuckled and rolled his eyes before succumbing to your request. “Yes. You rest and I will go check on Fish.” As he got up, he shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and tossed it over you before moving towards the cockpit. 

"The weight drags when we get into higher altitudes so I want to keep it under 5,000 feet until we hit the Andes. We'll hit the ocean in four hours." Frankie's voice came through the com on your headset and you suddenly felt better. Tom's voice came through confirming that they had heard him and understood. 

Four hours. Four hours and you would be headed home. After everything, it seemed like such a small amount of time and with Frankie at the helm, there was nothing to worry about. 

--

When you woke up, it was because you were shivering. The main hull of the helicopter had dropped a considerable amount as it flew through the night and started to rise in altitude the closer it got to the Andes. Your brother was still gone but his jacket was pooled in your lap where it had slipped down off your chest. Both of the Miller brothers were sleeping peacefully and you were glad that Will had finally managed to get comfortable. 

You sat up and slipped your headset back on so you could hear what they were saying. Standing up and stepping into the cockpit, the view out of the front of the aircraft was breathtaking. The mountains were huge, rocky crags that were covered in bright, white snow that reflected the sun off of its smooth surface. 

"I'm gonna try and head for the two peaks I saw on the map. If we can aim for that valley it will be easier," Frankie said.

"Roger," Tom replied and both men looked up as you stepped over the threshold and put your hand on Frankie's shoulder.

"Hey, you," he said quietly, giving a small smile as you gave his arm a squeeze. 

"It's beautiful," you said, clearing the sleep from your voice and nodding ahead of you. There was a clear divide between the lush, green trees on the mountains below and the drastic change in altitude that allowed for the snow to accumulate. 

"It is," Frankie nodded, reaching forward and flipping up a small switch before putting both hands back on the joy stick. "You finally rest?"

"A little," you said. You pulled your headset down to rest on the base of your neck so you could lean forward and kiss his cheek gently. He kept his eyes ahead but the action made him smile, making the small lines at the edge of his eyes crinkle. 

"Can you cut the domestic bullshit please?" Tom said, gruffly. "How steep do you think that is?" He pointed to the nearest peak and Frankie looked at him sternly. 

"It's about 11,000 feet. We can't make that. I gotta find another way." Frankie shook his head and readjusted his grip on the controls. 

"That's the quickest way to the ocean from here. You should go for it."

Both you and the man to your left looked at Tom in surprise and annoyance. Who was he to call the shots like this? This wasn't a matter of choice, this was a matter of if something was possible or not. You put your hand on Frankie's shoulder as the helicopter started to rise up the side of the mountain. 

Frankie dipped his head to look up through the windshield, glancing down at all of the controls and watching as the lights started to flash in warning. You looked over your shoulder as Pope came up to stand behind you and watch what was happening. 

"Alright, baby," Frankie said softly, talking to the aircraft. "Alright, baby, come on now." 

He caressed the controls like he had caressed you. His fingers were familiar with them, what made them tick, and how best to move each dial and joystick. Frankie had always flown with a meticulous care that never failed to impress you--it was his favorite thing in the world. His heart lived in the sky and you loved that about him. A loud and rapid beeping drew you from your thoughts as the control panel started blinking red and orange.

"We're redlining man," Pope spoke up behind you as he pointed to the sensors. 

"It's close though," Frankie grit his teeth and cursed under his breath. "It's too much weight. It's too much fucking weight. We're never going to make it."

"What does that mean?" Tom asked, sternly.

"It means we're losing fucking money."

"You wanna leave 50 million dollars in the middle of the jungle?"

"You wanna get to the ocean?" Frankie snapped finally, his voice not leaving any room for argument from Tom. The other man glared at him for a moment before looking over his shoulder to address Pope.

"Alright, go do it."

The idea that Tom controlled what he imagined to be the fate of the money, but in reality it was all of your lives, was complete insanity to you--especially because he seemed to be so flippant about the importance of the latter. You looked over your shoulder as your brother lowered the hatch on the back of the aircraft and a bitterly cold wind filled the cabin. The Miller brothers started shoving duffel bags filled with money out into a free fall down to the snow covered landscape of the Andes. 

The immediate beeping of the control panel quieted down and Frankie gave an approving nod. “That's feeling better.” He dipped his head lower, leaning forward in his chair as if the movement would help the craft in its painfully slow ascend over the mountains. “Come on. Come on.”

You held your breath as Frankie crested you over the top of the mountain and, just like he promised, there was the ocean. The sun glittered off the water as it rose in the sky and you felt a sense of relief that was comparable to how you felt when Frankie had cut you loose from your bindings in the mansion. Both times he had brought you a sense of safety that made your heart stutter against your ribs. Then the beeping came back. The aircraft paused for a brief moment before it dropped into a free fall.

Your ass hit the metal floor hard and your stomach twisted into knots like you were on a roller coaster. Santiago’s arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you up against him as the copter shook and the metal screamed, alarms going off from multiple places on the dashboard. 

“What the fuck are you doing Catfish!?” Will yelled as he gripped the handle above his head and put a hand over the bullet wound on his side. 

Frankie’s voice came through the headset, calmer than he most likely felt. ”One of the gear boxes is blown--I don't want to go into a spin.” You all continued to fall in the air down the side of the mountain and his voice became strained as he gripped the joystick and tried to balance it out. “We might be in trouble here. I'm losing altitude--we should land. We should land now.”

“Crash land here we all die!” Tom yelled, looking at his pilot with wide eyes.

“I'm trying to get her back to flat--”

“Prepare for a hard landing!” Tom barked behind at the rest of you.

Frankie flew back down over the canopy of the jungle, the snow giving way to the lush green of the treetops as he tried to maneuver towards the village that you all had seen during your first initial climb. Benny leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as he gripped the handle closest to him. You could feel your brother’s heart hammering against your back, but on the outside he remained calm for the sake of the rest of his crew. 

“I can't land this with the drop bag under us. We should lose the money and maybe we don't die.” Frankie turned and looked at Tom. The man glared at him but remained quiet. The fact that now, looking certain death in the eyes, Tom decided to shut his mouth, pissed you off. And apparently, it did Frankie as well because without Tom’s permission he looked over his shoulder and yelled over his mic on his headset. “LOSE THE MONEY OR WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!”

“Fuck this,” you mumbled as you pulled Santiago’s arm from around you and scrambled to your feet. 

You had been on flights with Frankie enough times that you knew what the external load release looked like. It was the only fucking leaver on the wall, after all. You leaned over Benny and grabbed the red handle and yanked it down. The cargo doors in the floor opened slowly but the canvas net bag full of duffel bags stayed securely attached to the bottom of the helicopter. 

“Frankie! It’s not working!” You called out to him and he glanced back at you again.

“There's a manual override on the cargo hook!” His voice was full of worry as he told you to stop. “Let Benny do it--fuck!”

He cursed, watching as you ignored him and leaned over the open door to find the manual override. The wind from the blades and the altitude whipped your hair against your face and you grabbed onto the rope, feeling for a trigger mechanism of some kind. You cursed as black smoke billowed from the top of the aircraft and obscured your vision. The giant metal release was on the other side of the net and was way out of your reach. 

“Spot me!” You turned and yelled at Benny as he fell to his knees beside you and you ripped off your headset.

Benny nodded and helped you lower yourself through the hatch and onto the rope. He gripped your arm as you extended your leg and landed a firm kick with your booth onto the latch. When the bag fell, the helicopter gave a jolt as the weight shifted and Benny toppled through the hatch with you. You screamed as you heard Pope call your name and you looked up to see that the only thing that connected you to the copter was Benny’s grip. 

“Benny!” Will lunged for his brother and grabbed him by the back of the shirt. The ground was coming closer and closer as Frankie tried to level out the craft and land it in the middle of the field. 

“I can’t hold us both!” Benny yelled back at the blond. “We gotta jump!”

“No!” Pope reached through the hole in the floor but Benny was right. He didn’t give them any time to argue as he let go of the edge of the hatch and the both of you dropped the last twenty or so feet to the ground. 

You hit the ground so hard it knocked the wind from your chest. Bits of dirt flew into your mouth as you gasped and covered your face with your arm. As the helicopter touched down, dirt and debris whipped around in the air and you squinted to try and see through it all. The blade on the tail caught the dirt and the whole craft jerked sideways as huge chunks of metal flew directly toward you and Benny. 

“Get down!” He grabbed you and shoved you back down onto the ground covering you with his body as it continued to spin and jerk. The metal groaned, the blades squealed and all you could think of was if Frankie was still in control of it or if you were all just holding your breath and waiting for it to be over. 

Black smoke and chunks of upturned earth continued to fly long after the craft came to a stop but the blades still slowly continued to turn. Benny moved his body off of yours and helped you stand as you both took off running towards the wreckage. 

“Santi!” You screamed at the top of your lungs.

“Here!” Your brother called back as Will popped the door open and they both started to climb up out of the sideways craft. “We’re fine!”

“Fish!” Benny yelled as he got to the front and your heart stopped. Both Frankie and Tom were not moving as fast as Pope and Will. The glass of the windshield was shattered, but still hanging in the frame and Benny quickly raised his knee and kicked it free in giant sheets.

Tom crawled out onto the grass and coughed, fresh blood coming from an abrasion on his eyebrow. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Help Fish.”

As soon as Tom was out of the way, Benny got down and leaned in, grabbing the other man by the forearms and hauling him out onto the ground. 

“Frankie,” you breathed, running the rest of the way to him. Benny moved to the side as you approached and you threw yours arms around him tightly.

Frankie squeezed you tightly, before leaning back to hold you at arm's length. He dipped his head to look you in the eyes as he gripped your upper arms and shook you slightly. “What you thinking--what the fuck were you thinking?!”

You watched as blood slowly dripped down a fresh, large gash on Frankie’s upper cheek, but he didn’t pay any attention to it. He couldn’t look away from you. His eyes were wild and his chest was heaving and even though his words were harsh, his tone didn’t hold any anger--it held fear. Your eyes burned and your chest felt tight, and the moment he saw it reflected on your face, his resolve crumbled and he pulled you back against his chest.

“You scared the shit out of me, baby,” He confessed as he pressed his lips to the top of your head and shut his eyes tightly. “Fuck.” He shook his head and looked up at the man standing behind you. “Thanks, Ben.”

Benny nodded as he helped Will jump from the door of the helicopter and Pope crawled out behind him, with his rifle clutched in his hand. He started tossing gear down to the ground and they passed around backpacks and guns. Frankie let you go reluctantly as Pope hopped down to the ground and handed him a new bulletproof vest. 

“They’re gettin’ into the fucking net,” Tom cursed and the rest of you looked up to watch as people from the nearby village had flooded the site where the bag had dropped. Sure enough, they were using tools and machetes to rip through the thick ropes of the drop net and get into the duffel bags. 

”What’s the plan here?” Pope said, propping his rifle on his arm and looking around.

“We’re getting that money back over the mountain and to the ocean,” Tom said, fastening his vest and grabbing his own weapon. “Benny, cover us from that treeline there.” He pointed to the right. “Fish, I want you at that vantage point over there.” He pointed to the left and then continued. “That’s cocaine they’re growing, so they could have guns already trained on us from those watchtowers over there.”

“We got working coms?” Will asked and Tom shook his head.

“No, we’ll use hand signals. Pope and I will get out there and look as peaceful as we can--we’ll signal when we think it's secure.” Tom looked to each of them to make sure they understood before nodding once. “Move out.”

As they all started to move in their assigned directions, Frankie moved his rifle to one hand, so he could take yours with his other. “You’re coming with me.” 

You didn’t argue, not wanting to leave his side regardless. You desperately wanted to inspect the cut on his face, but you knew while he was tasked with watching the back of Pope and Tom, Frankie wouldn’t dare think about himself. You could ask, but he wouldn’t let you, so what was the point? He moved you both up the hill and squatted low into the tall grasses of the field, pressing his right eye to his scope for a minute to make sure he had a shot lined up if he needed it. 

As you both watched the retreating forms of Tom and Pope walk towards the farmers, Frankie glanced at you. “Are you hurt?”

“Scratches mainly,” you shook your head and looked down at your palms and arms. “That’s it. You’re bleeding, though.” You nodded towards his face.

“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly, like you knew he would. “Don’t do anything like that again.” His voice was flat and you fought the urge to snap back at him. The adrenaline had been high for you both, the last thing you needed was to fight with the man you currently needed most. 

“We both are going to do what it takes to get home--”

“You don’t have to prove to anyone that you’re a badass--”

“Don’t pull that macho bullshit with me--”

The two of you glared at one another and then his face broke into a small grin. He rolled his eyes and mumbled something about you being stubborn before looking back through his scope. You knew he was just worried. Was it reckless to do what you did on the drop net? Absolutely. But this entire trip had been nothing but the five of them risking their lives for you, and you were tired. Tired of being the reason that everyone you cared about in this fucking jungle was in constant danger. So, when Frankie told you to be smart, it was because he just wanted you home. He just wanted you safe. 

You stayed quiet as you both watched the scene unfold in the field below. Both Tom and Pope were talking with their hands, gesturing, and speaking quickly. Hearing what was being said wasn’t necessary, their body language was more than enough, this talk wasn’t going in their favor. 

“Pope, what's he reaching for? Is that a weapon?” Frankie spoke with his gun against his shoulder as he used the hand that wasn’t on the trigger to press the button on his radio.

No response.

“Pope, do you cop-”

“Frankie,” you touched his shoulder as you remembered the coms were dead from the crash.

Frankie leaned back and glanced at you before looking to his radio and cursing quietly. Pope had his arms out in a defensive position, speaking quickly over Tom who had his hand on his gun. This was bad. This was very bad. Frankie adjusted his grip on the rifle and his body went still. Tom pulled his gun and it was as if everything before you happened in slow motion. 

The villagers yelled and Tom used his handgun to fire into the chest of the one nearest to him. Then again and again. Blood blossomed to life through their clothing and they dropped to the ground. The second one of them took another step forward, Frankie pulled the trigger, doing what he was trained to do--protect those on your squad. 

His rifle echoed and ricocheted back on his shoulder and the man who had stepped towards Pope dropped just like the three before him. You watched as the other men gave the order for the villagers to get back and the screaming continued. Benny ran down the mountain and Frankie stood but you didn’t move. You were frozen in place as you saw Tom raise his gun at the unarmed man, now struggling to breathe, on the ground. You may not have liked him to begin with, but now you knew--Tom was going to get all of you killed. 

--

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[wolf-and-bard]

Resigned To Fate

Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting

Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions

Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.

Word Count: ~2k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

I.

Witchers survive.

Witchers endure.

Witchers outlast.

No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.

Survive. Endure. Outlast.

Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.

He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.

He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.

This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.

Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

II.

When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.

III.

She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.

Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.

His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.

Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.

"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.

This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.

Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.

"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.

Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.

"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."

"I did."

"Mine also?"

"They took them back to the Camp."

Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.

"It's all my fault."

"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.

Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.

"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."

"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?

Because he has to.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."

"What. Choice."

"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."

No such thing happened.

Vesemir knows.

He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.

This is your fault.

You brought this upon them, mutant scum.

They will die for your sins.

Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.

"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.

"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"

They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.

"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."

"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."

Nothing ever. Breaks...

"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."

"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."

"No."

"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"

Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.

IV.

There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.

He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.

"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."

There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.

Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.

"Take care of yourself."

Guxart nods and turns and walks away.

And Vesemir doesn't break.

V.

Decades pass.

Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.

Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.

It is acceptable.

Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.

Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.

And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.

[butterflies-dragons]

The Direwolves’s Eye Colors

I always found fascinating that the Direwolves’s Eye Colors match the Children of the Forest’s Eye Colors: 

"In a sense. Those you call the children of the forest have eyes as golden as the sun, but once in a great while one is born amongst them with eyes as red as blood, or green as the moss on a tree in the heart of the forest. By these signs do the gods mark those they have chosen to receive the gift. The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance. But once inside the wood they linger long indeed. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. Greenseers."

—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III

Ghost - Red Eyes

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.

"Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran I

And suddenly Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees …

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VI

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Grey Wind - Golden Eyes

At first he did not notice her … but his wolf did. The great grey beast was lying near the fire, but when Catelyn entered he lifted his head, and his golden eyes met hers. The lords fell silent one by one, and Robb looked up at the sudden quiet and saw her. "Mother!" he said, his voice thick with emotion.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn VIII

Yet it was not the sword that made Ser Cleos Frey anxious; it was the beast. Grey Wind, her son had named him. A direwolf large as any elkhound, lean and smoke-dark, with eyes like molten gold.

—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn I

Lady - Golden Eyes

"Lady," he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

Sansa sat up. "Lady," she whispered. For a moment it was as if the direwolf was there in the room, looking at her with those golden eyes, sad and knowing.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

Nymeria - Golden Eyes

Nymeria nipped eagerly at her hand as Arya untied her. She had yellow eyes. When they caught the sunlight, they gleamed like two golden coins.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

"Septa Mordane," Jon told her. "I don't think she'd like Nymeria helping, either." The she-wolf regarded him silently with her dark golden eyes.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon II

Summer - Golden Eyes

Bran looked back down. His wolf fell silent, staring up at him through slitted yellow eyes.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran II

The wolf was looking at her. Its jaws were red and wet and its eyes glowed golden in the dark room. It was Bran's wolf, she realized. Of course it was.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn III

Summer stalked out in the echoing gloom, then stopped, lifted his head, and sniffed the chill dead air. He bared his teeth and crept backward, eyes glowing golden in the light of the maester's torch.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran VII

Meera moved in a wary circle, her net dangling loose in her left hand, the slender three-pronged frog spear poised in her right. Summer followed her with his golden eyes, turning, his tail held stiff and tall. Watching, watching . . .

—A Clash of Kings - Bran IV

Summer raised his head from Bran's lap, and gazed at the mudman with his dark golden eyes.

—A Clash of Kings - Bran IV

Shaggydog - Green Eyes

Shaggydog ran at his heels, spinning and snapping if the other wolves came too close. His fur had darkened until he was all black, and his eyes were green fire. 

—A Game of Thrones - Bran IV

Unknown - Golden Eyes (But I bet It’s Lady)

The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . . 

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

Reasons why I think the unknown direwolf is Lady

The other candidate is Grey Wind, that was killed like Lady, but I think the following reasons are enough to conclude that the unknown direwolf is Lady.

The direwolf is grey like Lady.

The direwolf has golden eyes like Lady.

Jon sees the direwolf in the Crypts of Winterfell.  Lady is buried in Winterfell’s lichyard.  

Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned. 

—A Game of Thrones - Bran VI

Jon confuses the direwolf with Ygritte.  This reminds me when Jon confuses Melisandre with Ygritte in ADWD (both redheads).  The two passages have similar wording with Jon feeling guilty for Ygritte’s death.  I also believe that this line: “At night all robes are grey. Yet suddenly hers were red.” foreshadows Sansa being the Grey Girl of Melisandre’s visions.   

When he turned he saw Ygritte.

She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander’s Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. When he saw that, Jon’s heart leapt into his mouth.

“Ygritte,” he said.

“Lord Snow.” The voice was Melisandre’s.

Surprise made him recoil from her. “Lady Melisandre.” He took a step backwards. “I mistook you for someone else.” At night all robes are grey. Yet suddenly hers were red. He did not understand how he could have taken her for Ygritte. She was taller, thinner, older, though the moonlight washed years from her face. 

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon VI

Later in ADWD Jon links Sansa and Lady with Ygritte: 

He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … 

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XIII

The direwolf is described as ghastly. Ghastly means cadaveric. Lady had gone south, and only her bones had returned. Ghastly also sounds and writes very similar to Ghostly.  After its death, Lady is described as a Shade, and Shade is a synonym of Ghost. More about it here.  And we have another “ghostly & bloody direwolf” associated with Sansa:     

“May the Father judge him justly,” murmured a septon. “The dwarf’s wife did the murder with him,” swore an archer in Lord Rowan’s livery. “Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws.”

—ASOS - Jaime VII

The direwolf is described spotted with blood. Lady’s fur got probably spotted with blood when Ned cut its throat. And I even saw a fan-art (for the graphic novel adaptation) where Ned beheaded Lady...  

The direwolf’s eyes are described as shinning “sadly”.  Lady is described with sad eyes.

Sansa sat up. "Lady," she whispered. For a moment it was as if the direwolf was there in the room, looking at her with those golden eyes, sad and knowing.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

So, if the unknown direwolf is indeed Lady, this creates a yet another Jon/Sansa parallel, Jon seeing Lady’s Shade while walking deeper (like descending) into the Crypts of Winterfell during a dream & Sansa, disguised as Alayne Stone, sensing a Ghost Wolf while descending from the Eyrie to the Gates of the Moon:

The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

All around was empty air and sky, the ground falling away sharply to either side. There was ice underfoot, and broken stones just waiting to turn an ankle, and the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghost wolf, big as mountains.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

There you have it. Jon saw Lady’s Shade in the Crypts of Winterfell during a dream.

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV

concept: after having the house to yourself for little over a month, you are surprised by chris’ return home. awkward encounters ensue. the slowest of slow burns, the fifth part of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: shirtless evans, an almost assault with a baseball bat

author’s note: not me dropping a third part in one day… this one goes out to @tonystankschild for being so overwhelmingly supportive. thank you, and i hope you enjoy :)

You should’ve known he was home.

All the signs were there, but you’d gotten so used to living alone in the spacious L.A. residence by yourself – aside from Dodger – that it seemed almost absurd now to think of it as a shared space.

You had been watching something – one of those home invasion slashers – when Dodger had sudden perked his head, ears erect and alert. He had heard something you hadn’t just yet, and suddenly, he was leaping off the couch and headed straight for the front door, whining and howling. That was the first sign.

The second sign came after you had paused the film to better hear what was transpiring in the foyer. Dodger was pawing frantically at the base of the door, crying out. In the sudden hush of the apartment, you could hear the scrape of something metallic in the keyhole. The doorknob jostled, and a muffled slew of profanities reached your ears, even through the thick door.

You didn’t stick around for the third sign – you had already bounded to your room and retrieved the hefty wooden baseball bat you had bought when you first moved into that dingy flat by yourself downtown in one of the more seedier areas. You held it aloft with as much confidence as you could muster – poised and ready. You would later admit to maybe being a bit paranoid, given the film you had selected that night. But not right now. Right now you were in full attack mode, fight or flight.

“Who’s that, Dodge?” You whispered, heart rate spiking and forcing adrenaline through your veins. You didn’t expect a reply from the overexcited pup, but you got one in a long drawn out yowl. “Who’s that?”

The bat was beginning to feel slippery in your sweat slicked hands, but you merely adjusted your grip and clutched it tighter. Then, a click – the door opening.

With a shrieking wail of a battle cry, you swung wildly in the dark, the shadowed silhouette easily evading your clumsy attack and grabbing the bat before its inevitable collision with his face.

Suddenly, at the click of a switch, light flooded the foyer, briefly blinding you.

“What the hell?!” A Boston accent, the musky scent of something indescribable. Your heart flipped.

Allowing your eyes to adjust, you found yourself staring into the stunning – if not wide in mild panic – blue eyes of Chris Evans. He was fresh off his flight, dishevelled slightly from his drive home. His dirty blonde hair was tousled and messy, his shirt rumpled but clinging effortlessly to his muscular frame. He still held the one side of the bat in a large and rather beautiful hand, his lips twisted in a small but no less beautiful – and also incredibly confused – smile.

“Oh, thank God it’s you,” you sighed in relief when your senses returned to you, slackening your death grip on the handle. He gently – if not a bit quickly – took the bat and placed it on a tabletop nearby, before bending down and greeting a frenzied Dodger who immediately pounced on Chris and slathered him in kisses, tail wagging at a mile a minute. “I honestly thought you were a burglar.”

“Did you–” Chris was cut off by a wet lick to the face, and he struggled to reign his laughter in to complete his thought. “Did you not hear my key in the door?”

He rose to his feet, grinning, just as happy to see Dodger again as the pup did his owner.

“I heard someone fucking up a key in the door. Figured it was a lock pick in the end and decided that if I was going to die, I was gonna go down swingin’.”

You were feeling somewhat defensive – even if you almost attacked the poor man.

“Remind me to text next time, then,” Chris chuckled.

And as if the confirmation of your safety spurred it, you fell into his arms, clinging to him in a bone crushing bear hug. You deeply inhaled his scent – a scent that still sometimes lingered in the house but had overall faded into just a ghostly reminder. “You have no idea how happy I am it’s you and not Hannibal Lecter.”

Your voice was muffled in the fabric of his t-shirt clad chest as he patted you on the back reassuringly. “I think I have some idea…”

——————

The thing about having lived by yourself for so long is that you grow accustomed to a certain level of naturally granted – and overall assumed – privacy. And although it was beginning to become the case for you, it was and already had been the case for Chris.

So that was why, when morning came, you, in all your drowsiness, found yourself in the position you currently were in.

See, the mistake was almost entirely forgivable. It was an honest one. Just people being human and forgetting specific things – like the fact that other people had use of certain communal amenities, and that locking doors was the ultimate guarantee of privacy.

When you would both tell the tale – having found the humour in it not long later – you would both admit to entirely forgetting the other lived there too.

In Chris’ case, he had been a little jetlagged. In your case, it had just slipped your mind.

For this to make sense, we would have to take a close look at the layout of the house. See, both yours and Chris’ rooms were connected by one specific point in the house: an en suite conjoining bathroom that both of you had access to.

Chris, having been a bachelor for most of his time living on that property, had never really dwelled much on the second door.

And you, having moved in a month prior, never once gave much thought to where the other door – his door – led. In all honesty, you had never even bothered to check.

And so, in the late hours of the morning, you found your eyes dragging open and your sleep ridden body stumbling out of bed.

How you hadn’t heard him was baffling – because, as you would later discover, Chris Evans did not merely sing in the shower, no. He goddamn performed; held a live concert for all the toiletries that were simply too inanimate to escape – but as you sluggishly hauled yourself to your bathroom door (always shut, thanks to the numerous horror films you had consumed during your lazy days), the last thing you were expecting was–

“OH MY GOD!”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Both of you simultaneously leapt at the shock of finding someone you wouldn’t expect.

“Fuck, holy shit, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry–”

“{Your name},” he chuckled, glistening shoulders bouncing with mirth. “It’s okay.”

You had walked in on Chris fucking Evans, mercifully (for your part) clad in a white towel wrapped snugly around his waist. If the steam thick air was an indication, he had stepped out of the shower moments before your intrusion, and had been in the midst of combing the wet hair away from his face when you’d come in.

“I’m sorry, I thought the bathroom would be free, I…” you trailed off as you finally looked at him.

You had seen him shirtless before, obviously. Everyone had if they had seen almost any film he’d been in. But this was somehow… different.

You were mesmerised by the water droplets running down and getting caught on the ridges of his rippling muscles. And the tattoos…

You never would’ve guessed he had so many, some obscured by the damp hair that covered his chest, others in stark contrast of black on tan, smooth skin.

This was what he looked like, no makeup, no special effects, no airbrush. 100% him, real, in front of you, and a little naked.

“My eyes are up here.” He grinned teasingly. “See something you like?”

You swallowed thickly and finally looked him in his ocean eyes. “We never speak of this again.”

[paralumanleadmehome]

It’s been quite some time since I’ve last joined a contest and I honestly missed this feeling of trying to figure out what to write, how to write it, and how to deliver it exactly as you need to to impress the judges. It’s been so so long and welp. I’ve grown rusty and this is definitely not proof-read but all the same, thank you to @queenangst and everyone who had made this possible.

You brought me back a feeling I haven’t felt in so long.

This is my entry to queenangst’s BNHA gen contest: Finding Home 

(please see under the cut as this has 3.5k words and could be very long)

Finding Home

o.

It started out as a legend – two souls separated at creation, two souls that make up one whole, two halves of one soul completed upon connection.

Two becoming one.

But legends are legends for a reason – mythical, mysterious, only with a hint of a truth.

Soulmarks began appearing even before the dawn of quirks –little symbols that litter the body, one that you could only call your own. One that only you could share to whom you so ever desire. It varies in shapes and colors, some being a butterfly tinged in red and orange, others an ocean wave the shade of green, and to some more, it covers a palm, a thigh, a foot. Unlike its legendary counterpart, however, a soulmark does not lead you to a soulmate. Instead, it leads you to one where you can feel whole.

A soulmark is a symbol of love and friendship given in trust and good faith – one that cannot be taken, one that only be passed on.

A soulmark is a symbol of warmth and everlasting connection – one that is stronger than flesh and blood.

A soulmark is a symbol of home – one that you choose for yourself.

One person can have as many as the stars in the sky and as few as the petals of a clover.

And Izuku? Izuku only has his own, his mother’s, and the black mark of one Bakugo Katsuki.

After all, no one wants to share the mark of a useless, quirkless, little Deku.

And so, however sacred, Kacchan had cut his own connection with Izuku, both of them bearing the ashen remnants of a once golden sun and a viridian shooting star – the pain of which Izuku found more unbearable than the explosions that kissed his skin.

And Izuku no longer believed in soulmates.

Not when the world was so intent on pushing him down and pushing him away, not when no one would stand up for him and with him, not when the only love and care he had ever known came from the woman who had loved him the most.

So Izuku never shared the mark on his wrist with anyone, never the light of the shooting star that brightens up the dark sky, never the stardust that falls on the earth, never the ray of hope he had held even in the darkest of times, keeping it hidden in long sleeves, wristwatches, and bandages. And at all times he keeps covered the blackened sun that rests on his heart, refusing to see the ashes of a friendship no longer alive, refusing to acknowledge the searing pain that would accompany the sight. Instead, as always, he keeps close the mint green lotus that rests on the base of his right ear, his eyes never not seeing it each morning, afternoon, and night – the one and only reminder that he is loved.

He is loved.

He is loved.

And he lets himself be content with that.

i.

The first of many soulmarks that Izuku will treasure came from the man that he had idolized his whole life.

Yagi Toshinori, for all his time as the Symbol of Peace (and more the time he had spent alive), only carries with him four marks, not counting his own. Izuku doesn’t ask when he sees. He doesn’t think it is polite to, especially when most people aren’t interested in bonding with a quirkless child (and although All Might already knew he was quirkless and didn’t deny him this chance to train, the man’s initial denial of his dream still stings). He doesn’t ask about the faded crescent moon that rests on his collarbone (it isn’t nice to ask about the dead, after all), nor about the black spaded horse on his left ankle (he was shocked at first, upon seeing this lost connection, and his heart ached at the thought that even All Might had to bear the pain of losing someone he had once loved so dearly). He doesn’t ask about the violet sigil of a fish on his shoulder blade nor the diamond glasses near his scar. He doesn’t ask about any of these things.

Instead he asks about experiences – what was it like to be a hero of his caliber? Was he ever afraid of anything? Was there ever a time that he was unable to save someone? What was he like as a student? Did Dagobah Beach mean something special to him? Things that the world weren’t privy to – things that he didn’t know were personal.

Things that would’ve only been known if All Might had chosen him as his soulmate.

And All Might did.

One day, at Dagobah Beach, after the world had finally met the man behind All Might, Toshinori Yagi had offered his ocean blue sunflower tucked on the opposite side of where the faded moon resided and had asked Izuku if he had wanted to carry his soulmark.

And Izuku… flinched.

Because to hold another’s soulmark would mean to be aware of them at all times – to feel their warmth despite the distance, to know with one brush of a hand the feelings that lay in their hearts, to give them comfort even in the presence of an absence.

To bear a soulmark is to be eternally connected.

And Izuku had been burned by the loss of it.

And he is scared, afraid, terrified – because to be All Might’s successor is one thing. To be given his quirk and his legacy is a dream come true but to be his soulmate? To be near him? To know him and be known by him in return? It’s terrifying.

And yet… and yet… Izuku takes this fear and lets it be known.

In quiet whispers, jumbled words, and a steady stream of tears.

Because deep down, Izuku longs to be connected.

And it is in the act of letting someone close does he remember what it feels like to be loved.

ii.

The second one, surprisingly, came in the form of a little girl.

A quiet, frightened, injured little girl who had ran away from a monster of a man.

Eri bumped into him during his first patrol with Lemillion and this mess of child with a stature so small and eyes too scared clung to him for dear life – and Izuku’s soul ached.

Izuku took one look at the man with the bird mask, one look at Lemillion, one look at this little girl, and made up his mind.

“Eri,” he whispered, “do you trust me?”

It was a stupid question, he knew, but a soulmark is something to be given in trust – a treasure to be received in good faith.

“You’re good,” Eri answered just as softly, little hands clinging to his costume. “You’re warm.”

Izuku doesn’t know if Eri feels the same pull, the same fierce protectiveness that forces its way into his heart, and he knows that this is more his own desire to keep her safe than any other force telling him that she was a part of his own soul.

Because Eri mattered regardless.

And Eri was worth keeping safe.

So for the first time in a long time, Izuku removes the bandage that hides his own soulmark and he shows it to Eri.

“This will keep you safe for me,” he tells her, “this will let you know I’m here.”

In the background he hears the tense conversation coming to a halt, sees the way the man’s eyes turn to look at Eri, and he knows he doesn’t have time.

“This is a promise.”

And Eri stares at it for little while, hands reaching to the shooting star. “A promise,” she repeats, and with a little nod and hopeful eyes, Izuku places a finger on her arm, just beneath her sleeves, and let their foreheads touch.

The words come to him unbidden, the way words do when you give someone a piece of your soul – a promise to be fulfilled, a wish to be granted, a part of you that will forever be a part of them.

“I will always come for you.”

And he did.

iii.

Not counting his own nor Kacchan’s, Izuku has two soulmarks on his body.

One from his mother, another from All Might.

He didn’t ask for Eri’s and she hadn’t offered in return.

Eri was as afraid of her soulmark as much as she is afraid of her quirk.

Cursed, she calls the silver dove wreathed in yellow petals on her ankle. Cold, she thinks of it. It will still be a long way to go, Izuku assumes, but as long as Eri can feel his warmth, his presence, that would be enough.

The third one, interestingly enough, was in the image of an aquamarine heart, with its curves jagged and cornered, just as a gem so precious and true.

Kouta gave it to him as gift, as a thank you, as something for Izuku to remember him by.

Kouta didn’t ask for Izuku’s own soulmark, didn’t even breathe a word about it. Instead the little boy ran up to him, little arms wrapping him in a hug, and said,

“I’ll always be cheering you on.”

And when Izuku sees the way Kouta’s soulmark shine, he accepted it without a second thought.

And when Kouta pulled away afterwards, face pulled in a frown, Izuku tried to ignore the fear that stabbed his own heart. He wondered if he would make a world record, an ashen mark as soon as he had received it, but Kouta dispelled his fears just as easily.

“That felt weird,” Kouta said. Izuku blinked at him, his mind taking a minute to process, until he caught up. Then he laughed and laughed because he feels exactly what Kouta feels – the disappointment, the confusion, the curiosity… and the underlying overwhelming emotion of it all.

Unbridled joy.

The elation of having someone know you – of being accepted, treasured, remembered.

He also felt the embarrassment that followed as Kouta turned as red as his shoes.

iv.

The soulmark exchange with Shinsou had been quiet.

It happened on the night of their second year when they both stumbled upon each other in the kitchen at the forsaken 2am hour did Shinsou spring up the topic.

“You don’t have that many soulmarks, do you?” the question was genuine, as far as Izuku can tell, and although the boy was rough around the edges, he knew it was due to the fact that Shinsou had so little support in life and was untrusting of all that Izuku had felt a kindred spirit in that regard.

They have observed the people around them, of course, and have noticed that everyone at least had five. A family member, a best friend from childhood, a classmate they never got lost in contact with.

Izuku stole a glance at the back of his right hand, at the blue heart settled at base of his forefinger and thumb and hummed an agreement. “No, I don’t,” he agreed, letting stiff fingers be warmed by his tea. He doesn’t return the question to Shinsou, knowing that it was a touchy subject for the other boy, but he did wonder, “Why do you ask?”

They don’t talk about it much, these colorful marks on their skin. They don’t talk about how a brush of hand over the little symbols can feel as warm as an embrace, how fear isn’t so scary when someone else sends you courage, how silence isn’t deafening when someone knows to listen.

It is in moments like these that they listen.

Izuku listens to Shinsou’s own quiet humming, the way the gears in his mind seem to move, the way he figures out how to phrase the words he wants to say next. And Izuku has been thinking about it – had been for the past few months.

Will his classmates ever want a piece of his soul?

He could tell that Uraraka does. He could tell that Iida would want one, too, but a soulmark is something that’s rarely asked for due to its sacred nature – it is freely given, after all, and never to be taken lightly. And Izuku had never offered. He had wanted to, of course, but he knows how messy his mind can get. He knows how anxious he can be. It’s why he had given his to Eri in a pace that is both hidden and seen, something she had to reach out for so she could feel. Izuku could not yet know what Eri is thinking or feeling, nor will he ever have inkling to unless she so desired, and Izuku is completely fine with that.

After all, a soulmark is a connection of souls – but it didn’t have to be an exchange. What it did mean though is that for one who bears the soul of another is to be aware of them – to be able to feel their warmth and develop an understanding of their soul. It is not to read their minds nor to know everything about them, but it is about the intimacy of knowing someone and being known.

A commitment.

A promise.

Like an artwork waiting to be completed, like a dance you can take to heart, a soulmark is connection that bridges the gap between someone you know and someone you choose forever.

“I don’t get it,” Shinsou finally said, and Izuku turned his eyes to him, the question lost in his tongue. “You have a strong and flashy quirk, you have so many people who love you and would fight the world for you, heck Uraraka and Iida would probably murder someone for you if you ask them, and yet you don’t have their marks and… they don’t have yours. I know I’m not good at this thing but at the very least, people give their marks away as easy as they’re giving candy. And you guys are pretty close, so I don’t get it.”

And the pain of burning that bridge is the same as losing a piece of your soul. Izuku absentmindedly reaches for his heart, the ashen remains of Kacchan’s soulmark embedded on his skin still, and he tries his best to forget.

Izuku looks instead at the clock in the kitchen, noting that it’s only 2:17am, and asks if Shinsou would like to listen to a story.

And they left the kitchen at 5:00am, only to crash in the couch, heart heavy yet full, mind settled and secured, souls at ease, and both boys sharing a mark they never expected to kiss their skin.

v.

The night Izuku had laid bare his soul for someone else to see, when it was him who had reached out first before someone else had offered, when he had done it so willingly and freely, it felt as if something has shifted within him – and in all the remaining years he had spent in UA, he was able to garner a couple more soulmarks for his own. He finally had the pink milky way that was Uraraka’s, the red lighting storm that was Iida’s, and Todoroki’s fiery white snowflake.

And to think that before all of this, before meeting All Might, before knowing these people and being known in return, Izuku was afraid and alone – afraid of the vulnerability that came along with letting people in.

To think that all he had ever thought about when he thought of soulmates were fireworks kissing his skin, long fingers bruising his arms, and taunts and jeers haunting his every waking moment – but now he is surrounded by love and warmth. Now when he thinks of soulmates, he thinks of mochi in the common kitchen, tea in hand; he thinks of morning jogs and healthy breakfast; he thinks of cold soba and cats; he thinks of unicorns and sprinkles and little kids and coloring books; he thinks of training sessions and laughter and peace.

Now when Izuku thinks of soulmates, he thinks of home.

And speaking of home, he can’t wait to get back to their apartment and give his mom the biggest of hugs. They had always called even when he was away and even when they would consistently send little taps through their soulmark, nothing still beats the warmth of a real embrace – and this is what Izuku fixes his mind on as he cleans out his dorm room, packing away every picture frame, books, notebooks, clothes, and figurines. Graduation is in a few days and after that, their debut to hero society. None of them would have enough time to clear out by then.

Izuku packs away the memories, just as he did each item that reminds him of it, and keeps them close in his heart. He packs away the ten million headband, the plushies from the cultural festival, the cards he had received from Eri and Kouta, and he tries his best not to feel emotional. He didn’t want to flood the dorms one last time, after all, but he did think it would be nice to have Aizawa-sensei scold him for being a problem child through and through but ultimately, it was the knock at his door that helps him succeed.

A knock, quiet and soft, and he opens the door to find Kacchan standing at the other side.  

Their relationship had improved over the years.

Kacchan is… less angry now, more settled. He’s still fiery and explosive but he doesn’t lash out anymore. Kirishima, Kaminari, the Bakusquad had been good to him and for him and Izuku had never been gladder about it. He had long stopped dreaming of the day that their relationship would be fixed – he and Kacchan had grown up, grown apart, and even when they drift back together, he is well aware that it would never be the same way again.

He doesn’t ask for it to.

He loves Kacchan, yes, with all his heart, but Izuku now knows that love does not have to be reciprocated for it to be real – but to still be loved in return is a precious treasure he keeps close.

“Hey, Kacchan, do you need something?”

And Kacchan looks at him, face pensive, mouth opening and closing, thinking and grasping and failing to think of the words he wants to say, and something in Izuku feels warm. After some time, the other boy settles with, “Are you busy?”

And if it was at any other time before, Izuku would’ve dropped everything that he had been doing and say no, he wasn’t busy, of course he had the time – but Izuku’s eyes sway to soulmarks on his arm and he steals a look at the digital clock by his table.

“I have thirty minutes,” was what Izuku told him. “I promised Todoroki we’d drop by the store to get his favorite soba since they’re not available near his house. I have time tomorrow morning thought if that works for you. I can cancel the morning jog with Iida if – “

“Thirty minutes is fine,” Kacchan answered back, cutting his rumbling off. It wasn’t harsh or angry. Just… very Kacchan-ish.

“Okay. Do you waant to step in? it’s a bit messy though, I still haven’t finished packing.”

And when Izuku heard the small tsk as he moved aside for Kacchan to pass through, he knew that the other boy won’t mind his mess. He felt a little grateful at that, to not be judged within the confines of his small room. They were silent for a few more second but it wasn’t the kind of silence that would make him uncomfortable. It was companionable, to say the least, and Izuku began picking up the pieces he had left before Kacchan had knocked and continued his packing. In another minute, Kacchan was helping him.

“Are you bringing the bookshelf home?”

“Nope, Aizawa-sensei said I could leave it here. Are you taking yours?”

“Thinking about it. Mine’s too small and I don’t want to waste money on something I can recycle. Do you have bubble wrap for the merch?”

“In the third drawer by the study table. I have newspapers too if that’s better.”

“Oh, Kacchan, that one goes in the other box.”

“Why? What’s the difference?”

“All my signed books are in one place.”

“Just how many posters do you fucking have?”

“Oh, come on, don’t pretend you don’t have just as many.”

“I’m not a hero-worshipping nerd like you, dumbass.”

“Says the guy who zonks out at 8pm.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

“Kacchan, that’s limited edition!”

“I’m sorry.”

“…”

“For everything.”

“…”

“It was pretty messed up, the things I did, and I know sorry won’t fix this.”

“Can you pass me the tape, Kacchan?”

“…”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

“Please put this box by the bed.”

“Okay.”

“…”

“…”

“You’re right, I don’t have to forgive you.”

“…”

“But I already did.”

“Deku…”

“It won’t fix what’s broken and it won’t stop the sting from the soulmark but…”

“…”

“We’re better now, aren’t we?”

“…”

“Kacchan, we’re better now.”

“You missed the night light.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“…”

“…”

“And it’s only going to get better, right?”

“…”

“…”

“Of course.”

“You’re still a sappy piece of shit.”

“Well, I’m not the one who’s crying, am I?”

“Fuck you.”

“Whatever you say, Kacchan.”

[naruto-scenarios-plus-akatsuki]

can you do a part 7 of reader infiltrates the akatsuki base! :D

Thank you both for the request! I do enjoy writing this series. 

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Reader infiltrates the Akatsuki’s base: Part VII

You couldn’t exactly remember what had happened next after Itachi lifted you up in his arms. You must have passed out since you woke up in a strange wooden room that was barren of any décor with only a flicker of candlelight allowing you to see. You could hear chirping crickets from outside and a light breeze filtering in from the jarred window. You took in the night sky and knew you had probably slept through the whole day.

Your head ached when you sat up in bed. The pain reminding you of your encounter with the tracking ninja from your village.

“You’re finally awake.”

His voice startled you in the night as you quickly turned your gaze to the opposite corner of the room where Itachi hid in the shadows. He was leaning back on a wooden chair with his head resting against the wall. Suddenly his eyes turn red, cutting through the darkness.

“It seems the drugs have finally subsided,” he commented as he shut his sharingan off.

“How long have I been out?” You muttered. The taste in your mouth was stale and your throat felt dry. Even your jaw hurt, you noticed. Your eyes were trained on Itachi but your mind was desperately trying to put the pieces together yourself from your memory.

“You been in and out of consciousness throughout the day. Do you not remember?” He spoke smoothly. His eyes critically locked on yours.

You shook your head but regretted your decision. You could feel the ache when you turned your head a certain way.

“You were thrashing a lot in your sleep. Probably from nightmares that the drug seemed to induce,” Itachi deduced and answered your unspoken question as to why your head hurt so bad. “You also rambled a bit while you were conscious.”

You grimaced at that and nodded. “His drugs can do that. That’s how he can get intel out of his victims through fear and an aberrated mind.”

“So you know this shinobi?”

“Yes and no. His name is Manzo Sekki. He’s a tracker ninja for the Land of Stone. He was a class ahead of me in the academy and graduated early for his impressive skill. He was known to be the most formidable in the chunin exams and he had exceeded in rank in the interrogation unit for his methods,” you answered. You had turned your gaze away from Itachi with your fist clenching slightly at the thought of Manzo.

“There’s more you aren’t sharing.” Itachi state plainly. His face vacant of expression but his eyes were vigilant and firm.

“I prefer to leave it at that,” you mentioned.

You felt the burn at the back of your neck and your hand instinctively held it. The cold from your hands doing little to stop the burn. Itachi had got up from his post. Your eyes followed him. You glared slightly out of annoyance but inwardly you remembered he had saved you from your demise. He took in your glare as if he could see right through you and stopped in his tracks in front of the bed.

“This is not a request. Anything even slightly informative that could benefit the Akatsuki or help the organization identify threats or lead to a mission success is vital which can waive your right to privacy.”

“It’s nothing really! Its only… I never liked, or was fond of Manzo. He and a few others were very unkind to me as a kid,” you answered carefully.

You felt the burning stop and knew Itachi believed you. You kept your gaze away from his, still annoyed but also from feeling shame at remembering your days in the academy. No one liked talking about how they were bullied on the playground. It made ninja like you feel weak.

“Well this Manzo adversary of yours got away. He fled as soon as Kisame and I showed up. I assume we will run into him again. Our mission is currently compromised if they know we’re here and where we are currently looking. The Tsuchikage will send more tracking ninja after you to stop you from spreading any more secrets or to hinder the Akatsuki,” Itachi spoke rather calmly.

“…”

You had no response. Obviously, you were angered that your village had sold you out and were so willing to discard you, versus save you from your hostage situation. Secondly, you were a bit disappointed that the shinobi that trapped you got away. You wouldn’t have been upset if Kisame had sliced him in all honesty. Even though, that’s horrible to say since he was once a comrade, but old scars were hard to forget.

“What… What did I say when I was out of it?” You asked after a moment in a low voice.

“Most of it was garbled, but there were a few words here and there. You mentioned your parents and said dead. You repeated the word puppets numerous times. You said sand, dark, dolls, trap, death, scared, and you mentioned Sasori a few times,” Itachi enlightened.

You couldn’t lift your head to look at Itachi. You knew what those words meant, and you felt uncomfortably exposed.

Itachi watched your demeanor change and how you slightly flinched at certain words he spoke. There was meaning that he didn’t fully grasp yet, but he was certain it was to do with your past which only led him to speculate.

“Are your parents deceased?” He asked quite bluntly.

“Yes.”

“Was the Sand responsible?”

You nodded, not liking how close Itachi was getting to the truth.

“How?” His voice held authority.

“They were drafted into the 3rd Great Ninja War and they never came back when they were sent to protect the territory claimed between the Land of Earth and the Land of Wind,” You answered with clenched teeth unwillingly.

“Did Sasori have a hand in your parents’ death?”

You shook your head rapidly. “No.”

“Then why-“

“Please…” You begged with strain in your voice. You didn’t want your mind to go there. You could feel your emotions riling up. Even your chakra was spiking wildly because of it and you were sure Itachi could feel it too. You looked him in the eyes, asking him for this mercy. “Please, can we drop the topic?”

You saw Itachi’s eyes soften for a minute, surprising you. However, he soon regained his stern features. He turned his back towards you and began to retreat out of the room.

“Continue to rest. At dawn we’re leaving. Kisame has been impatient over your recovery. I would not make him wait any longer,” Itachi advised.

He didn’t look back at you as he opened and shut the door after himself, leaving you to your thoughts in the barren room. You were grateful that he hadn’t pushed you further to reveal your past and were appreciative that he had saved you from your adversary and kept you from Kisame’s impatient hand. After these last few incidents, your heart churn with warmth for Itachi. You saw compassion in his eyes. That was new to you and left you wondering if there was more to Itachi than what he was known for.

Part VIII

[halfwayinlight]

I wrote a thing today. It was supposed to be for Valentine’s Day

Title: Holding Space Fandom: Star Trek TNG Pairing: Will Riker/Deanna Troi Rating: PG Notes: set between Season 3 episodes The Bonding and The Booby Trap

Commander Will Riker would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was disappointed Deanna had not yet come to the bridge to report she was back on board. It wasn’t an official protocol, but it was a courtesy that the senior staff generally observed. It was, in fact, out of the ordinary that Deanna didn’t report to the bridge officer on duty.

He told himself he would wait a full half hour past her anticipated arrival time to call down to O’Brien. It would be a very long half hour, and he knew that at least some of the bridge crew were very aware he was antsy. So Will had dutifully read through the various daily reports sent in. And he checked the logs three times to make sure there wasn’t some mental health crisis that would’ve pulled her immediately back into work.

Eventually, he’d taken to the ready room, vacant since the captain was off duty at the moment. Catching up on reports was no help in the distraction department because the only remaining reports they were still working on were the reports over the Mintaka III duck blind. It had been an utter failure in all aspects of First Contact. Not that the Enterprise crew had been able to really help it. It was more an Act of Fate.

Privately, though, Will still felt guilty about the whole thing. Guilty for leaving Deanna behind. He knew, rationally, that there was no help for it. Palmer had needed immediate medical care. There had been no reason to think that Deanna wouldn’t be able to slip quietly away and be beamed back on board.

“You’re beating yourself up over it,” she’d observed one night in Ten Forward, about a week ago. Her fingers played with the glass containing her Sumerian sunrise, idly tracing the bands etched around the cup.

He shifted, elbow on the table to lean against it for support, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn this evening was taking. Rather than answer immediately, he took a slow inventory of the lounge. It was a slow night, and they were relatively isolated. As his gaze swept the bar, Guinan had given him a long look and a subtle nod. He wasn’t even really sure what the nod meant, except that they would be given some space. “We should’ve come up with a better plan. One that had less risk.”

“We had limited intelligence. Given what we knew at the time, the risks seemed minimal. In retrospect, I don’t see what we could’ve done any differently.  And, Will, I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt.”

He shook his head. “You were almost sacrificed to a non-existent deity,” he ground out, one hand lifting to rub his beard in frustration. “Do you know what it’s like to sit in a meeting with the captain and the current expert in Mintakan culture and hear that under these extraordinary circumstances, they might actually kill someone you care about?”

Deanna was leaning in now, arms resting on the table, hands clasped. He envied her level of calm and acceptance about this. “No, I do not. But,” she quickly added, “I do know what it’s like to sit on the bridge or in meetings and hear about missions where the people that I care deeply about may die. To see you and our friends leave on away teams when there are serious risks. To coordinate evacuations and general quarters, especially sauce separations, that leave me with the low-risk group and people I care for very much on the battle bridge.”

The intensity of her words hit him like a phaser blast, and Will was left speechless for long moments. He’d never taken much time to consider what it looked like from her end of things. And given her sympathetic smile, she realized this.

“It’s the life I chose, Will,” she added quietly after giving him some time to absorb her first statements. “We all signed up for Starfleet understanding the risks. Some of us have already lost loved ones in the line of duty…”

It was the line of duty that was the hardest to absorb. That reminder that her own father had died while serving. Amplified days later when Lieutenant Aster died on the archeological dig. It had impacted the crew, shocked them all because this had seemed like such a routine exploration. Worsened because she left behind Jeremy, now parent-less.

And in the last six days since that incident, Deanna had been on duty, more or less continuously caring for the boy. Worf had wanted to accompany both her and Jeremy to Starbase 24, where they would rendezvous with the boy’s aunt and uncle, but the Enterprise couldn’t spare him long enough. As it was, Deanna would barely make the connection back before they needed to jump to high warp in order to make their next mission. If she was delayed, it would be another week or more before a shuttle or transport would cross their path to bring her back.

In the end, it was O’Brien calling. “Transporter Room 3 to Commander Riker.”

“Riker here,” he replied instantly, straightening in his seat on the couch. He never used the desk in the ready room because it felt too much like the captain’s personal space.

“The counselor is back on board. You can take us to warp now.”

“Acknowledged,” Will replied, feeling a bit silly for not realizing sooner that O’Brien would be aware they were waiting for her arrival before moving on. That he would have anticipated the need to notify the bridge so they could go to warp.

Gathering the PADD he had been using, Will made his way back to the bridge. “Counselor Troi is back on board. Warp eight, on to our next coordinates,” he called to the helm before settling into the captain’s chair. He continued to fight his eagerness to see her back on board for himself. With a few commands from his PADD, he finished the plans he’d settled on the night before in anticipation of her return.

She had sent two communiques to him in as many days. They’d spoken only once through subspace, the first night after Jeremy had fallen asleep in one of the bunks on a small thirty passenger supply ship they’d caught a ride with. Deanna had looked very tired, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep that he hadn’t seen from her in a long time. It had been a rough past few months for her-- the psychological torment on Rana IV, nearly being sacrificed on Mintaka III, and the aftermath of Aster’s death. He’d set a hot bath to run in her quarters and left out some real chocolate that he’d managed to obtain on a recent starbase and kept a secret stash for the rough days when hot chocolate from the replicator wasn’t enough. Will had the sense from their subspace call that this would be one of those days.

And yet the bridge held only the scheduled crew members on a very routine shift. Textbook even. He’d rarely been so glad to hand over command to Data when it finally did end. In reality, he should be finding his way to the mess hall or Ten Forward for a meal. But he was determined not to wait any longer.

It didn’t take long to gain her quarters, and he politely pressed the button to notify her that she had a visitor. They came and went freely from each other’s quarters. They were both visitors with full access at any time. Besides that, as First Officer, he had override access to all parts of the ship. But he was a gentleman and would announce himself.

When there was no answer, he paused for a long moment. A glance up and down the hall confirmed that he was alone for now, and he was grateful. Everyone on board knew they were close. It wouldn't have been the first time either of them had been spotted outside the other’s quarters. Besides, their roles on the ship meant they often worked closely together. But he was also acutely aware that the crew knew their relationship was much more complicated than that.

“Computer, location of Counselor Deanna Troi,” he finally decided to consult on this, instead of simply assuming she was in her quarters. It would be easy enough to gain entry, but he hesitated to simply go in. She might be sleeping. Or she might want to be alone. A few dozen less rational explanations for no answer flitted through his mind, but he dismissed the various scenarios as absurd and unlikely.

“Counselor Deanna Troi is in Commander Riker’s quarters.”

Now that was not something he had not considered. With an about-face, he moved just down the corridor and through his own door. His lounge showed no evidence of a visitor, and he frowned to himself as he scanned the room to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. He gained his room and came to a full halt at the doorway.

There was a Betazoid in his bed. Soundly asleep. In the chair in the corner, her maroon uniform was folded neatly and her boots tucked out of the walkway. He was pretty sure he’d left at least a few articles of clothing on the floor, but it had been cleared out, most likely tossed in the laundry.

But what caught his breath was how small and worn out Deanna looked under the silvery Starfleet-issued blanket. The shadows under her eyes were more pronounced in the low light seeping in from the lounge. He wondered if she had even gone to her own quarters at all, and he suspected likely not.

For now, he was too awake to sleep. So he let himself linger for several moments more, absorbing that she was back on board. That she was getting the rest she so clearly needed. There would be time to catch up later. Will finally returned to his lounge and found something in the replicator menu that sounded appetizing and was able to focus enough to wrap up his daily report and close out two older reports before his mind wound down enough that he could think about sleeping, too.

A quick sonic shower relaxed him enough that Will knew meant he could finally get some rest. When he went in search of his usual blue pajamas, he found the top missing but tugged on the trousers and eased in beside Deanna. And he quickly found his missing top, which she had appropriated for her own sleepwear.

That particular realization touched on a mix of new feelings. Attraction. It wouldn't be the first time she had swiped something of his to sleep in. Secretly, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last time, either. And it touched on something tender, which surprised him all the more. That she was tired enough to borrow something, rather than make the effort of going to her own quarters, one room away, for her own things.

“Mmmm,” she murmured now, though Will could tell she remained on the other side of sleep.

“Sssh,” Will soothed, arms banding around her and pulling her closer to him, his body warmer than usual from the sonic shower. She relaxed into the comfort, as he’d hoped she would. “Back to sleep,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss into her hair. “I’m glad you’re back,” he breathed, thumb pressing at the nape of her neck, seeking those pressure points to soothe and relax her. He rubbed small circles until her breath evened out again, familiar and soothing against the crook of his neck and he followed her into deep sleep.

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night Part XI

(Author’s Notes: Warning! Things will get slightly spicy in this section. No spicer than The Whispering Room scene (don’t get too excited), but it is definitely heating up. I missed writing the romance and I’m excited to be moving back into that-- even if it does end jarringly. Anyway, I hope you all had a lovely father’s day! Stay safe. Stay healthy! And thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this: please give it a like, reblog, comment, and hit follow for more updates. Next update will be here Sunday, 6/28)

All the other parts:

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

Here is Part IX

Here is Part X

Part XI

Cordelia stood in the center of her room back at her home in London. The walls were still adorned with silver paper, decorated with old Persian artwork that her grandfather had painted himself and given to Sona to decorate their house with to remind her of home. The four poster bed was turned down; a thin white vail hung from each poster. The only light in the room came from the enchanting blue flames that burned in the grate; though, Cordelia could not feel the heat from it and she seemed to be deathly chilled.

She couldn’t recall how she’d arrived there. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember much of anything before and searching for the memories was like hitting a tall, very broad wall whenever she tried. She studied the books on the walls, drawing her index finger along the delicate gold letters stamped into the spines of the leather, but they were all written in a language she couldn’t understand. The letters were familiar, but rearranged and jumbled around.

“Daisy?”

Cordelia turned around and her heart jumped into her throat at the sight of James standing in the doorway. He was dressed casually in a white button up collar shirt, black trousers, and navy suspenders over each of his shoulders. The shirt hugged the shape of his arms as he clasped his hands behind his back. The twists of his willful dark curls were pushed back away from his face, but still fell carelessly around his ears and grazed his neck. He smiled at her intake of breath and took a step closer towards her.

“James,” Cordelia sighed and stepped towards him. “James, I’m afraid something terrible has happened. I can’t seem to remember how I got here.”

James reached up and brushed a curl that had fallen from her braid back behind her ear. His calloused fingers grazed around the shell of her ear and down her neck sending prickles across her skin. His eyes were nearly solid black with just a circle of gold around the blown iris.

Before she could say anything, James drew her against him. His cheek pressed against hers, the skin already burning where they were connected. His mouth was not gentle, it became possessive and devastating in a way that she had never been kissed before.

Cordelia reached out and slid her hands over his chest so she could feel the rhythm of his heart against her palms.

There was fire everywhere, because he was everywhere. His hands traced her skin, burning it. His lips tasted every inch of her face. The bookshelf slammed into her back, but there was no pain. She couldn’t feel anything beside the burning.

Her hands continued to knot in his hair, pulling him towards her as if there were any possible way for them to be closer. With his help, she wrapped her legs around his waist, the wall giving her the leverage that she needed. The sound of fabric ripping was vague in her mind as his tongue twisted with hers, and there was no part of her mind that was not invaded by the insane desire that possessed her.

He pulled his mouth free and pressed his lips to her ear. “Cordelia.” It was soft, barely a whisper. “You must come back to me. Allow me the chance to win your heart properly.”

Cordelia gasped, it’s yours.

She wasn’t sure if she just thought the words or if she had said them, but before she could, his mouth captured hers again.

Her hands fisted around the fabric of James’ t-shirt, yanking it up from the hem of his trousers. She could feel the muscles of his stomach under her palms, her hands crushed between them. James’ pulse jumped; his hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back so he could access the fragrant delicate skin of her neck.

Her eyes fluttered closed as his tongue slid over the curve of her jaw.

Somewhere at the surface of her consciousness, she knew this wasn’t real. She knew it was only a memory. A way for her mind to torment her. Or maybe this was her judgement day; she was being forced to relive the most sinful moments of her past. If that were true, then the pleasure of the memory vastly outweighed the punishment.

He moved them away from the bookcase, half-carrying her, his mouth never leaving hers. He stumbled across the broad colorful rug, hands and lips frantic as he leaned over her on the bed. Cordelia arched upwards, her elbows supporting some of her weight, as James stepped away to shrug off his suspenders, letting them hang down from his hips.

When he came back to her, he picked up her bare foot and placed it on his shoulder, and began pressing light kisses to the inside of her smooth calf. Cordelia gasped, relishing in the new sensation and also terrified by it. Her empty hands clenched the thick down comforter as his lips traced a line up her inner thigh to her hip and continued over the fabric of her night dress.

All Cordelia could think to do was breath. Her mind felt cloudy as the heat and flames threatened to consume her to a point where it was almost painful. Beads of sweat formed along her brow and pooled in the dip at the base of her throat.

James continued to press sweet, delicate kisses up her stomach, over her breasts, and up her throat.

When he reached her ear, a voice that did not belong to James whispered into her ear. “It’s time to wake up, Miss Carstairs. There is still a need for you yet.”

Cordelia gasped and leaned away from James. His eyes remained wild and dark with desire but the color had changed to silver.

Cordelia screamed.

James grimaced at the sound of Cordelia’s screams coming from underneath the door. He’d been pacing the hallway for some time and was now standing outside the door with his forehead pressed against the cold wood listening to the blood curdling cries for help from the room inside. His hands tightened into fists at his sides to keep from reaching for the door handle again. He’d already failed several times and he didn’t want to risk Matthew and Thomas making good on their promise to tie him to a chair and lock him in there indefinitely.

“Why do you insist on torturing yourself like this?” asked Matthew, who sat across from Thomas on the floor. “We should all be getting some rest. None of us had any sleep last night and I believe it’s beginning to impair our judgement.”

“Go get some sleep then,” said Thomas without looking up from the spot on the floor that has held his attention for the last fifteen minutes. “No one is stopping you.”

“Tell me again, Thomas,” said Matthew accusatoryly, “what are you doing here exactly? You’re not particularly close to either of the Carstairs and yet you look about as distraught as James.”

“I’m just tired,” said Thomas.

“Precisely why we should all go get some rest.” Matthew reiterated. “We can’t do anything standing out here with little to no sleep. I suggest a quick hour nap and we reconvene in the game room with some fresh pastries and tea.”

Both James and Thomas looked to Matthew. Before either of them could say anything, the door to the infirmary opened and Brother Zachariah nearly stepped into James.

“Matthew is right,” said Jem and placed a scarred hand on James’ shoulder. “You should get some rest. Cordelia and Alastair have a long and difficult road ahead of them. There is no saying how long it might be or when the tide might change.”

“She’s in pain,” said James, his voice broke on the last word. “What are they doing to her to make her sound like that? She sounds like she’s getting worse, not getting better.”

Jem hummed in James’ mind. “She fractured two of her ribs and punctured a lung that slowly filled with her own blood that was compromised with demon venom from the tail of Diggoron demon. We have no idea how long it has been in her system, but long enough for it to spread throughout her entire body and compromise her heart.” Jem cupped James’ face with a scarred hand. “James, it is time to start preparing yourself—“

“James?” said his mother’s voice from behind him.

He looked over his shoulder to find her out of her night gown now and in a soft Oriental dress with her hair pinned back halfway. Her gloved hand held softly to Sona beside her. Their guest wore white as if she were already in mourning. The thought made James furious, but he put his head down and stepped out from in front of the door.

Sona held a handkerchief to her face. Her large round eyes, so similar to Cordelia’s, were rimmed with red. She clung to Tessa as if to keep herself straight and if she’d let go, she’d fall over instantly like a structure that has had its bottom half completely taken out from underneath it. She’d always reminded James somehow of a plastic bird, beautiful and elegant on the outside, but with even the slightest pressure she’d crumble apart. So unlike Cordelia, who appeared soft on the outside, but could withstand holding the weight of his sister for hours until help came. Who fought through the pain of a broken leg to help James escape his grandfather. Who stood up in front of their cohorts and peers and declared herself ruined to provide him with an albeit. She could not be easily crushed.

Tessa handed Sona to Jem who showed her inside. Before the door slid closed, James caught a quick glimpse of Cordelia’s hair spilling over the pillow: a shock of red against the white of the linens. Her face and body were hidden by Silent Brothers gathered around her.

“James,” said Tessa as she slid her hand over his shoulder. “Have you eaten anything? Have you had any rest?”

The door slid closed again just as Sona made it to Cordelia’s bedside.

“I’m not hungry,” said James and stepped out from underneath his mother’s hand to lean against the wall.

“You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

There was quiet and for a moment James thought that she had left which seemed so unlike his mother, but then her voice cut through the silence. “Matthew, Thomas,” she said gently, “why don’t you go to the kitchens and have some pork pies Bridget just made. I wish to speak with my son a moment.”

Matthew helped Thomas to his feet and the two left the hallway quietly.

Tessa came to lean against the wall beside her son.  It had never bothered James that his mother was perpetually stuck in a certain state that made them appear almost the same age, except for the intelligence behind her gray eyes that showed to the strength of her character. Her hair retained a youthful spring as it threatened to escape from its carefully pinned rolls. Her skin remained flawless without any threat of cracking. For a while, Tessa tried to dress in a manner that she felt made her look older. She went to beauty shops and allowed the artists to paint her face in makeup to appear more aged, and no one said anything to her, because she thought that it made her somehow ‘fit in’ with the other mothers that had been touched by time. The truth was that James had always thought his mother was the most beautiful first thing in the morning. When her hair would spill down her back and her face pale and not yet painted. When she would smother Lucie and him with kisses without fear of smudging their face with lipstick.

One day, not too long ago, she threw out all of her makeup and changed her wardrobe to dresses that she liked. James wasn’t sure what had changed and he never asked, but he was grateful. Even if the snide remarks returned about his mother's appearance from his peers around him. He’d fight anyone that turned a bad word against his mother. She’d never say if someone offended her; she’d barely bat an eye, but James would fill the Thames with anyone who tried.

“I know you must feel as if this is all my fault,” she said. “Most children hate their parents for normal reasons: they are too strict, they’re controlling or absent, they won’t buy the latest things. To add to all of those things, you and Lucie must resent us terribly for having children knowing that I am the child of a monster.”

“Mam,” James reached out and took her hand. “I don’t blame you for this. I don’t resent you or Da. You are not Belial. Believe me, you are the farthest thing from him. The only ones that I blame for what happened to Cordelia and Alastair is Belial and myself.”

“You?” Tessa tightened her grip on James’ hand. “What did you do?

James felt the quickening in his chest as the memory of Cordelia standing at the top of the stairs outside of Grace’s bedroom. The way the tears fell from her eyes when she told him how he’d broken a promise to her. A promise he’d intended to keep.

He knew almost immediately what his mother would say if he were to tell her what he had done to make Cordelia flee from the Institute that night. He knew that she’d try to console him by telling him that it wasn’t his fault. He was under the bracelet’s curse. He had nothing to feel guilty about. And she would be right.

But he didn’t want to feel better. He didn’t want to be absolved of his guilt just yet. Because his guilt fueled his anger and his will for Cordelia to live, so that when she did wake up, he could beg her for forgiveness. He could make her see that he wasn’t entirely himself that night.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was also a level of shame.

So he lied. “I should have gotten to her sooner. I should have been the one to go into the shadow realm, not Lucie. I should have killed Belial when I had the chance. I won’t fail next time.”

Tessa took a deep breath through her nose. “I’ll tell you what I told your sister. I don’t want you children involved in this anymore. Your father and I will manage it from here. We will conduct a search and find Belial. It is our responsibility, our burden, not yours.”

And as terribly as he wanted to give into the small child within himself and allow his parents to take the anxiety away from him, he knew that he could not. Belial wanted a fight. James would bring him a fight, but this time he’d be prepared to end it.