#and the new guard isn’t head and shoulders above the rest of the world anymore

[anna-pavlova]

twitter gymternet likes to go on and on about how simone has been “working on stuff” any time someone not from the usa gets any kind of attention and it’s so weird because like… everyone else is? do they think everyone else is just sitting at the gym looking at the equipment?

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 15: The Stray, Part I Next Chapter: Sixteen Summary: After a rough night, Arthur is persuaded to spend the day in town with his family. Warnings: Mature themes, innuendo Word Count: ~10,200 A/N: Thanks for your patience on this one, folks! I will be posting the second part of this as well, so stay tuned! :)

It’s late. You told yourself you wouldn’t wait up for him, but here you are. Everyone else, aside from Bill who guards the camp, has gone to bed, but even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. The fire keeps you company, with the stars above you as witnesses to your lonely plight. The log that you sit on isn’t as comfortable as you’d wish, but it beats standing, as you’d start pacing if your legs were free to move.

You reassured Isaac that he’ll see Arthur in the morning, and thankfully, with all the running and playing the children had done all day, they fell asleep just minutes after their head touched their pillows. Alice sleeps with her brother now, both are too big to share your cot anymore.

They’re growing so fast. And it pains you to admit it. If constantly worrying about feeding and clothing them didn’t make motherhood hard, watching them grow up and away from your protective grasp certainly does. Each day they inch closer to the harsh realities of this world you've all been thrust into, and that thought alone is enough to tighten the vice around your heart.

Alice is an exploratory creature, always waddling over to the most interesting thing. Any movement or new sound catches her attention and you’ve had to pull a fistful of grass and dirt out of her mouth on more than one occasion.

In another wrestling match with Alice and her determination to eat dirt, Abigail found it humorous. While you’re thankful for her help, her dismissiveness of your worries made you speak warnings at her. “You won’t find it funny in a few months,” you said.

You knew it hurt her, by the way her lips turned into a frown and how her hands rested protectively on her stomach. You quickly apologized, she forgave you, and you both moved on.

But still, you wish that you hadn’t snapped at her like that. You know the source of your frustration, but you can’t just get rid of it like dirt on your skirt.

You can still feel his hand on your jaw, the coolness from when he exhaled through his nostrils. You unclench your hands, feeling how clammy they are.

The fire crackles and sparks, biting at the chill air as your thoughts drift back to Arthur. Where is he now? Is he safe? The weight of these questions gnaws at your mind as you wring your fingers, as though that will rid them of the clamminess.

Bill's silhouette moves against the backdrop of the camp's perimeter, his broad shoulders and thick brows tight as he scans the trees. He'd look like a boar if he had a beard, his youthful face isn’t as quick to scare away any intruders.

You’ve started to wear your gun belt again. Since Arthur came back with a broken nose, you can’t help but wonder if the danger will travel much closer to home. What if you had lived on that ranch? What if the O’Driscolls had come galloping up here with guns blazing?

You want to be ready.

To keep yourself busy, you pull out your single-shot revolver, and use the end of your skirt to wipe it down.

The metal is cold and unyielding under the fabric, each wipe revealing more of its shining, trusted surface. You remember the last time you used it, on that tycoon back at Half Moon City. You scowl at the memory, and try to shake off the feeling of his hands on you, grabbing you.

You spin the cylinder, scoffing openly, reimagining the adrenaline you felt when you took his life. How relieved you felt.

You wish you could have put a bullet in Willy’s head.

“Who goes there?!”

Bill’s warning call alerts you and you snap the cylinder back in place. You rise to your feet, gun still in hand and, after fighting the temptation, you speedily walk to where Bill stands.

“Arthur and the rest of us!”

There’s no need for your weapon and you put it back in its holster as you begin to run. As you leave the glow of the campfire, you enter the darkness of night, barely making out the forms of horses and riders. You’ve decided that you’re going to wrap your arms around him. You don’t care who sees or how he may interpret it. You’re glad he’s back. You’re glad to see him again.

You see the tall figure dismount his horse, and just as he turns to face you, you leap into his arms. “Arthur…!”

His arms enclose around you, sturdy and unyielding, a fortress in the midst of wilderness chaos. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, hoping to inhale the familiar scent of tobacco, leather, and the faint trace of pine.

But you smell sweat, cinnamon, and something else…something sour. 

“I ain’t ever been called Arthur before, but…” The voice, so different and chilling, instantly makes your skin crawl. “ye can call me whatever ye want, lass…”

You quickly unwrap your arms and push off of the stranger, taking hurried steps backward as the man laughs warmly. “Ain’t my cup of tea, that what ye said, Dutch?” You still can’t make out the figure but his shadow is too imposing. “I didn’t take ye for a blind roaster.”

Arthur’s voice cuts through the night, sharp and commanding, "That's enough, Mac." 

You gasp, feeling relieved, embarrassed, and foolish as he strides forward from behind the group of dismounted riders, his presence like a sudden storm sweeping across the mountainous lands. That embrace was meant for him, and you feel it pointless to make another attempt.

His eyes lock onto yours for a moment, filled with a mixture of concern and something fiercer, something you’ve seen before. “You alright, darlin’?” he asks, and you hear the subtle snigger from Mac as he stands behind Arthur.

“Ooh…‘darlin’…” the stranger called Mac teases. 

You ignore him, keeping your eyes fixed on Arthur as you nod softly, feeling more at ease now that you can actually identify where he is. The darkness is broken by the sudden illumination of a lantern, held in Dutch's hand as he dismounts from his horse. With the light, you see John and another strange man who still sits astride his mount. “Who are they, Arthur?” you ask softly. 

And Dutch, wanting the pleasure of the introductions, speaks up before Arthur opens his mouth. “These are Mac and Davey Callander, they’re our new members. We’re climbin’ up in ranks, Ms. Bloom!”

Arthur's gaze rests heavily on the two newcomers, now named Mac and Davey Callander. They possess a wild look about them, yet their eyes glimmer with a reckless kind of charm that unsettles you. Arthur’s jaw tightens as he watches them, and you can tell he’s sizing them up, figuring out if they are really worth their salt. But Dutch seems to think so, his eyes haven’t sparkled like this in a while.

You fold your arms across your chest and take a step back. You don’t know who these men are, and if you can trust them. Uncle was the last man brought in, and while he was a pest, he was easier to deal with in terms of mischief rather than outright danger. But these Callander brothers, they are a different breed. Their smiles too sly, their eyes too sharp – like coyotes sizing up a meal.

Arthur finally speaks, his voice carrying a cold edge that’s hard to miss. "Eliza, why don’t I take you back to your tent?” He takes a step towards you, extending an open palm. “It’s late.”

You take Arthur's hand gratefully, feeling the rough calluses press against your own soft palms, a stark reminder of the harsh lives you both lead.

“‘Yer tent?’ Ye don’t share one?” Davey asks snarkily, his accent rolling into a cackle. Arthur growls, agitated, and walks faster as he leads you away from the men.

As you walk back to your tent, the laughter and Dutch’s voice fades into a dull murmur behind you. The night is dark, filled with the chirping of crickets and the sounds of night owls hooting their calls.

“Those men are…” you start to say, then feel a sudden shiver. “I don’t know about them.”

“Just stay close to camp,” Arthur replies. “Keep the children with you and Hosea.”

You nod, wishing that he would just hang around camp, but you know now with two new men, Dutch’s plans are only going to get bigger. 

You reach your tent and Arthur lets go of your hand. “I’m gonna go on guard duty for a bit, make sure those boahs behave themselves.”

“You are? Aren’t you tired?” You finally notice the drops of blood on his shirt, the unkempt look of his hair. “Did you get in a fight—?”

It is then that he lifts his hand, the warmth of his palm against your cheek startling you. It catches your tongue and holds your questions at bay. "Nothin’ for you to worry about, darlin’," he reassures you, his eyes like pools of the night sky.

"I should be with you," you say softly, the maternal instinct in you rising up, wanting to protect him as much as he protects you. But his laughter, low and gentle, pulls at your heart.

"Eliza, I'll be fine. You need to look after Isaac and Alice. They need their mama, even when you think they don’t." His tone is firm, but his eyes soften as he speaks of the children. “You’re a good woman, Eliza. The best.”

“But not good enough for you.” You let the internal thought slip out of your mouth and you hear Arthur’s breath hitch.

His expression tightens, a shadow falling over his rugged features as he processes your words. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath, the whispering leaves and distant laughter of the camp fading into a hollow silence.

"That’s just it, Eliza," Arthur's voice is low, strained with an ache that you almost recognize. He lowers his hand. “You’re too good for me.”

And before you can respond, he turns and walks away, his figure fading into the night. You think to call after him, but don’t for fear of waking up Abigail and Susan in the nearby tent and your children as they sleep just behind you.

You let out a frustrated sigh and turn around to enter your tent, the soft sounds of your children’s breathing greeting you.

***

It feels good to be alone. With the stars above him and the grass below, Arthur can let his mind clear out the stress and excitement of the day and feel the coolness of the rifle in his hands. While it can be boring at times, he doesn’t mind guard duty. When he was younger, he loathed it, as he didn’t find much purpose in standing in one place and watching for nothing to happen. There was no fulfillment in it.

But as he grew, and developed a sense of belonging, he began to see the pride in protecting one’s own. The lives that dwelled behind him counted on him for the first warning, the first line of defense, and it was all part of the great dream to live the life as they wanted. Free.

So that is what he imagines when he stands guard with a gun in his hand. While he finds more pleasure in going out and bringing back money, provisions, and perspective, there is most certainly no shame in standing as the silent sentinel under the moonlight, watching over those he considers family. The stillness of the night gives him time to think, and tonight, his thoughts wander invariably back to you. The ache in your voice when you spoke, the resignation—like you were something less than what you deserve to be. It is an ongoing question you ask him, and he doesn’t blame you. With these past few months, and the last five years, there has been the question of what you two are, and how can you make any of this work.

Is it just enough to work together to raise your children? Can one truly set their own emotions aside for the common goal of rearing up offspring?

The children are the product of love. He knows that. But love has only proven to be dangerous. He’s seen it time and time again.

Bessie and Hosea.

He and Mary.

Dutch and Annabelle.

And he and you.

That’s why he can’t tell you. Not until he's certain. Not until he can protect you and the children without a shadow of doubt hanging over his head; without the fear that his past, the very life he's lived, could one day claw its way to your doorstep and tear everything apart.

Arthur's musings are interrupted by the rustle of leaves near the edge of the camp. He tenses, instinctively shifting the rifle for a better grip, his senses sharpening as he scans the darkness. The moon is a thin sliver tonight, barely casting enough light to outline the distant trees. Another rustle, closer this time, and then the soft thud of steps on the ground. 

It’s quick, low to the ground. Certainly not human. He steels himself, ready for a quick of the draw, as the creature draws near.

And suddenly, into the small flicker of light, shines the copper-coated dog.

Arthur lets out a quiet exhale, lowering his rifle. “You again?”

At the sound of his voice, the dog perks his long ears and wags his tail nervously, unaware of the tension his presence initially caused. Arthur chuckles softly, the sound almost lost in the sweep of the night wind through the trees. “You follow me all the way to camp for some jerky?” He squats down and wiggles his fingers. “Come here, boah. I ain’t gonna hurt’chu.” The dog hesitates, his tail still wagging. He lifts his nose in the air, and, making the association of the scent he’s been tracking to the man before him, the dog bounds on over to Arthur. He rams into him, nearly knocking Arthur over and so the outlaw sets the rifle down carefully.

Arthur laughs, a rare sound that echoes faintly against the canvas of tents around them. "Alright, alright, calm down now," he says, rubbing the dog's head vigorously. The copper-coated canine rolls onto his back, paws flailing in the air with delight as Arthur scratches his belly. The moment of camaraderie between man and canine is a tender reprieve from the usual tension that clings to the air of the camp. However, as the dog settles into a more relaxed stance beside Arthur, the outlaw's mind can't help but drift back to earlier worries.

He eyes the shadows around the camp, his gaze hardened and weary. The Callander brothers, now settled in a lean-to at the edge of camp, are too easily trusted. They came following Dutch so willingly, and Arthur can’t help but wonder if they have another motive. Or is Dutch just really that persuasive?

Well, it didn’t take much for him to make the choice, when he was sixteen years old and living on the streets. But he had nothing to lose, considering all he had to his name were the clothes on his back and his father’s hat.

The dog wriggles under Arthur’s hand, growling softly to demand his attention.

Arthur chuckles again and gives the dog a final pat before rising to his feet, the weight of his concerns anchoring him back into the harsh realities of outlaw life. He scans the camp once more, the flickering firelight casting long shadows that dance across the dirt and canvas homes.

As dawn begins to break over the horizon, Arthur knows that guard duty is over. Soon the camp will be waking up and meeting the two newest members of the gang. Considering his task done, and his body finally beginning to wear down, he rests the barrel of his rifle against his shoulder and turns to walk away. “See you later, boah,” he calls to the dog and heads for his tent. 

Ducking under the canopy, he lazily undoes his gun belt, kicks off his boots, and sheds his jacket. He lets out a long groan as he lowers into his cot, slips his suspenders off his shoulders, and untucks his shirt. Too tired to undress down to his union suit, he lifts his feet and lays down on the cot, covering his eyes with the breadth of his right forearm.

The first rays of the sun begin to peer through the cracks in the canvas, casting lines across Arthur's weary face. If he can fall asleep before the first person wakes, he won’t be bothered all that much.

He’s always been a heavy sleeper.

***

The sun barely creeps above the mountains that guard the valley where the cabin rests. You could be in a deep sleep, but as soon as he makes a little noise, you wake straight up.

And as Isaac makes the tiniest whimper, your eyes open wide and you turn your head in the direction of his crib. You see a little hand raise up, evident that the little baby has wriggled free of his blankets. Wanting to let Arthur sleep, you ease out of the bed slowly and swing your legs over to the edge. The wood floor is ice cold and a small hiss escapes your lips. Biting your lower lip, you hurriedly put on your wool socks to make walking across the floor more bearable and carefully stand up. You hurry to the crib to your upset baby and take him in your arms. You don’t waste any time making it to the door and close the bedroom door behind you. With that task done, you make your way into the kitchen, which is only a few steps away.

You sit down and take Isaac to you to nurse, which eases his crying instantly. As you settle in the chair next to the wooden table, you look up through the window and watch the sun come up. You sigh and adjust your arms to free a hand and rub your tired eyes. You only have had a couple of hours of sleep each night. And even if you could sleep, Arthur had come late the night before, and you just had to stay awake to witness a beautiful moment between father and son.

You yawn again and feel your head grow heavy. You want to sleep, but you can't while sitting in the chair. You are also afraid to sleep with the baby in your arms. Perhaps when Isaac is fed, you can put him down long enough to rest for a short spell. But as usual, you always put the needs of others before your own.

You don’t know when Arthur will wake up. You want to make breakfast for him but lack the energy. You want to enjoy the stillness while the rest of the world is sleeping.

Suddenly, you hear Arthur shifting in the bedroom, every small movement amplified by the creaky cabin walls. You quickly adjust your robe and continue to nurse your baby, hoping that Arthur won't notice you’ve been up for a while. But as soon as he steps into the kitchen, he looks at you with concern, seeing the dark circles under your eyes and your sleepy expression. "You look tired," he says softly.

You smile weakly. "I am,” you admit. “But it's worth it."

Arthur nods, having somewhat of an understanding of what you mean. He walks over and kisses your forehead, surprising you, before taking a seat at the table. "Is there anythin’ I can do to help?"

You shake your head, still somewhat stunned by his affectionate display. "No, it's okay. I just need to rest a bit more."

Arthur nods again and watches you as you continue to nurse your baby. He can't believe how much love he feels for this little life that you created together. He never thought he could feel such intense emotion for anyone, but seeing you care for his child, seeing what your body can do, and now holding the little one, he begins to feel the emotions for you that he has spent the last eight months repressing. He is worried. He can’t let you see.

"So" he clears his throat. "How did you explain to people around here how you came to have a baby?"

You adjust yourself again and tuck some hair away from your face. "I told them I was a widow. That my husband died a few months ago."

Arthur nods, impressed by your reasoning. "That's for the best, then."

You can sense that Isaac is full for now and gently pry him away from your breast. He grunts with slight discomfort as you bring him to your shoulder and pat his back gently. He grunts again, trying to burp.

"I have been meaning to ask you something," you hum.

He takes his eyes off of his son, only spending a second on your exposed breast before meeting your eyes. “What is that?"

"I want him to have a full name."

He swallows. "You mean...like a middle name?"

"Yes. I thought...Isaac Arthur Morgan had a nice sound to it."

Arthur looks down solemnly as he thinks it over, but not too long before he shakes his head. "No. It don't feel right. I don't think I should be honored in that way."

You want to argue, but it has been challenging already to convince him that he is a good man, underneath the criminal exterior. You decide not to question his decision.

Instead, you shrug, offering another option. "Well, then what about my father's name? Charles? That was my second choice."

"Isaac Charles Morgan," he says aloud, letting it sink into his mind.

Isaac manages a good burp and you can’t help but smile. Continuing to support his head and bottom, you lower him back into your arms and cover yourself back up again.

Your eyes meet and Arthur's face breaks into a warm smile, his cheeks rosier than usual. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he gazes at you, making your heart flutter. "That does sound nice," he sighs, his voice soft and soothing like a gentle breeze.

You return his smile sweetly, but your eyes betray the exhaustion you have been trying to hide. They droop slightly under the weight of fatigue, but you refuse to let it dampen your happiness in this moment. "I think so too.”

***

It’s taken you longer to get out of bed than you normally do, your arms and legs feeling as though they’re filled with sand. Your movements are slow and timely as you put on a change of clothes and roll up your cotton sleeves. The last thing to go on are your boots and you notice the soles are finally worn down to the inner lining. Time to make a trip into town. 

Maybe you can make a nice day of it. Maybe Arthur will accompany you. He did say he wants you to stick close to camp, so the incentive to protect you just might persuade him. 

That puts a little pep in your step, as you find yourself more lively as you kneel on the floor beside your sleeping babies. You start with Isaac, placing your palm on his back and rubbing him in gentle circles. “Darling,” you start softly. “Time to get up now.” He doesn’t stir and you aren’t sure if it’s out of protest or if he’s really out cold. Isaac, unlike his father and sister, is a light sleeper like you, and normally it doesn’t take much to wake him. 

You wait a moment longer, watching Isaac breathe steadily, the peaceful rise and fall of his little chest almost lulling you back towards the realm of sleep where worries rarely follow. But the morning light creeping through the tent flaps is a reminder of a new day, a day filled with unknowns as well as absolutes.

You pat Isaac’s back a little firmer this time. “Don’t you wanna see Daddy?”

That’s when Isaac’s eyes open wide, a gleam of anticipation flickering through them as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. "Daddy?" he repeats, his voice heavy with sleep but brightened by the prospect.

"Yes, darling," you encourage with a soft smile, brushing back a tuft of his hair that had fallen over his eyes. "He came home late last night.” You comb your son’s hair with your fingers. “If we get all of our morning chores done, we can go into town and invite Daddy to go with us.”

Isaac's face lights up at the mention of town, his previous drowsiness vanishing like smoke. “Can Alice come too?” he asks eagerly, his eyes wide with the innocence and excitement only a child can possess.

“Of course, she’s coming, love,” you reply. “She’s big enough to travel in your arms, if you’ll hold onto her.”

Isaac nods enthusiastically, a sense of responsibility swelling within him as he considers the task of caring for his little sister. You watch him, pride warming your heart, before turning your attention to Alice, who is stirring gently her bed of furs on the floor.

“Morning, my sweet girl,” you whisper, lifting Alice into your arms. She stretches her legs before balling up again once you rest her against your chest. You rub her back, hugging her, and hum a soft little tune to gently wake her. “Isaac, go on and get dressed, alright? I’ll tend to your sister.”

Isaac hops out of his bedroll with a youthful zeal that you envy some mornings, and heads to the corner of the tent where his clothes are neatly folded. He picks up his brown trousers and white shirt—a bit worn at the edges but clean. You watch him struggle for a moment before he gets his arm through one of the sleeves and buttons it up. After slipping on his trousers, he stands proud of himself. “How did I do, Mommy?”

You smile at him and finish changing Alice. “All you need are your suspenders.” Putting Alice on your hip, you move about the tent and find the small wooden chest at the foot of your cot. Spotting his suspenders resting on it, you pick them up in one hand and give them to your son. He takes them and goes to work on putting them on. His fingers fumble with the clasps, but with a little guidance, he manages to secure them over his shoulders.

"There, now you're all set," you say, putting Alice’s shoes on as she sits in your lap.

Isaac beams, looking every bit like the little gentleman ready for a day out. Together, the three of you step out of the tent into the fresh morning air that sweeps across the camp.

You hear a gentle stirring as others begin to wake.  Ushering your son past Abigail’s tent quietly, you make your way to the stew pot. Finding it empty you take it in your free hand and carry it over to the butcher’s table. 

As you approach, you catch sight of Pearson, chopping away at a slab of beef. He looks up and greets you with a nod, his large hands momentarily stilling.

"Morning, Eliza," he says gruffly, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "I guess I beat you to it, huh?”

You smile. “I guess you did.” You set the stew pot on a cleared spot on the table and readjust Alice on your hip. “It’s just as well. I can cook something quickly for the children and take care of Farm Boy.”

Pearson’s brow lifts. “Oh? You goin’ somewhere?”

You nod. “Hoping to. I just need to talk to Arthur.”

Pearson smiles at Isaac momentarily before returning to chopping the meat. “He hasn’t left his wagon. Must be still asleep.”

You figured he would be, considering that he was up late guarding the camp. You aren’t sure how long he was out, but it must have been a while. “I’d hate to wake him.”

Pearson waves his cleaver in the air dismissively. “Oh, if it were anyone else wakin’ him up, he’d be fumin’, but for you?” He lets his question linger in the air a moment before meeting your eyes again. “It might be the nicest wake-up call a man could have.”

You cough nervously, caught off-guard by his remark. Taking a step back, you leave Pearson to his duties and head towards Arthur’s wagon, balance Alice on one hip and holding Isaac’s hand in your other. The camp is slowly coming alive; sounds of gentle stirring shift into the clattering of pots and low murmurs of early conversations. The sunlight bleeds through the trees, creating a kaleidoscope of golden greens like stained glass windows.

As you near Arthur's wagon, your heart flutters with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. Alice squeals excitedly, knowing the path that you are taking, and claps her hands.

“Dada!” she glees. “Dada!”

“Yeah, Alice!” Isaac cheers. “We’re gonna go wake up Daddy!”

You can’t help but smile, for you feel excited, too. You begin to imagine the day you’re going to have together, just the four of you walking about town, as though everything is completely normal. You like that idea. You like it a lot. You want so badly for a little escape, a retreat to even just pretend that you don’t live with a gang of outlaws.

Just as you stop in front of the wagon and reach for the canvas flap, you hear a soft growl from behind it. You freeze and take a quick step back.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Isaac asks. The growling grows louder, and Isaac turns his head in the direction of the sound. “What’s that?!” He squeezes your hand harder and shuffles on his feet, torn between fleeing or going in to investigate.

Alice, on the other hand, claps her hands again. “More! Mama! More!”

You place a finger to your lips, signaling Isaac to be quiet. His wide-eyed stare mimics your own caution. Holding Alice tighter, you lean forward slightly, trying to discern any further sounds beyond the growl. The tension is palpable; as tight as the grip is on your gun.

You’re tempted to call out for John or Hosea, but whatever is behind the canvas may have already had its way with Arthur. Everyone is completely oblivious that a wild animal waltzed into camp.

Could this animal have done Arthur in last night?

"Get behind me," you say and Isaac steps behind you, clinging at your skirts.

You decide to call for Arthur on a whim and with your gun held at the ready you take in a deep breath. “Arthur?!”

GROOOWLLLL!!! ARF! ARF! ARF!

“What the hell—?! Ahhh!”

Without waiting another second, you flip back the canvas and point your gun, and just before you pull the trigger you are overcome with confusion as you see Arthur on the floor being mauled playfully by a—

“A dog…!” Isaac screams excitedly. “Daddy, did you get me a dog?!” But before he can explore the answer, you hold him back by the shoulder.

“No, Isaac! That dog was growlin’ at us.”

The dog’s floppy ears perk up and he whips back around, resuming an aggressive stance. You train your gun on him, not willing to hesitate to protect your babies.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah!” Arthur quickly sits up and grabs hold of the copper-coated dog and pulls him back. “Easy, boah. What’s into you?” Arthur's voice calms the growling dog, who then begins wagging his tail uncertainly, still watching you with wary eyes. "It's alright, Eliza. Copper here is just a little protective, ain't that right, boah?" Arthur ruffles the dog's fur before standing up and dusting off his pants.

You lower your gun uneasily, still holding tight onto your toddler. “C-Copper?”

Arthur grins. “Why, shoah! Kinda fits him, don’tcha think?” He looks down at the dog. “Didn’t think he’d crawl into bed with me.”

You’re still catching up, shaking your head incredulously. “Crawl into be—?” you stammer, and you holster your revolver. “I had thought a wolf got you.”

Arthur’s smile falls and he sees the worried look on your face. “Hey, I’m alright, darlin’. Ain’t no wolves gonna—”

“I wanna go into town,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly. “I want to get away for a little bit. The children have been stuck in camp and I…” you blink and exhale sharply. “I need time away.”

Arthur's expression softens as he registers the strain in your voice. He nods slowly, understanding the unspoken fears that have been gnawing at you since the incident. "Alright," he says quietly, watching Copper amble past you and out of his shelter. "You want me to hitch Farm Boy to the cart?”

“I want you to come with us.”

He looks at you a moment, wrestling with your request. “Eliza, I got—”

“Come with us, Arthur,” you insist.

Arthur’s gaze lingers on you for a long, silent moment. It’s as if he’s weighing every possible outcome before finally nodding. "Alright, Eliza," he says softly, his voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. "We'll go into town together."

You sigh. “Thank you. I’m going to feed the children and then we can get a move on,” you say, trying to mask the excitement in your voice with practicality.

Arthur nods, his eyes still holding a trace of stress as he watches you turn and leave, Isaac trailing close behind.

“Can I pet the dog?” Isaac asks just as he is pulled out from under the canvas. 

And without missing a beat, Arthur hears a resounding no from your lips. 

***

After fixing the children a breakfast of venison and beans, you’re now ready to leave. You don’t care to change into your nicer clothes, your skirt and white cotton shirt with a jacket will do, but you do put a straw hat on your head and braid your hair in a single plait. Adjusting Alice’s bonnet on her head you walk over to the edge of camp where Arthur hitches Farm Boy to the cart.

He sees you coming as he lifts his head and runs a palm down Farm Boy’s back as he walks back toward the cart. “Told Dutch I was headin’ into town. He asked me to pick up a few things.” Seeing Alice on your hip his lips pull back into a smile. “Looks like she’s ready to go.”

You’re happy to see Arthur smiling, on account of the slight resistance he gave to even going on this trip with you. Maybe it can still be a good day, with little to no surprises in between. You look at your daughter and smile. “Yes, she is.”

Isaac has already hopped in the back of the wagon cart, finding his position in the front corner, and sits down comfortably. “I’m ready to hold Alice now, Mama!”

You did say that he could hold her, but the thought of the bumpy road makes you hesitate. "Why don't you wait until we're on smoother ground, sweetheart?" you suggest gently, hoisting Alice a bit higher on your hip as you step up into the cart.

Isaac frowns for a moment but then nods, understanding. "Okay, Mama."

Before you sit down, you feel a gentle hand support you at the waist. “Shoulda waited for me to help you up, Eliza.”

Happy that he can’t see you smile, you playfully retort, "And miss the opportunity to showcase my independence?" There's a lightness in your voice that seems to cut through the morning chill.

Arthur chuckles, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary before he climbs up to the driver's seat. "Guess you're right," he admits, reaching for the reins. Looking back towards camp, he sees Copper trotting toward the wagon. Knowing your uneasiness with the dog, he quickly waves him off. “Back, boah. No.”

Copper halts for a moment, tilting his head and lifting his front paw, before continuing towards the wagon.

Isaac sits up excitedly. “Can’t he come with us?”

Arthur sees the apprehension on your face, but you don’t say anything. 

Arthur looks at his son from over his shoulder. “I think he ain’t gonna listen either way, son.” And with a gentle flick of the reins, Farm Boy pulls forward and the cart begins to creak and rock as it rolls down the uneven trail out of the van der Linde camp. Arthur keeps a cautious eye on the twisting path, his hand steadying the brim of his hat against the cool morning breeze that sweeps through the valley.

Copper, undeterred by Arthur's earlier command, continues to trek along a few paces behind the wagon cart, much to Isaac’s delight. “Daddy, look! Copper’s followin’ us!”

You meet Arthur’s eyes with a worried expression and he offers a reassuring smile. “It’ll be fine, darlin’. He’ll probably get tuckered out and head back to camp.”

You find yourself hoping Arthur's right, watching Copper with a wary eye even as Isaac giggles, waving at the dog every time he glances back. The road becomes rougher, and your grip tightens on Alice, who, unbothered by the jolting wagon, rests her head against your chest and drifts off for a little nap. You notice that Arthur is taking a different road, in the opposite direction of the closest town and you pinch your brow. “Isn’t town that way?” you ask as you point eastward.

Arthur doesn’t meet your eyes. “Figured we check out a different town this time.” He says it almost like an apology and it dawns on you that must have been when he got in that fight.

“Oh,” you simply say and you leave it at that.

***

Mullein Springs could be easily described as a busy town. It takes a bit of skill and patience on Arthur’s part to navigate around pedestrians and other wagons before finally making a stop in front of the general store. It feels like a deja vu, when you were last in town with Abigail, and you feel a knot of tension tighten in your stomach. The streets are bustling with townsfolk going about their daily business, oblivious to the undercurrents that you and Arthur are acutely aware of.

Arthur sets the brake and loops the reins loosely around it with a sigh just as Copper leaps off the back of the wagon and trots off. “I guess he just wanted a free ride.”

“You don’t think he’ll get lost, do you?”

Arthur turns to look at you and grins mischievously. “What, you startin’ to warm up to the feller?”

When Copper leaped up on the back of the wagon halfway along the journey and you couldn’t bring yourself to command the dog off, not that he’d listen to you, anyway. You just could see how happy Isaac was, you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

So now, you suppose, that gives everyone the impression that you’ve gone soft for the creature. But you’re not ready to put all your trust in him yet. You offer Arthur a smirk. “No, I need more assurances than a dog following us into town.”

Arthur chuckles, rising in his seat to start his descent from the wagon cart. “Fair enough. At least let me help get you down this time.”

You don’t answer, instead turning about your waist to the back of the wagon. “Isaac, take your sister.”

Isaac, who had been quietly observing the locals, looks up and nods obediently. He scoots closer to Alice, whose tiny hands grip tightly to the edges of the wagon seat. Her big azure eyes, so much like her father’s, scan the bustling street with a mix of curiosity and unease.

“Gimme hug, pwease!” she calls to her brother. “Hug!”

He takes her from you and carefully sits back down in the wagon, knowing that will put your mind at ease. “Sure wish you’d just say my name, Alice. You can say everyone else’s.”

As Arthur helps you down from the wagon, his hand lingers on yours just a moment longer than would ever be required, and once your feet reach the ground, he still finds himself holding your hand.

You don’t mind, in fact, you’ve been finding yourself warming up to his touch more and more. Since Half Moon City, you’ve still felt so out of place, still leery of any sort of gesture. But you know deep down that Arthur would never be out to hurt you, or take advantage of you for his own pleasure or personal gain. You realize that you’ve been staring in his eyes for too long and, afraid to give yourself away, you gently pull your hand out of his. “You want to go inside the general store first? Get the essentials out of the way?”

Blinking, Arthur nods, clearing his throat. "Yeah, yeah, let's do that."

You watch as he quickly turns away, and you can't help but feel a pang of regret for pulling away. The tension between you two has been palpable from the very beginning, with many things unsaid. Though neither of you have spoken about it directly, that last night you two shared in Aspen’s Way had left an opening to your relationship that begs to be filled, or addressed. 

You go to the wagon cart and take Alice back into your arms. “Get out of the wagon, Isaac,” you say, and your son stands up and leaps out of the side.

Isaac lands with a slight thud, dust puffing up around his boots as he dashes towards the general store, eager to escape the confines of the wagon and explore. You follow at a more sedate pace, Alice clutched close, her head resting against your shoulder as she watches everything with wide-eyed wonder.

Arthur, resuming his casual demeanor, reaches the door first and opens it for you. You smile before stepping inside, your eyes first scanning for your son, and you quickly find him in front of the candy jars that stand for display at the front counter. You suppress a chuckle and make your way over to him.

Sensing your presence, he looks up at you over his shoulder. “Can I have some jellybeans, Mommy?”

Hearing of a potential sale, the store clerk approaches the counter, resting his hands casually on its wooden surface. His presence alone offers a little pressure, but you’re not one who gives in so easily.

“Ask your father,” you answer and you can hear the sound of his heavy footfalls behind you.

“Ask me what?” he asks in warm tones, and you can feel a gentle palm against the middle of your back. The shopkeeper looks up at Arthur, almost intimidated by his brutish figure.

“Your son wants some jellybeans,” you say, tilting your head slightly towards your son who is now eyeing both of you with hopeful eyes.

Arthur lifts his chin as he watches those pleading eyes, mirroring the doe-like innocence of his mother’s, and a small smile escapes his lips. He looks at the shopkeeper and points to the jar of jellybeans. “Get me a small bag of them beans, will you?”

The shopkeeper grins. “Be glad to, sir.” He moves over to the jar and grabbing a small paper bag, he opens the jar’s lid and uses a metal scoop to fill the tiny bag. Isaac does all he can to not jump up and down, having rarely ever received such types of sweet confections. “That’ll be ten cents.”

Nodding, Arthur reaches into his satchel for the coins and places them on the counter with a satisfying click. After folding the top of the bag over, the clerk reaches over the counter and hands it to the boy. “There you go.”

“What do you say?” you prompt.

“Thank you,” answers your son, his eyes never leaving the small bag in his hands. As he’s about to open it and dig in, Arthur places a hand on his shoulder. “Ah-ah! You’re gonna need to wait until you had a meal first, son.”

Isaac's face falls slightly, but he nods, understanding the rules set by his father. "Okay," he murmurs, clutching the bag of jellybeans a little tighter as if to assure himself they won’t disappear before he gets the chance to taste them.

Arthur smiles down at him, ruffling his hair gently before turning back to the clerk. “We need a couple of other things. Didn’t come all this way just for jelly beans.”

The store clerk chuckles, nodding his head. “What can I get you, folks?”

After requesting several provisions, new pairs of shoes for you and the children, and the things that Dutch wanted, the clerk carefully arranges items in large paper bags. Arthur pays for them without question and as you go to grab one of the bags with your free arm, Arthur stops you.

“Allow me.”

He takes the heavier bag from the clerk’s hands and nods for you to lead the way out of the store.

But on your way out, something catches your eye, and you stop in your tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks you.

And with your index finger, you point at a large, wooden tub. Just the thought of having a bath in a tub and not in a creek or lake sends a wave of longing through you. The tub, sitting there like a beacon of domestic normality in the wilds of your life, beckons irresistibly.

Arthur follows your gaze and chuckles softly, understanding immediately. "You want that, don't you?" he asks, his voice a mixture of amusement and tenderness. “Never thought you’d be so high-maintenance.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound mingling with the dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight pouring through the store windows. "Oh, Mr. Kilgore," you say, your voice laced with a weary playfulness, "after everything, a bath might just be the least I could ask for."

Arthur's eyes soften at that. You do have a point. Readjusting the bags in his arms he looks over at the store clerk. “How much for this here tub?”

The clerk rubs his chin, eyeing the wooden tub before answering. "Well, that's a fine piece, solid oak. I'd reckon about ten dollars, sir."

Arthur glances at you, his eyes gauging your reaction. Without a word, he gestures to his satchel with a glance of his eyes and you excitedly fish out the money.

Handing the crisp bills to the clerk, your heart flutters with an odd combination of relief and excitement. To think, a simple wooden tub could feel like such a luxury.

The clerk counts the money, never too trusting to miscount hard-earned cash. “I’ll have one of my boys put it in your wagon for you.”

Arthur grins. “Great. It’s the small cart and Suffolk Punch just outside.” And with that Arthur nods for you to lead the way outside again. “Have a good day, now.”

“You have a mighty fine family there, sir!” the store clerk calls to Arthur just as you all reach for the door.

There is something in the man’s words that radiates warmth inside Arthur. Something that feels exciting, almost, but he can’t quite place it. He sees the flicker in your eyes, and the hesitancy in your movements, as though asking for him to indulge in the man’s assumption, if just for a little while.

Arthur looks back at the clerk and nods his appreciation, a subtle smile softening the typically hard lines of his face. "Much obliged," he responds, as he holds the door for you with his elbow. Outside, the air has increased its warmth, and the town bustles with midday activity—horses and carts moving along, folks nodding at each other as though none could ever be strangers. It reminds you of Low Falls and you find yourself missing it.

“Let me put these things in the back of the wagon and we can continue shoppin’,” Arthur says to you as he retraces his steps back to Farm Boy.

“Are you worried that someone will take them if we leave them like that?” you ask as you and Isaac follow. “I’m not so sure—”

Arthur reaches the wagon and as he sets the paper bags in the back, he lifts his brows in surprise momentarily before grinning. “I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

He motions for you to come over. Curious, you walk around to the back of the wagon only to see Copper lying there, panting heavily with a ring of sausages in front of him.

“Oh! You little thief!” you chide.

Copper only barks once before biting one of the sausages, almost defiantly.

Arthur cackles loudly. “Well, he fits right in with us, don’t he?”

You gasp, and swat him on the shoulder. “You stop that.”

Arthur's laughter fades into a chuckle as he strokes Copper’s head, the dog wagging his tail in contentment, oblivious to the minor faux pas he has instigated. You can’t help but smile too, despite your mock frustration. Isaac giggles beside you, tickled by the whole scenario.

“Alright, while Copper guards our goods, let’s check out somethin’ I saw while comin’ in.” Arthur holds his hands out to Alice, offering to take her. Not above letting your arms rest for a bit, you hand her over, watching as she settles comfortably against her father's chest. Arthur’s rough exterior softens visibly with Alice in his arms, a testament to the tenderness buried beneath his outlaw facade. 

“What is it?” you ask.

The mischievous look he gives you indicates he isn’t about to tell you. “Just come on,” And he offers his free arm for you to take it. You hesitate, but link your arm with his and offer your free hand to Isaac. Happy to join the entourage, Isaac giggles as he takes your hand, and Arthur leads you back down the street.

As you walk through the bustling streets, the sounds of commerce and conversation envelop you. You can't help but feel a bit more secure with Arthur by your side, his presence a silent vow of protection. You pass by other pedestrians, who smile and some of the ladies coo at your adorable children. You feel a sense of pride at the moment, rarely ever letting yourself feel something other than worry or a sense of duty. It is nice to just walk down a street with your family, to allow yourself to believe that this is how you all regularly spend your free hours. 

You pass by a restaurant and some other buildings and begin to grow more curious. “I didn’t notice anything this way when we came in,” you comment.

Arthur looks at you with a clever sideways glance. “That’s why you’re not the outlaw of the family.”

You gasp again, worried that someone has heard him. “Tacitus!”

He chortles. “Oh, we’re usin’ aliases now?”

“I want a different name!” Isaac chants in a conspiratorial whisper. “Can I have one, please?”

“Oh, you’ve done it now…” Arthur chuckles at your expense before kissing his daughter on the cheek. “We’ll call you Elizabeth, for posterity,” he says to her.

“It tickly, Dada!” she giggles.

“Then I’m Charles!” Isaac insists, letting go of your hand and jogging in front of Arthur. “Okay, Daddy?”

“Shoah, Charles Kilgore.” He lifts his head and spots the building that he noticed on the way into town and smiles. “And it’s a good thing, too, ‘cause we’re here.” He juts his chin towards it and you follow its direction, seeing the small establishment at the end of a strip of buildings. A wooden sign swings at the end of two cabled hooks and it reads—

“Photographer?” You look at Arthur and the grin on his face hasn’t left. “You want to get your picture taken?”

“My picture? If I wanted that, I could go by myself any time.”

He means your picture. The children’s faces immortalized on tin type. You pull your arm out from Arthur’s, your heart racing a little. “The children, fine, but me? Oh, Arth—Tacitus, my hair isn’t done up nice or—”

“Darlin’.” The tone in his voice shuts you up instantly and Isaac immediately stops jumping around excitedly. “When we grow old and die, they ain’t gonna remember how your hair looked.” His eyes fall on the children before returning to you. “You know what I mean?”

You hear the hidden meaning in his words. Simple words, but profound and rooted deep in the soil of family and memory. Yet, there’s a tremble in your heart—a fear not just of the photograph, but of what it signifies. A permanence, a marker in time that can't be erased as easily as footprints on dusty trails.

Arthur senses your hesitation and his hand finds yours, squeezing gently. ”It will be somethin’ you can have in your tent, or a keepsake in your trunk. I just think it…” He lets his voice trail off. He’s done all he can to make his point, to try to convince you. At the end of the day, it is up to you.

“Okay,” you sigh after another minute or two. “Let’s get our picture taken.”

***

“How about this one?” The photographer asks after the backdrop lowers. “It’s our most popular selection.”

“That’s what you said about the last two,” Arthur says under his breath, and you resist the urge to smack his arm. Isaac also had heard his remark and chuckles to himself.

But you do like the backdrop. It is a homestead scene, with a small cabin and farm animals painted just behind where you and your family will stand. It feels fitting, almost like it's part of a dream you once had—a peaceful life, away from the dangers and the running.

Well, you did have it, once. And you won’t let that dream die.

“I like this one, Tacitus,” you say to Arthur as your fingers mindlessly play with Isaac’s hair. Maybe it would have been fortuitous to get his hair cut before having your photograph taken.

Arthur, hearing your decision, nods to the photographer. “This one’ll do.” He can see why you would have picked this one and he can’t help but feel a little somber at the choice. He knows you long for home, but he will give it to you. Just a little bit longer and he’ll get you a nicer house, a nicer homestead, better than any you could have ever imagined.

Maybe something like that ranch where he had found that book. Maybe with several bookshelves and rooms with all the odd trinkets and windows that you want. He smiles at the thought, hope rising in his chest.

“An excellent choice!” The photographer agrees, undoubtedly repeating it to all of his customers. Setting the backdrop in place, he approaches you and your family, hands excitedly clasped together. “Alright, for posing…” He takes Arthur by the arms, navigating around Alice, and guides him over to one of the chairs sitting just in front of the backdrop. “You sit here with your baby daughter in your lap.”

Arthur lowers himself into the chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he gently settles Alice onto his knee. Her little hands immediately reach for his satchel at his hip and he gently removes it and sets it on the floor, out of reach, with a chuckle. “You little thievin’…” he catches himself, knowing how you’d react to such a comment, and disguises it with another laugh instead.

The photographer has already made his way back over to you and Isaac and is now coaching the boy. “And you, young lad, you are going to stand just behind…” Guiding Isaac by the shoulders he maneuvers him behind the other chair, having him stand just in between it and the one Arthur is sitting in. “Right here.” Satisfied, he whips around and meets your eyes. “And of course, the matriarch!” He gestures to the empty chair with a flourish. “Your seat, madame.”

You approach the chair with a nervous smile, feeling the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders. You ease into it slowly and avoid Arthur’s gaze, but you can’t deny that his attention on you is pleasing.

“Okay, you boy, place your hand on your mother’s shoulder like…just like that. Perfect!” Satisfied once again, the photographer hurries over to his camera, the large black box such an ominous contraption, and he hides beneath the black cloth draped over it like a shroud. His voice, muffled by the fabric, instructs with excitement, "Hold still now, this will just be a tick!"

The air in the room hangs thick with anticipation and the faint smell of chemicals used for developing the photographs. You feel Isaac's small hand rest on your shoulder and instinctively you reach up and place your hand above it, a loving gesture, unprompted, but it feels right.

And the photographer must approve, for he doesn’t pause his work or say anything at all before he raises his flash powder lamp. “Alright, ready? One big, happy family!”

POOF!!!

A quick burst of light and you try your best to stay still. Isaac exclaims excitedly at the light and Alice begins to squeal.

“Is that it?” you ask, searching for the photographer amongst the puff of gray smoke that fills the room.

“Yep!” you hear him say. “I will bring you the results in just a moment! You just sit tight!”

As the smoke dissipates, the photographer busies himself in the next room with his mysterious work, leaving you to mull over the moment. The sensation of being frozen in time, even if only for a second, lingers uncomfortably, like a dress too tight at the collar. You glance at Arthur, trying to read his expression as he rises from the chair. “I’m gonna take Alice outside for a moment. This smoke is makin’ me nervous.”

“Smoke making you nervous? I thought that was common in your line of work.”

His eyes narrow at you, but a playful grin remains on his lips. “Funny.” And he makes his way for the front door.

“I’m comin’, too!” Isaac calls out and hurries after his father, leaving you alone in front of the homestead backdrop.

Rising from the chair, you wave away the smoke as it rises to the ceiling and now that the air has cleared a little bit, you begin to peruse the other photographs that the photographer has taken, each one carefully hung on the walls, you’re surprised there’s any room left.

As you walk steadily along the adjacent wall, your eyes catch glimpses of other families, their poses staid and serious beneath the harsh hand of this revolutionary art form. The lighting creates deep shadows on their faces, etching out a starkness that seems to hold within it all the hard edges of their lives.

And now that you will soon be one of those people on the wall, the camera lens feels like it captures more than just the image; it's as if it sees into the soul, preserving this fragile peace you've managed to stitch together in a world that often seems hell-bent on tearing it apart. At least now there can be a sense of preservation, a treasure that you can hold close and look at whenever times are hard, as you are sure there will continue to be.

You must have been looking at the photographs for a long time, for the photographer returns with the resulting photo on a tin plate, his hands careful as he presents it to you. “Where did your family go?”

You blink, startled. “Oh! They went outside in the fresh air.”

He shrugs. “No matter, usually the mother has the final opinion on these matters, anyway.” He gently places the image in your hands and steps back to give you a moment to look at it. “Well? What do you think?”

The image is still, frozen, almost haunting in its clarity. Arthur, with his rugged features softened by the dim light, sits as he protectively holds close to Alice, who clutches at his arm. Isaac's youthful exuberance is captured in an exclamation, a rare moment when he is actually still and not asking question after question.

And you, you haven’t really seen what you look like since you saw your reflection in Susan’s mirror. You look older, not in a bad way, but wiser, with lines of experience etched lightly around your eyes and mouth. There's a look of quiet strength in your posture that surprises you—a resilience wrought by years of trials and moments of fierce joy. In that frozen frame, you see a woman who has fought bitterly to protect her family, sitting beside a man whose life has been anything but calm and tranquil.

Arthur is very handsome. Strong at 31 years of age, his whiskers trimmed for once, his eyes intense and confident. It was as though he was born to be in front of a camera.

You have forgotten the photographer was even there up until he presses you again. “Well?”

You lift your eyes, meeting his eager expression with approval. “It’s going to be an heirloom one day,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

Thank you for reading! :)

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

[sameheart-sameblood]

All To Myself

(gif by @captainrexs​)

pairing: captain rex x f!reader

summary: bath time with rex usually means trying to get him to relax, but tonight it's your turn to let him help you out

words: 3.1 k

warnings: 18+, smut, bathtime shenanigans (f receiving), rex being the giver we all know he is

a/n: this is purely self-indulgent as i love baths. i would give up all my earthly possessions to take one with rex. this is my first attempt at smut (which is probably obvious lol). kind of didn’t want to release this but got tired of it staring at me whenever i opened word

read on ao3!

Your evenings were usually spent alone. At first, that had bothered you. Rex had come into your life and you wanted nothing more than to be in his presence. The calmness and kindness he exuded was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Being around him made you crave his presence all the more, like spice coursing through your system. You knew his job meant he was needed off planet most of the time. But was it really too much to ask that you see him occasionally while he was back on Coruscant? 

As your relationship went on, you got used to it. Being numb to the canceled dinners and missed special occasions was just what seemed in store for someone who loved a captain in the GAR. Which is why you barely batted an eyelash when he had commed you earlier in the day, rushing an apology about not being able to see you that evening. You might be resigned to the fact that Rex’s life was his job but it still didn’t make it easier to stomach the thought of another night alone. 

The two of you had planned an evening on the town, dinner and dancing. Well, at least you dancing while Rex swayed self-consciously next to you. He hated it and yet he never tried to talk you out of going. It was one of the many things you loved about him. It was these things you remembered when your loneliness got the best of you. So what if Rex couldn’t always be around? Whenever he was with you he made you feel like the only person in the world. 

You contemplate calling your friends to see if they’d like to join you for your planned activities. But you’re feeling sorry for yourself and if you can’t be with Rex, then you’d rather just be by yourself. You decide to keep things simple and take a bath. The thought instantly puts you in a better mood. It’s one of your favorite past-times. 

******

When Rex had first seen your bath routine, he’d been in shock. As someone who was usually only afforded about two minutes to bathe, the thought of taking an hours long bath blew his mind. You’d insisted he try it for himself. He watched as you drew him a bath of his own, adjusting the temperature just right and properly dissolving a few handfuls of epsom salts. 

Before leaving him, you’d dimmed the lights, lit a few sweet smelling candles and turned on some light background music. Lowering himself into the tub, Rex thought the experience might be alright. But after a minute, he was ready to get out. He had tried to understand it, really he had. But as someone always on the go, he couldn’t easily relax, constantly fighting the feeling he should be doing something. 

He didn’t begrudge you taking your baths. After all, he saw how happy they made you and he wanted nothing more than to see you content. But for a soldier, the experience felt like an indulgence he didn’t deserve. 

He had shyly called you back into the bathroom. “I don’t think I’m doing it right, love.” You’d gone in to find him sitting there, looking confused, as if expecting something more to happen. “There’s no wrong way to take a bath, Rex.” Sitting down next on the edge of the porcelain, you’d motioned for him to keep trying. He’d sat back, shoulders tensed towards his ears, staring straight ahead, eyes wide, his whole body on alert. 

You had to stifle a laugh as you watched. “Ok, apparently you have found a wrong way to take a bath.” He’d looked so forlorn at his failure that you had no choice but to shed your clothes and get in, taking a more hands on approach to showing him how to relax. He’d liked baths much more after that…

******

Easing yourself into the water makes you instantly relax. Knowing you’ll most likely spend the rest of the night in here, you make sure to get everything prepared that you might need. Feeling cheeky, you also bring over of your favorite vibrator. You’re not going to be getting any from Rex tonight, so might as well try to have some fun. 

You get to catch up on the book you’re reading, feeling satisfied when you finish the last page. Settling back, you let your mind wander, hands playing at the surface of the water. An accidental glide over your breast sparks something in your belly. You pause, then do it again, imagining it’s Rex’s larger, calloused hand teasing you. You grab the vibrator, placing it next to you. 

Before you delve in, you turn the water on to return some of the warmth the bath has lost. 

Over the roar of the tap, you don’t hear the door open. Someone clears their throat and you whip your head towards the noise. Rex greets you, shoulders slumped with fatigue. “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to scare you.” 

And you must look scared too, you’re eyes double their usual size. You glance at the vibrator, wondering if you have time to hide it. Rex isn’t against your use of toys, in fact he encourages them. But you’re still embarrassed at being caught just about to put it to use. He follows your eyes, his own widening slightly. 

“Ah, so it was going to be that kind of bath?” He chuckles, expression darkening slightly as you squirm under his gaze. He just stands there, looking at you. Oh, he’s actually expecting an answer. “Well, I just figured, you weren’t going to be home, and I was bored and lonely and…” 

You’re rambling now but you can’t stop, even as you watch him slowly remove his armor. He does so tantalizingly slow, nodding along with mock sympathy as you continue. 

“I thought I would be alone for the night and I missed you so much, Rex, honey, I miss you.” 

His face softens at your wavering tone, your sincerity written all over your face. He finishes stacking his armor neatly in the corner. “I missed you too.” He strips out of his blacks, folding them as you openly gawk at him. He allows himself a smirk at your neediness. Finally ridding himself of his clothing, he kneels down next to the bath. He runs his thumb over your cheek. “I’m here now. You don’t need to be lonely anymore.”

That night you had first introduced him to proper bath-time, you’d sat behind him, guiding him on just how to really relax. But tonight, he wants you to be taken care of. He motions for you to scooch forward, then sinks in behind you, groaning softly. You settle into each other, just reveling in the closeness for a moment.

Rex exhales a ragged breath and you feel some of the tension go out of his body. “Tough day?” He pulls you closer, your back pressed to his chest. “Just the usual. Nothing I can’t handle.” You know him well enough now to hear the pain in his tone. He feels you tense, knowing you want to ask him to elaborate, always trying to solve his problems. Rex rubs your arms slowly, soothing you “Not to worry. Everything’ll be fine.”

Rex’s hands continue their hypnotic rubbing. Up and down, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You allow yourself to relax once again but don’t let the matter drop. “You had a long day, Rex. Let me help you unwind.” You try and get out of the bath so you can switch places. But he’s having none of it. He holds you gently in place. “Taking care of you will help me relax, love.”

When you had first gotten together and he would say these kinds of things to you, it was hard to believe him. Could he truly be this selfless? It felt in some way like you were taking advantage of him. As your relationship progressed, you’d come to see that he truly meant things like that. Rex had many love languages but his favorite was acts of service.

Sighing in defeat, you settle back against him. He chuckles at your small sounds of mock protest. Rex nuzzles his face into your hair, inhaling your familiar scent of pine and Alderaanian blossoms. For a moment, he breathes you in, forgetting about the world. But as his eyes slowly open, he’s greeted by the sight of your long abandoned vibrator. Rex reaches for it, toying with it. You see what he’s doing and turn towards him. “It’s ok. I’m fine. Let’s just lay here.” 

Your captain may be tired but he’ll be damned if he doesn't fall asleep knowing you've been satisfied. “That’s right. You just lay there. Let me do the work.” The tiny thing clicks on, a buzzing filling the room. Rex lowers it into the water, the vibrations sending out tiny ripples. He pauses hovering above where you need him most. 

“What do you think of when you use this?” You’re so caught off guard by the question that you only let out a confused garble. He gives your thigh a squeeze, chuckling at the state you’re already in. “I haven’t even started yet, love. Use your words.”

After that, there’s no hesitation. “You.” The word comes out in a needy rasp. Rex is right. He hasn't even touched you yet and your body is already wound up so tightly in anticipation that you’re sure you might combust at any moment. “It’s always you, Rex.” You can’t see but his face softens, still so surprised someone would ever care for him like that. 

He rewards you with a lingering kiss on your shoulder and lowers the toy to your already swollen clit. You jolt at the sensation, body automatically trying to get away from it. Rex’s free arm tightens around you, forcing you to stay still and power through the first few seconds of overstimulation. You’re still whimpering, but you soon relax, leaning your head back onto his shoulder. 

He studies your face, your eyes screwed tight and mouth slightly agape. “Is this what you needed?” All you can do is nod but he prompts you to continue, rubbing the vibrator slowly up and down through your folds. Gasping at the new sensation, your eyes pop open to meet his. “I-I…” The arm that had been holding you tightly against him loosens. His hand moves to your breast, massaging gently.

It’s been so long since you’ve had time to take things this slow. Usually he’s only got a few minutes free, leaving time for a rushed rendezvous and nothing more. But tonight you have him all to yourself. No comms beeping to steal his attention, no duty calling him away. It’s as if there’s nothing outside of these four walls and you know it’s an opportunity that won’t come along often. 

Your head lolls to the side as he continues his ministrations. The coil in your belly is tightening quickly but you fight against it, needing something different. Your voice eventually resurfaces, your words on the tail end of a moan. “I- I need you!” Urging life back into your limbs that have since turned to jelly is difficult. But you manage to move your hand to cover his, clicking off the vibrator. 

Rex stills for a moment, trying to figure out what he’s done wrong. Turning your head to look at him, you see his confusion. You reach up to stroke his face, eyes pleading with him. After a moment, you see him understand. It’s something you always want, without fail. He smiles down at you, leaning over you to gently press his lips to yours. 

The vibrator is quickly abandoned on the side of the tub. With both hands free, Rex can really touch you, hands roaming about at his leisure. You sigh contently as his rough fingers trail along the sides of your body, then upwards to tease your nipples. The embers in your belly that had dimmed slightly are now burning brightly once again. He senses this and lowers a hand to your clit. 

At first, he just runs his fingers through your folds. He doesn’t mean to tease, he just hasn’t been able to feel you, to truly appreciate you in so long. But your whine pulls him out of his trance and he begins to rub circles that leave you gasping for air. He begins slowly, making sure you're happy with the direction things are going. 

Rex holds in his chuckle as he peers down at you. Your head has once again tipped back against him. But now, your face has gone slack, no tightness or tenseness to be found. Only pleasure. His free hand moves between your breasts, squeezing, massaging and tugging, making sure neither is neglected. He sees just how much your chest is heaving and decides to give you your reward. You’ve been so patient for him. 

His hand tugs at your thigh, pulling you out of your daze. “What are you - “ He lifts your leg and hooks it over the edge of the tub, spreading you wider for better access. You moan pitifully as the hand that had been rubbing circles delves back in. There’s so much more of you he can touch now and it makes you tremble. He beams down at you proudly, seeing how much this slight change is bringing you closer to the edge. 

You're tensing under him, back beginning to bow. Your sudden movement brings attention to his erection that’s been slowly growing. He can’t help when he automatically begins to grind against you. But Rex knows you well enough now to realize he only has a few more seconds before you're toppling into oblivion. His release can wait. 

Abandoning your breast, his hand slides up to your neck, applying the slightest pressure. You keen at the feeling. It’s not a show of dominance. It’s Rex reminding you that he’s there for you, a comforting presence that makes you feel perpetually taken care of. 

You twist your neck so you can gape up at him. The hand on your clit continues it’s work, doubling down its efforts. Throughout the experience, you’d been gripping the sides of the tub for dear life. But now, you bring one up to cover Rex’s hand that’s enclosed around your neck. Even through your haze of lust, your heart aches at the pure love radiating from his eyes. 

You're too far gone, unable to form words. All you can do is moan and hope he can decipher it. If you weren't in such a compromising position you would have to laugh. Asking someone to be able to decipher your desires without words. But thankfully Rex knows you like the back of his hand. He knows what you're asking, what last thing you need to make you let go. Loosening his grip on your neck, he uses it to hold your face, crashing your lips together. 

The kiss doesn’t break, even as you writhe under him. You try to turn away from him as you come, but he holds you to him, needing to feel you as much as you needed to feel him. The water is sloshing over the sides of the tub, your once full bath almost halfway empty. Rex breaks the kiss, letting the aftershocks of your release play out. 

He rubs soothingly against your thighs, watching as you twitch. You collapse onto him, finally beginning to break through the fog. The ability to form a coherent sentence seems to have left you. All you can manage is a weak sigh of his name. It’s the only thing you can remember and, in all honesty, you’d die a happy woman if that was the only thing you could utter for the rest of your life. 

“Was that what you needed, love?” Rex nuzzles into your neck as you chuckle. “Apparently more than I realized.” The rubbing at your sides pauses. You look to Rex to see what’s wrong and find his face twisted with guilt. “This isn’t right. If I can’t give you the attention you need then I don’t deserve you.” This isn’t the first time you've had this conversation and you're sure it wont be the last. 

But you’re happy to reassure your lover, as many times as you need to. “You give me everything I need, Rex. You’re smart, brave, funny, kind, supportive, sexy.” He lowers his eyes at the last word, smiling demurely. “I don’t know how I got so lucky. You give me everything and so much more. And I mean, if you don’t believe me, just look.” You laugh, gesturing at your bathroom, now in a state of disrepair, water on the floor, shampoo and soap bottles scattered, candles burnt down to messy puddles. 

Rex chuckles but looks contrite, rubbing his neck shyly. “Guess we got a little carried away.” He’s already made you come once, and spectacularly at that. But just the sight of him has those butterflies in your belly stirring to life again. You bat your eyelashes. “Now will you let me take care of you?” He closes his eyes, sighing tiredly. His cock, still hard against your back is evidence enough, but his muscles sag with fatigue.

“I want you more than anything. But I think I have just enough energy to clean this mess and then fall into bed.” Shaking your head, you gently extricate yourself from his arms. You stand on shaky legs as you hold out your hand for him. “Everything else can wait. Let me show you how much I missed you, Captain.” 

His eyes widen, lust beginning to cloud his gaze. You don’t use his title often, knowing how riled up it gets him to hear the word fall from your lips. But you need the big guns tonight, refusing to leave him wanting. Rex grabs for you and lets you lead him through the ruined bathroom and into your bedroom. 

He takes one last look at the state you’re leaving the room in. “But we should really clean this…” You lead him to the bed and softly push him down on to it. He looks up at you with doe eyes as you straddle his hips. “We will, honey. But no sense cleaning up now when we’re just about to make another mess.”

[bastillewolf]

It’s More About Looks Than Skill (X)

Pairing: Ryuk/Reader

Summary: Ryuk finds himself gaining feelings for Light Yagami’s best friend, but she doesn’t know he exists. When he makes the grave mistake of touching her, he makes things a lot more complicated.

Notes: New year new chapter, but let’s hope I update more frequently than that now lol. Please leave me a kick in the ass so I stop procrastinating, thanks! And also big thank you to the immense support. Love you guys <3

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list! If I wasn’t able to tag you, please check your settings and send me another ask.

Chapter X

She really couldn’t help herself. What sane person wouldn’t start screaming the second they hopped onto a Shinigami’s back and started flying? She clung onto Ryuk’s neck for dear life, her legs wrapped around his middle while his wings flapped them higher and higher until they’d reached a thick level of fluffy clouds with the dark sky above them. There, the wings stopped flapping, and she found herself gliding through the air, her hair being pulled back by the gentle breeze. She realized how harshly she was squeezing Ryuk, and quickly loosened her grip to a point that she was still comfortable she wouldn’t be able to accidentally let go.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured in his ear. It was actually very beautiful, now that she took a good look around her. Below the white, she could see all sorts of lights from the city flickering through, as if they were mirroring the stars above.

“I can take it. I just wasn’t expecting you to scream, is all,” Ryuk replied gently, “I thought you wanted to fly?”

“Y-Yes, I did. It’s just… a lot scarier than it looks. I don’t have wings, so rationally if I let go I would definitely not survive. I think even L could confirm that with percentages and a graph.”

“Rationally I would catch you. I’m heavier, I fall faster than you. You would be saved before you could say ‘Shinigami’.”

She chuckled, “Rationally I wouldn’t count on that. Maybe I don’t trust you. Rationally.”

He turned his head slightly, but she was still unable to see his facial expression from her position on his back. However, it became rather apparent through the sad note in his voice when he spoke. “You don’t trust me?”

She quickly shook her head, “No, I’m sorry Ryuk, that’s not what I meant. I mean that I should rationally not count on you catching me if I fall. I made the decision to hop on your back, thus it is my responsibility to take responsibility for my actions and face the consequences. If I fall, it would be my mistake.”

“Even if it were, I’d still catch you. I’d always catch you.”

She felt a sense of ease wash over her, along with a tingle in her stomach, but she wasn’t quite sure what that meant. She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder, and breathing in a waft of fresh air that dragged along a hint of Light’s cologne. “How come you’re never this nice to Light?”

Ryuk chuckled dryly. “Because he’s not you.”

He felt a blush coat his cheeks when he felt her hands running along the feathers of his wings in a slow, gentle manner. She kept doing this until they’d landed, and then proceeded to latch onto his hand after they’d landed in the back of an alleyway.

Even if you do not actually possess the Death Note, the effect will be the same if you recognize the person and his/her name to place in the blank.

Ryuk was in love. There, he could finally say it. He’d been on a date and now he could say he was in love. He was slightly hunched over so the girl could hold his hand without people noticing at her side, but not for one second did he feel an ache in his back. All he could think about was the way she’d clung onto him, how she’d touched him, how sweet she’d sounded muttering nothings in his ear while she stroked his feathers. Affection wasn’t something that came naturally to him, Shinigami’s never really deemed such thing necessary. Yet with her, he seemed to want to keep her hand in his forever.

Unfortunately, fate seemed to have other plans for him, because she was the one who dropped it like a ton of bricks, along with his heart. Then he noticed the reason for her sudden shift, and it was standing in front of Light’s house. She lightly tugged on the chain that was stuck to the other death note he was carrying and kept her fingers wound tightly around it, but he didn’t mind. If she wanted to take his Death Note, she could go right ahead and do it. That’s how happy he was.

Until he met the bleak pale-yellow eyes of the tall creature hovering above the blonde stranger in front of them.

 ***

“Okay, Ryuk, we need to have a little talk,” Light started. They’d just been at the hotel, where they’d found out the second Kira was willing to do everything Light wanted them to do. They were supposed to set up a meeting place and Light wanted to prepare. She knew a round of questioning was about to begin, so she plopped down onto his bed in an instant.

Ryuk sighed, “Should’ve known.”

“And I’d appreciate an answer if you could,” Light added. “If two Shinigami happened to meet in the human world, are they allowed to speak to each other?”

“Hard to say,” the Shinigami replied. “As long as I’m attached to a human, I’d say it’s against the rules unless I had their permission first. But there are no laws against it either, so I guess it’s possible that another Shinigami might talk to me.”

“So, does that mean that if this fake Kira’s Shinigami were to see you, there’s a chance he might mention the fact that you’re with me and reveal that I’m Kira?”

“They probably wouldn’t, but it depends on their personality.”

“And if this kind of situation did arise I can assume you’ll act the way you normally do?”

“Yeah,” Ryuk said, “Even if I see another human with a Shinigami I’m not gonna tell you.”

“Well, I definitely think you’ve got the right approach.”

“Humph, thanks.”

 ***

“Oops,” he couldn’t help but curse under his breath, recalling the conversation he’d had with Light. He didn’t recognize the Shinigami before them, but if they wanted to, they could directly link Ryuk to the girl that was latching onto him. They might think she was the real Kira.

Though the latest message had already revealed Light’s stunt in the city with the group of people surrounding Ryuk had been a failure and he had been discovered to the fake Kira, there would be no good explanation for him to be hanging around this human.

Luckily for him, the other Shinigami remained deathly silent, until the girl at her side turned.

“Oh, hello there!” she said.

She blinked in response. “Uh… I- Uh… Aren’t you that girl from TV?”

The blonde giggled profusely, suddenly walking up to her as casual as could be. “Yes, I’m Misa, nice to meet you! Do you want an autograph?”

She scratched the back of her head awkwardly, “Uh, no, I think I’m good. Were you looking for Light?”

“Eh?” Ryuk vocalized. He didn’t expect her to be so blunt about it. But then again, he realized, Light had most likely already been discovered. He just didn’t know how she detected that this was the second Kira without being able to see the second Shinigami floating only a few feet away.

“Oh, I was. Are you friends with him?” Misa’s head turned, but her eyes held a sudden blank expression as if her mind were calculating a proper physical response once she’d gotten answers.

“Yeah, for like, my entire life. How do you know him?”

“Oh… I just, I found the notebook he left in class. Then I looked him up online and I thought his resume was very… impressive. I just really wanted to meet him, he seems like such an intelligent guy.”

Ryuk heard the other Shinigami audibly sigh.

“Well, why don’t I introduce the two of you then? I’m sure he’s still up at this hour, and I was just on my way to see him now.”

“S-Sure!” Misa replied hesitantly.

She wished Light’s sister, Sayu, could’ve at the very least toned down her excitement a bit when she met Misa, but alas, she was in awe, as well as the girl’s mother. Light eventually came trotting down the stairs behind them, his neutral facial expression continuing to withstand even as he saw the strange scene before him. He managed to shoo his family members away and closed the front door behind him. She could’ve sworn she hadn’t heard crickets chirping before that.

“Uhm, pleased to meet you,” Misa started, sinking to her knees in a bow, “I’m Misa Amane.” She then glanced at you, and back at Light again.

Ryuk chuckled until he heard the other God of Death say, “Misa, the girl is being followed by another Shinigami. I doubt she isn’t aware of it.”

Misa made a noise of understanding, before looking at the odd placement of your hand which was still wrapped around Ryuk’s chain. “I thought you might get worried if you saw that message on TV. I just couldn’t take it anymore so I brought… this notebook.” She held out an identical copy of his Death Note in front of Light, and Ryuk heard the girl next to him audibly groan. Of course, the girl had no issue showing something like that out in the open. It was like she had no idea.

Light touched it, yet he made no sound. “Does she know? About all of it?” Misa questioned, directedly pointing her gaze at his best friend. Light nodded, so she was allowed to touch it as well. She very much tried, but unfortunately, her poker face wasn’t as good as Light’s, so she ended up with her mouth slightly agape. Ryuk lifted a finger to close it.

They decided it would be best to move the conversation inside, so they did, and Light had cautiously locked his bedroom door behind them after making sure his mother and sister thought this was just a nice drop-by from his (girl)friend.

“Have a seat.”

As Misa sat in Light’s desk chair, his best friend scooted onto the mattress behind him with Ryuk towering over them at the bedside. Her Shinigami, a pale skeleton with yellow eyes and purple hair and what appeared to be vampiric teeth, stood guard behind Misa.

“How did you find me?” Light decided to ask.

She answered with a gasp, “I knew it! You never made the Shinigami-eye deal. When you have the Shinigami-eyes like I do, you can see most people’s name and lifespan just by looking at them. However, you can’t see the lifespan of any person who possesses a Death Note.”

Light glanced over at Ryuk, looking for an explanation, but Ryuk seemed just as shocked. “No kidding! I have to admit, even I wasn’t aware of that little detail.”

“Well, now you’ve managed to find me, but you were careless; what if you’d been caught by the police? Then they’d know everything about Kira!”

“It’s all right,” Misa said, “Because the police didn’t catch me and if I do as you say from now on, they’ll never be able to. So we’re safe. After all, don’t you need someone to see L’s name? If you want, I could be your eyes. So…”

“Yeah? So what?”

“-Would you please make me your girlfriend?”

Both Ryuk and the girl behind him burst out laughing, but he decidedly ignored them. He then proceeded to question her about her strategy in the city, as well as the evidence she could’ve left behind. She ended up even offering her Death Note to him, and while she’d still be the rightful owner, Light would be in control of it, and she of her Shinigami-eyes.

“-And if I become a burden to you, you can just kill me, okay?” Misa said pleadingly.

“But you might’ve removed several pages from your Death Note, you could be hiding them somewhere for all I know!”

“Why are you so suspicious of me?” she cried out, getting up from the chair and stomping her foot on the floor, “I already told you, I don’t care even if all you do is use me! Please believe me!”

“Why are you so willing to give up your life for him?” (Y/N) asked, and Light had to admit, that was the question he’d been building towards this entire time.

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand-“ Misa spat.

“Hey,” Light barked, “If you want to show your loyalty, how about you start being nicer to the only person I’ve trusted with my secret so far and has kept it?”

“How can you be so sure you can trust her?! I bet she’s only in it so she can take it from you after you’re dead, so she can become the new Kira!”

“How dare you!” (Y/N) snarled warningly, but Misa was already launching herself at the girl.

Light hadn’t quite seen that coming. Thankfully, Ryuk had. He took the blonde girl by her arm and lifted her until her feet didn’t touch the floor anymore and she’d let out a startled scream. He noticed the other Shinigami wanted to step in already, but Light was faster. “Misa, if you and I were to work together, I need to know you can make rational decisions without letting your emotions get the better of you. Can you do that?”

She didn’t really look at him, so he decided to repeat himself, this time a bit more convincingly, “If you were to be my girlfriend, I need to know if you can tolerate being around my best friend.”

At this, she lit up, and Ryuk was quick to let go of her.

When she’d finally left, the girl he’d just been on a date with was now slung around his neck, having climbed on top of the bed to be able to reach him. His large hands grasped her sides, and his smile had grown even wider.

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[kitsunefire7]

For the Obiyuki bingo block—

🧜‍♀️Rusalka💧

The talented @fade-touched-obsidian wrote me a one-shot to help inspire me for this block TWT I love it so much. More to come soon 😉 ✨

ENJOY READING @fade-touched-obsidian story below the line 👀 ✨👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

Also part 2 > https://kitsunefire7.tumblr.com/post/656976456957739008/for-the-obiyuki-bingo-block

Blood.

Ugh. It’s everywhere.

The coppery taste fills his mouth from the rivulet that runs a trail from the deep cut above his eyebrow around his brow bone, down the side of his nose and beside the apple of his cheek before it finds a home where the corner of his lips meet. He'd wipe it away if he had the energy or if lifting his arm didn't cause overwhelming pain. At least it has stayed away from his eyes, keeping his vision clear. Well, as clear as it can be given the circumstances anyway.

It cools against his skin, sticking his clothes uncomfortably so his shredded remains of a shirt pulls on the skin slashed wide open on his chest adding further injury to an already insulting one. His clothes, soaked through long ago with his life as it drains out of him, drip and mark the path of his final mission.

He's almost there. He can make it.

His vision fogs over at the edges as the small mountain lake comes into view. The trees that protect the lake from the sight of passersby disappear into the mist of his mind, leaving no trace of their existence but for the faint birds that serenade the wilderness around them and the reflection on the glass-smooth water. A frog croaks from wherever it has hidden himself from sight. The wind blows soft as a kiss on the cheek but the water never ripples and he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.

He’s never known ‘home’ as a place; it has always been wherever one woman, one heart, was. He has nowhere to go. No one to say goodbye to. Not anymore. But he can succumb to his injuries where his home- her heart- was lost forever.

There's something poetic there, his carefully concealed romantic heart knows. He'd think about it more if he didn't need every remaining wit he has focusing on finding his way before he loses consciousness.

He's beginning to stumble as his outer limbs grow more and more sluggish but he managed to make it after all. He trudges on, needing to expend precious remaining energy to pick his way through the overgrown grass as his dexterity leaves him until he slips and falls gracelessly into the murky shallows.

The groan that escapes him as the water laps at him rattles and breathing is becoming harder. He can feel fluid in his lungs and there’s a burning in his chest that isn’t directly caused by the wound there, he can feel that pain hugging the new one as if they are long lost friends.

Ha. Fitting. Very fitting that that thought plops down at the forefront of his brain when he’s here where a long lost loved one left the world.

The water turns a grotesque reddish brown around him as the water rinses his clothes while more blood leaks from him with every miniscule movement. He must be running out if it has slowed this much. At least it’s almost done. Maybe, if he’s lucky enough his sins are forgiven, he will go to a place where he can see her again soon.

The fog of his vision grows darker as though night is setting in to take place of the midday sun above him. He's close. It's almost time. He breathes as deep as he can, sending pain lancing through everything and everywhere. It doesn’t feel like he’s gotten any air into his lungs at all, his attempt to suck in air dying painfully in vain.

Eyes as deep green as the leaves of the trees around him, porcelain skin smooth as bone, and unmistakable crimson hair rise out of the water. The nose and everything below are still submerged. Yet, despite the face appearing from the water, no water is on her face and her exposed hair is dry.

He's losing it, hallucinating. Which is a promising sign, really. He still can’t breathe but the pain of his body’s struggle to survive is subsiding.

That water is no deeper where she watches from a few feet away than where he sits. A human couldn't possibly be there without parts of their body being seen. His knees and the top half of his torso poking up out of the water are a testament to that.

And, yet, here she is. Unseen except for a haunting top-half of a face as she moves closer. Once she’s an arm length away, she emerges so her torso is out of the water. Her movements as fluid as the water swirling around her in the otherwise completely still lake. She reaches for him, hands cold as the death seeping into his extremities, closing around his shoulders.

The birds have stopped singing. The frogs are no longer croaking. Even the wind itself has left the area, leaving nothing but silence before she hisses and grips tighter, taloned hands sinking into his already damaged body but all he can see is her. He feels the pressure but no pain and through her hissing all he can hear is her melodic voice. A voice he hasn't heard in far too long when every minute of it’ absence felt like an eternity.

He reaches for her cheek, causing her face to twist into an unhold sneer of disdain, but his hand connects. It’s blurry but he can see that it has even though he can no longer feel his hand. The creature before him is so foreign but so much the same and he whispers a fractured, "Shi-ra-yu-ki?"

She blinks, angry snarl ripping from her before recognition filters in. The pressure of where her hands have dug in pulses before remembrance softens her grip and her facial features.

"O-Obi?" Her voice is shrill and has an ethereal echo to it. It sounds like it would be an agonized cry if she were a living human. He knows what he physically hears but there’s a disconnect somewhere in his sense and the only thing he processes is the voice he’s missed for so long. "What happened to you?"

Her heartbreak is palpable as she runs an icy finger he can no longer feel the chill of along the torn skin of his chest. He doesn’t feel that either

"I wanted to come home," he says, straining to whisper through the last of his breath and consciousness.

"I wanted to come home," he had said as his eyes fell closed.

Her heart no longer beats- hasn't in a long time. But she feels the moment his words hit their mark as true as any arrow he had ever shot.

He's no longer awake, never will be again, and from his mostly horizontal position, his mouth is filling with blood. He's on death's door.

He wanted to go home.

With a strangled cry of her own, she drags him into the center of the lake, and then pulls him under.

Bring him home, she shall.

She carries him down, down to the silt and clay, taking great care as she lays him out beside where her own body came to rest those years ago. She no longer carries the burden of tears but inside her head, where her heart still feels, she dies all over again but this time it is so much more painful.

She moves and manipulates the lakebed into as close to a burial chamber as she can manage with a slow and steady tenderness she hasn’t used since she was human tending to her gardens.

Her last thought before she slipped away was of him. After her rebirth, she never imagined she’d see him again, never imagined she would mourn his loss as anything more than a vague concept after enough time had passed to assume he had probably died as an old man.

She has nothing to mark the spot. Nothing to use as a headstone. Though it doesn’t matter in the end. No one enters these waters anymore, not since she claimed the lake as hers after she drowned and began protecting the space from any threat. There were many men before him and there will be many more after, no doubt, since now she has the tomb of her beloved to guard.

She runs her hand along the top of the raised hill. She points a finger and rolls a beautiful script across the mound before she collapses across his name, holding tight to the body that remains of the man she loved. There she stays for countless hours, days. She doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter. She has nowhere more important to be for now than right here with him as he rests.

“Welcome home, Obi.”

[raineeskiesabove]

His Truth | Albedo x Sucrose HC & Oneshot (ish)

Using the hc that Albedo is a homunculus, but the nature of this creature ranges across works of fiction I’ve seen, so the rest is based on my own interpretations;;

These two may be brainy in their respective fields of study, but romance is an entirely new ballpark for both of them

They’re both complete dorks when it comes to “wooing” a special someone, and are too shy to admit their feelings. At least for Sucrose, anyway. Albedo’s feelings are a bit more complicated, as he questions whether or not his feelings are even real.

Albedo isn’t human. His feelings aren’t human. It wouldn’t be fair to let Sucrose grow so close to him. It would only be a matter of time before he would lose control, losing whatever “self” he had managed to develop over the years.

At first, Albedo treated Sucrose like everyone else- slightly distant, but with respect. However, over time, he grew fonder of the other alchemist, of her devotion to alchemy and her sweet personality. Over and over, he’d insist that she could drop the “Mister”, but she never seemed to listen. It was this pressure, of Sucrose respecting him so much, that made him all the more convinced that she shouldn’t grow close to him. The real him wasn’t who she thought he was.

“Sucrose, this is a busy time of research for the both of us. Please keep all conversations short and to the point,” he would begin to say, using a purposefully cold and icy tone.

“Y-yes of course, Mister Albedo!” Sucrose would always comply with his wishes, even if his words stung a little. But she had the tendency to ramble, and simply figured that perhaps he had grown tired of her constant questions, observations, and other such things.

For a while, Sucrose accepted Albedo’s new terms, only asking for his attention when she knew he had a job for her. No more questions about his work. No more asking for guidance. Perhaps, she thought, he was testing how well she could research on her own! She knew she was lying to herself, but Sucrose would do anything to reassure herself that Albedo didn’t truly dislike her.

One day, Sucrose left town alone to collect some samples out in the fields of Monstadt. She hadn’t told anyone where she had gone.

By this point, Albedo was mentally tearing himself apart from the inside out, realizing that he could not bear the burden to live like this. He knew that this hurt her. He could see it every time they passed in the hallway- instead of offering a shy wave, she simply looked away and continued walking. She never visited him in his lab anymore. She never asked questions, told him about the subjects she was most fond of.

But what was more concerning were the changes his body undergone since he had shut Sucrose out. At first it was barely noticeable: a hairline fracture, what seemingly appeared to be a crack, running down from the bottom point of the star on his neck. The crack led to nowhere, and didn’t chip upon his inspection, so he was forced to leave it be. As the days passed, more and more cracks began to appear, now stemming from all sides of the star marking. Soon, the cracks caused the outer layer of his skin to chip off, revealing an unnatural, gold interior beneath. These areas were extremely sensitive, like the star on his neck, making work very difficult to accomplish.

Albedo fell into a state of depression, now without care for whatever happened around him. He could barely sleep at night from how intense the markings felt, but resisted the urge to show anyone. Unlike himself, who eagerly devoured stories of the unknown, the other seeing him would frighten them.

He spent the following days mindlessly doodling Sucrose over and over again. He’d drawn her before, already memorizing each detail down to the strands of hair on her head. Thoughts of her ran through his mind almost obsessively, and he simply couldn’t understand why. He cannot love. It isn’t real. He is hardly real. He needed to let go of her, but any attempt to detach himself proved fruitless.

Only one event, after almost half of his skin had decayed, roused him from bed. A knock at his door.

“Albedo?” It was Jean. “Have you seen Sucrose? No one has seen her since yesterday, and we checked her lab. She isn’t anywhere in town, and I’m getting worried...”

Sucrose? But she never left the city unless it was to accompany him- oh.

He was such a fool.

Pulling up his hood, leaving his hair down, Albedo opened the door swiftly, saying nothing as he passed Jean in a hurry.

The only lead he had to go off of was her elemental traces, which were already fading due to it being a day since her disappearance. Not to mention that he had to move slowly, due to how sensitive every movement felt.

Half a day passed, and Albedo began to fear the worst when the trail led to the Thousand Winds Temple. So many, too many monsters dwelled within this area. It was much too dangerous for one to go alone, especially for Sucrose, who lacked a particularly reactionary element. And by now, a steady stream of rain had begun to fall around him.

Finally, he found her laying lifeless against the cold concrete, surrounded by a Ruin Guard that had seemingly lost interest in her.

If one emotion he never felt was love, the other was anger. Pure, white rage that blinded every other thought telling him to be rational. These feelings were simply overwhelming, his heart feeling like it would burst at any moment.

Defeating the Ruin Guard in a monstrous explosion of geo energy, he rushed to Sucrose’s side quickly, checking for a pulse.

Weak, but alive. Severely injured, but still breathing.

“Sucrose... Sucrose, can you hear me?” Even in a situation as dire as this, Albedo felt his voice come out calmly and even.

At first she thought that she was dreaming. She had convinced herself that she would die out here, that no one would come looking for her. Especially not the one sitting above her now. Her glasses had long been lost, but instantly she knew who it was. Even the act of breathing hurt, but the relief of seeing his face caused a smile to bloom on her lips, a laugh to escape her throat.

“Y-you came,” she whispered.

“Yes,” was all he could say before the tears escaped him, running down his face relentlessly, falling onto the girl below. His sobs were strangled and raw, echoing throughout the plaza they were in. A stream of “sorries” and “forgive mes” were mixed throughout his cries, Albedo’s chest heaving from the sudden burst of emotion. Never in his life had he cried. Never had he experienced the true feelings of sorrow and regret.

She lifted a hand to cup his cheek, perplexed by the gold plating of it, but more concerned with the distress he was in. Never had she seen her cool and collected teacher so vulnerable.

To both of their surprises, her touch did not cause him to recoil, nor did it sting him. But rather, as she held her hand in place, the gold began to fade, again growing encased within his usual skin color.

He held her hand against his cheek tightly, now desperately holding onto it. He had almost lost her, but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake a second time. In terms of his condition, he didn’t understand why he had begun to decay, nor did he understand why she could repair it. But she simply could, and that was enough for him to accept that he needed her.

She insisted to now sit up, which he initially declined to endorse, but her insistence was enough to make him back down in his vulnerable state. Sitting in silence, she broke it with a nervous giggle, noting how both of them weren’t having a very good day.

Through his tears, Albedo couldn’t help but let a chuckle escape him, his forehead falling against hers. The movement caused Sucrose to freeze, shocked by his sudden and uncharacteristically bold move. In her trance, she barely noticed that he had guided her hand to the star on his neck, her touch causing a faint glow to emanate from the marking. Through his clothes, the two could see the rest of his gold spots lit up, the glow fading as her touch closed the openings.

“Mi- ah... A-Albedo, I don’t understand. Are you alright? The unusual markings on the surface of your body looked uncomfortable. Why... why was my touch so effective in counteracting them?”

“That is... beyond the realm of my understanding, Sucrose. But, I seek the truth of this world, do I not?”

She nodded, but secretly wondered what that had to do with her question.

“A long time ago, my master gave me one final task: discover the truth of this world. Days grew into months, months into years, and I never found an answer that I could accept. I grew worried that I would never be able to unravel the mystery presented by my master. Logically, this is likely an incorrect answer, but the truth of this world, my truth of this world... For now, I would like to define it as the love that I hold for you. It is... a bit of a foolish answer, isn’t it?”

“...no. No, not at all,” she whispered, closing her golden eyes. A small smile graced her lips, a gentle breath escaping her nose as her shoulders relaxed.

Perhaps it was only seconds, maybe hours, that they stayed rooted in this spot. But there was still one thing they both knew for certain, regardless of the passage of time around them. In the middle of this damp, abandoned site lost to time, Albedo and Sucrose shared their first kiss.

Eww the formatting HAHA;; Ma’am it is 130am wtf am I doing. I am so sorry if the writing and concepts make no sense lmao I fell down this rabbit hole and it became a pseudo oneshot that probably needs a lot of editing I’m too lazy to do rn. Til next time homies <3

[mystic-shadows42]

Troubled

A/N: A lot of back and forth in the beginning. Sorry for my crappy writing.

Pairing: Hvitserk x reader

Summary: Being involved with Hvitserk has consequences that you weren’t quite prepared for. Hvitserk isn’t one to commit to anything serious unless it involves fighting.

Warnings: Language, some sexual content, and some violence

You cursed yourself at how stupid you had been that night with Hvitserk. It was unbeknownst to you that he had been the man-whore of Kattegat. 

You were only visiting on behalf of your brothers who were set to arrive a couple of days after you.

Hvitserk was the first to greet you to Kattegat. He seemed sincere when showing you around. He was nice and gifted you with presents when your brothers were late to arrive.

You were naive. 

Your brothers had always protected you from the outside world especially from men. This was the only time where you weren’t accompanied by them.

You were mad that you allowed yourself to succumb to him. You let Hvitserk take you to his room. He was gentle with you and whispered sweet words in your ear.

At that moment you were in bliss whenever he would thrust into you and hold onto your hips. His rough calloused hands were the only ones to ever touch your soft skin. All that has never been touched before besides your own hands.

You remember tracing your fingers over his scars when he intertwined his hands with yours and lifted them above your head. It was a night you wouldn’t ever forget.

A tear came out of your eye as you remembered that day.

When morning came, Hvitserk wasn’t in bed with you. It panged you but you looked for him nonetheless. You walked around until you were stopped by one of the Lothbrok brothers.

They had directed you in the direction where they knew he was. The strange thing was that the brothers gathered around and watched you knock on the door.

Hvitserk answered while looking down trying to adjust his trousers. When he looked up and saw you there, he was surprised. You were about to speak when you stopped yourself short upon seeing a woman come out and kiss his cheek.

She didn’t pay you any attention as she walked past. You looked at the floor at a loss of words. Who was she? What was she doing with Hvitserk? Could he have really been with another woman while you were sleeping?

The heaviness in your chest hurt at the thought that he’d used you. 

You looked up at Hvitserk confused. You shook your head not knowing what to say or to make of the situation. Hvitserk didn’t show any type of emotion.

Another woman emerged from the room who was barely clothed with the fine linen-wrapped over herself. 

You tried your best not to show how hurt you were feeling. As you looked at the woman, you noticed that she wore the same jewelry that Hvitserk had gifted to you.

Hvitserk looked like he was going to say something but stopped himself short. The woman looked at your face and took in the situation. “Didn’t you know honey? Hvitserk gets around.”

You felt humiliated and stupid for falling for it all. It didn’t help that you allowed a tear to escape from your eye and that his brothers were laughing hysterically from behind.

Hvitserk didn’t say anything. All he did was clench his jaw and look away. You walked away immediately and harshly wiped your tears away.

On your way back to pack your belongings, you noticed quite a few women were all wearing that same jewelry. It disgusted you. He was marking all the women he’d ever slept with. 

The jewelry he gave away was never a sign of him being chivalrous.

Needless to say, you left that very day and gave away everything Hvitserk had gifted to you.

****

Reflecting back on those days while you threw up only made you bitter. You hardened your heart since the day you left Kattegat.

Now here you were hunched over, thinking back on the days that led to this one. This can no longer be hidden or doubted.

All the sick days and the soreness of your body weren’t just a coincidence anymore, it was a fact. The proof was nestling in your stomach.

You shuddered when you placed your hand on your stomach. It was time to accept the truth for what you suspected weeks ago.

You immediately dropped your hand from your stomach once you saw your brother’s boats arriving back.

You kicked dirt over your mess and decided to settle inside. It pained you to keep such a secret from your brothers. You were a close family.

Halfdan would likely be ecstatic while Harald might be disappointed. He had hoped to marry you off someday to someone with power to ensure your future and to secure more troops. 

You started to become antsy and paced the room. The noise of the crowd grew closer.

When the doors opened you took a deep breath and turned to face your brothers.

Only the eyes you were looking at did not belong to your brothers. They belonged to the one person whom you despised. Hvitserk Lothbrok.

He slowed his walk before stopping completely once he recognized you. He visibly swallowed before he spoke.

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

A look of confusion crossed his face.

“Ahhhh I see you’ve met my sister.” Your brother Harald spoke up while he walked up to you and placed a kiss on your forehead.

“Sister?” Hvitserk said it almost as if that bothered him. “Seems as if your ‘sister’ never stuck around to tell me that.”

His words only infuriated you. He had no right to be irritated with you.

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

Harald stopped and watched the way you and Hvitserk exchanged looks. He was good at reading people.

“Both of you sit.”

Hvitserk shook his head. You knew he didn’t want anything to do with you especially when he finds out about the baby.

“I don’t want-“

“I said, sit down,” Harald said sternly making Hvitserk shut his mouth and sit down. “My dearest sister, is Hvitserk the father?” You had tried your hardest to keep the news from your brothers but nothing gets past Harald. “Don’t be so surprised. I’ve known from the start of your sickness. I’ve just been waiting for the bastard to reveal himself. Now that it’s come to my understanding that it may be Hvitserk.”

“Yes, it’s Hvitserk’s.”

Hvitserk stood up from his seat once he caught on. “No. I’m not-I can’t be. You have the wrong guy.” He was looking for any kind of excuse to get out of it.

“Are you suggesting my sister’s a whore then?”

Hvitserk gritted his teeth, not liking the position he was in. “I’m saying that perhaps your sister made a mistake.”

“I’ve been with no one else. Just because you go bed-hopping doesn’t mean I do the same.” You snapped as you stood up too.

“Well, you certainly did with me,” Hvitserk responded smugly.

All you saw was red. You pulled the sword from his side and held it up to his throat. Ivar walked in at that moment and stopped shortly assessing the situation.

Hvitserk was completely taken off guard, not expecting you to do that.

“I could kill you if I want to. You’ve been nothing but trouble since I met you. All you’ve done is degrade me.”

Harald rested his hand on your shoulder to calm you down. “Easy sister. I still have an alliance with these boys.”

You started to lower the sword in your hands. As you did, you pressed the tip of the blade in Hvitserk’s skin dragging it down his chest a bit before leaving him be.

He hissed at the contact but did nothing to stop you.

“Now return his weapon.” Your brother stated.

You threw the blade down and slid it across the room. Only Harald’s chuckle was heard echoing out the room. “Please excuse my sister. She has a worse temper than both me and my brother but I think the little one nestling in her belly is the one fueling the fire, don’t you think?”

Ivar shared a look with Hvitserk knowing what was finally going on. He didn’t look happy one bit.

“You’re with child?” Halfdan asked as he caught the last bit of what his brother Harald had said.

You only nodded, still feeling bitter towards Hvitserk. Halfdan engulfed you in a hug and lifted you from the ground much to Harald’s displeasure.

“Easy brother.”

“I can’t help it. I’m going to be an uncle! Now, who’s the lad?” His face turned serious once he asked his question.

“The one who has a new scar on his chest as a reminder of this day.”

Harald turned his head and looked unimpressed that it was Hvitserk.

“Let’s hope the baby has more of our traits.”

Harald was growing tired of all the distractions going on in the room. “Everyone sit.”

Sometimes your brother being your king annoyed you but you listened and obeyed.

“Now that we know that my sister is expecting, let’s get down to discussion. My sister and Hvitserk are going to be bound by their child. Why not make it official and have them marry. It’s an alliance forever forged under the eyes of the gods.”

Harald was making his case to Ivar more so than Hvitserk. You weren’t happy one bit but you weren’t about to interrupt until you were alone. Hvitserk on the other hand opposed it immediately.

“No, that’s not going to happen.”

Ivar tried to get him to sit back down but Hvitserk stormed off. Ivar looked angry and excused himself as he went after his brother.

When the doors closed you turned to face your brother. “How can you make a suggestion like that when you haven’t even discussed it with me? I’m already having a baby with that bastard of a man, now you want me to marry him?!”

“Sister, I’m looking after your best interest at heart. We secure two things out of this. You uphold your image having the father of your child by your side and we have an alliance with the Lothbrok’s.”

“I don’t care how people see me without the father of my child by my side. I don’t need him. Make an alliance regardless, just leave me out of it.”

“With you in it, it secures our alliance.”

“So you’re just using me?”

“Just think about it. You can make his life hell for all I care. Maybe he’ll die in battle but Ivar will still be bound to that alliance. Just as long as you don’t kill him yourself. This is for your safety as well as our people. Now you have more to think about with the baby on the way.”

“That’s a lot of self-restraint on my part,” you said bitterly.

Ivar and Hvitserk came back into the room and sat down in their seats. Hvitserk looked displeased and didn’t dare look anyone in the eye as he dragged his hand down his face. The wound you marked on his chest was bandaged and peaking a bit from under his shirt.

“We agree to your terms of an alliance by marriage.” Ivar smiled and nodded his head towards you. You briefly smiled back. You so badly wanted to scream and storm out of the room but you were taught better than to act like that.

“May I be excused brother?”

“Of course.”

You quickly left the room but not before you heard Ivar say something to Hvitserk about comforting his soon-to-be bride. You walked quickly feeling as if there wasn’t enough air for you to breathe.

You took long strides trying your best to be as far from everyone as possible. Knowing that Hvitserk was right behind only made you walk faster. You heard your name being called but you ignored it.

With each step, you could feel your heart beating faster and your throat constricting.

You would’ve kept on walking aimlessly but Hvitserk’s hand on your arm is what stopped you from falling into a ditch that you didn’t see.

He pulled you back and gave you an incredulous look.

You held up your hand to keep him from saying anything to you. You’ve heard enough for one day. You took a step away from him but Hvitserk wasn’t having any of that today either. He took two steps forward not wanting there to be any space between you both.

“Were you ever going to tell me about the baby?”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed at him. “Now you’re claiming the baby? Just earlier you were adamant it was another’s.”

Hvitserk placed his hands on his hips looking elsewhere. He looked frustrated as he took a deep breath then turned to look at you.

“I wasn’t expecting this to happen. I came here with my brother to regroup with Harald. Then I’m told that I’m going to be a father and I have to marry. I know you despise this as much as I do.”

At least both of your feelings on the matter were the same. “Do you really have no children with anyone else?”

“You’re the first.”

You were surprised to hear that. Hvitserk bedded a lot of women yet you were the one to have his child. You were secretly scared of all of it but put on a brave face.

If only your brothers and everyone else knew just how scared you really were. They wouldn’t think you were so confident.

Though you knew better than to show any kind of weakness. Your mother taught you that. People preyed upon weakness, especially men. They’ll take and take until there’s nothing left to give.

So you always smiled when you’re hurting inside, you take insults and bite your tongue, and take any opportunity that’ll benefit you in the long run, even if you don’t like it.

“I’ll only marry you to protect my baby and my people. You won’t be needed for anything more than that.”

He knitted his brows as he looked at you. “Do you expect me to leave?” Your silence was all he needed for an answer. He chuckled lowly to himself. “I hate to disappoint but I’m not going anywhere. Not while you carry my heir.”

“Don’t you understand that I’m trying to make things easier for you?”

“Easier for me or for you? By cutting me out? Look I don’t want to have a baby right now, I’m young, I want to do other things than take care of a kid, but I’ll do whatever it takes to be there for them cause I know what it’s like to have an absent father. I don’t want that for our kid. I don’t want them to resent me the way I did mine. I know I may not be the best father but at least I’ll be there for everything. That’s more than what I can say for some of the other men out there who’d definitely take this opportunity and leave.”

You were taken off guard by what he had to say in a short amount of time. The look he was giving you was one of irritation. You already made up your mind about him without getting to know him further.

It was a case of misjudgment on your part. Hvitserk was a pig, but he wouldn’t stand to be called an absent father.

At least there was one good quality to him.

Tagged: @belovedcherry​ @lordsexmachine​ @lol-haha-joke​ @mariaenchanted​ @ethereallysimple​ @bababasti​ @ir-abelas-telanadas​ @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie​ @solinarimoon​

[fandom-collective-writers]

Home

Prompt: “Stop moving and let me Braid your hair”

Fandom: Court of Darkness 

Type of One-shot: Fluff (hurt/comfort?) 

Pairing: Fenn x MC

Warnings: homesickness, anxiety 

WC: 

Written by: @chaosangel767​

Asked for by: Anon

I growl in frustration in the night, anger and despair flowing through me. Even with all these extra lessons I still can't grasp my magic. 

"I'm never going home" I kneel in the grass of the courtyard, the large moon mocking me from above. 

Why can't I use magic? Why is it so hard? The frustration overwhelms me and I feel tears prick my eyes and I clench my fists in the cool grass. 

"Treasure?" The alluring voice breaks through my thoughts and I look up to see Fenn standing before me looking worried. "What are you doing down there?" He peers at me with his amethyst eyes and I shake my head, looking down. 

"Go away Fenn" I don't have the energy to deal with anyone right now, I just want to be alone. 

“That's not very nice" Fenn doesn't listen to me and kneels down, pulling me into his arms and bringing me over to a bench. He sits on the bench and wraps me up on his cloak, nestling me into his side.  I try to shrug away, but Fen holds me tight. 

"Talk to me" Fenn holds me tight in his arms and I shake my head, tears still falling from my cheeks. I don't want to appear weak, everyone already looks down on me for not being able to use Magic. Fenn rests my head against his chest and I feel his warmth and his heartbeat, it sets a comforting rhythm in my mind. 

"Treasure, please talk to me. These tears don't suit you. Let me help" Fenn tries again, but something in me snaps, my frustration overflows. 

"This isn't something that I can just smile through  Fenn, this isn't something you can fix! I can't use magic! No matter how long I try or what I do, I can't use magic!" My voice breaks as I lose control, my body trembling against his. I see shock flood his features as he stares down at me.  

"I can't do this. I know magic makes sense to you, because you were raised in a world full of it. I can't grasp how to use it, magic doesn't exist in my home. This is all so new to me, but until I do I'm stuck here. I just want to go home. I just want to see my world again" I finally lean into Fenn and the tears don't stop, I can't handle the pressure that everyone places on me anymore.  Fenn holds me close, staying silent while I vent and let my emotions out. He is just a warm body I can tremble against. It isn't until I am done venting against him that he starts rubbing my back soothingly. 

"Oh Treasure, this has been building for forever, hasn't it." His voice is achingly gentle and I relax against his chest. I bury my face and Fenn just holds me as I cry. I wrap my arms around his waist and keep my head against his chest, clenching his clothes in my fist. His body is so warm, I feel so safe, finally letting down my guard. 

Fenn keeps me close, rubbing my back and arms soothingly until he stops and tugs me away from him. 

"Treasure, turn around" he prompts me and he turns me around, keeping his cape around me. I trudge against him a little, but his hand in my hair stops me. 

"Stop moving and let me braid your hair." Fenn's voice is firm as he sits behind me, taking my hair down and running his fingers through it. I look up at the large moon, tears falling down my face as I feel Fenn comb through my locks.

The silence is oddly soothing as I feel Fenn's warmth surround me. Slowly I start to calm down, and I relax against Fenn, needing to feel more warmth from his body.

"Treasure," his voice is like a warm honey flowing over me and I move my head.

"Treasure, tell me about your home." Fenn continues to braid my hair, elegantly weaving a white lace ribbon through. I take a deep breath and start to tell him about Earth.

 I tell him all sorts of things as he braids my hair, feeling a bittersweet sadness fill my heart. I miss home so much, but talking about it and feeling Fenn's warmth calms me down. Fenn finishes the braid but continues to listen until I tire myself out.

"Worry not Treasure, I promise to make sure you return home." He promises me and I look at him trying to smile. I feel so much better, though I am exhausted.  The weight has been lifted off my shoulders a little and the overwhelming homesickness is now just a bitter pit in my stomach.

"Thanks Fenn," I manage a small smile and he nods, offering a hand and walks me back to the dorm, making sure I get back to my room safe. 

[dreamiguess]

Day???: Coronation

A late submission for @fundyfiles FWT week. 

Summary:

Some twisted, selfish part of him wants someone to walk in, to witness the first and last time he’ll be able to love Dream publicly, to cause such a scandal he’d be removed from the line of succession entirely.

On AO3: divine rights

“I shouldn’t have found out from your father.”

No. He shouldn’t have.

“Found out what?” Fundy lies, thin as silk and half as smooth.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he answers, the ice in his voice melting. The disappointment is worse than the steel, and he feels as if he were to peel back another layer he would find nothing but raw hurt. Because it hurts, doesn’t it? For Fundy more than anyone else, maybe. Dream would come at a close second. He stares at the floor somewhere between them, not ready to face either.

“I didn’t know how.”

It’s a half answer to a question that wasn’t asked, tired and barely audible. He hadn’t known how to process it for himself either, with one sleepless night to churn the news in his head over and over again before preparations for the ceremony began. The work made it easier at least, kept him too busy to think or feel. But standing in front of the captain, his captain, in an empty hallway, there is nowhere to escape it. As the silence settles between them, he finds the courage to look up.

Dream looks vulnerable, too vulnerable to be out in the open like this. He wears only a half plate and sword belt, still more lethal than most would be in full iron but it looks unnatural for him to be patrolling the castle in anything but. It’s standard off duty garb, but it’s too fitting for him to still protect his heart at a time like this. He had pulled his mask to the side, and it’s more intimate than if he were completely naked, green eyes staring him down. They’re not angry, though, and he thinks that’s what breaks him.

“It was supposed to be Tommy.”

He’s in Dream’s embrace before the first tear can hit the ground, cries muffled in his shoulder before they can echo against the stone walls. It’s terribly improper, to be seen in the arms of a soldier, especially in such a public place. Some twisted, selfish part of him wants someone to walk in, to witness the first and last time he’ll be able to love Dream publicly, to cause such a scandal he’d be removed from the line of succession entirely. Even as the tears subsides he can’t bring himself to step back, just moves so the crown of his head is pushed into Dream’s chest instead of his face.

“It was supposed to be Tommy,” he repeats.

It was always supposed to be Tommy. On the surface level, he was a direct descendent rather than a grandson. But more than that, he was charismatic and loud, had strong opinions and voiced them frequently. He was loyal to a fault and way too sharp for his age. Most importantly, though, he wanted crown prince and, one day, the throne. Fundy wanted a street kid who climbed the ranks too swift and too violent.

With war brewing in the South, his Majesty was forced to choose the next successor far too early, and Tommy is still too young and brash for that weight to be placed upon his shoulders.

It haunts them. Laying in bed at dusk, a luxury they only allow themselves on the darkest halcyon nights, and tracing patterns down Dream’s back. He savors the moment, lets it melt in his ribcage and swallow him whole.

“What does this mean for us?” he asks, as if he wasn’t the one who should know better than anyone. They both know what he’s talking about, the glass shards lying on the floor for them in the morning.

“The end, probably.” Dream lifts his head enough to look Fundy in the eye. One would think he’d have forgotten how to hide his emotions after wearing a mask so long, but his face is as guarded as if he hadn’t taken it off at all. It’s a privilege, a blessing even, to see it at all and one he doesn’t take for granted. He venerates every scar and treasures each freckle, because he’s beautiful even if Dream himself cannot see it.

“You can’t marry below your station anymore.” He rolls to his back and sighs. “And if your uncles do not, you’ll be expected to produce an heir.”

Fundy can’t help but laugh.

“You really think they won’t?” he asks, disbelieving. It earns him a smile.

“Still. I have no noble blood.”

“Fuck the nobles.”

Like sin it follows them to the training grounds, dancing around it lest they reveal too much to the knights nearby.  The entire family is expected to be military leaders in the event of conflict, and now doubly so for Fundy. Who better to practice with than their rising combat specialist?

“I’m on duty for the coronation,” he mentions over the clash of their practice swords. Fundy wants him to use steel, to put his life in the hands of his love and trust him fully and recklessly. The captain always refuses.

“I feel infinitely safer,” Fundy replies, pulling his weapon back and aiming for a slash to his side.

“I am honored to bring you peace of mind, your highness.” He blocks the attack and catches the blade with the hilt of his sword, turning his wrist to fling the broadsword from the prince’s grip. Before Fundy can react there’s a hand in his tunic and a swift heel sweeping his right leg off the ground completely. Dream lowers him to the dirt slowly, only truly letting him fall a foot at most. He falls all the same. The tip of his sword is cold underneath Fundy’s chin, it’s wielder haloed by sunlight above him. The instinct to bare his neck is too strong and Fundy is too weak, and he doesn’t have enough shame to delight in the way Dream swallows at the action.

“I yield.”

He takes the hand that’s offered, staring into the mask’s eyes the whole time. Their hands stay clasped for far longer than necessary because they’re equally terrible, it seems.

“I’m thinking about taking the promotion.” Dream drops his hand and turns to retrieve his discarded weapon, leaving Fundy to reel in his shellshock.

“For General?” He asks mechanically, another question they both know the answer to. He’s had a lot of them lately, and this time Dream doesn’t even respond. Just strides back to their arena and extends the handle out, ungloved hand wrapped around the blade in a mirroring act of faith. They’ve put their stone sword in the hand of Themis to balance her scales on, where the head that wears the crown rests opposite the hand that bears the shield. The power to absolutely ruin, offered freely.

Fundy doesn’t take it at all.

“I hate to leave early, but I feel a bit faint after that fall. Would you escort me back to the castle?”

Dream bows his head, never one to slip from their polished act.

“Of course, your highness. I should have been more careful.” After returning their equipment and strapping his swordbelt – his real swordbelt – back into place, Dream falls into step with him out of the arena.  The October air is kind to them, leaving goosebumps where sweat had stained their skin just moments before. It’s peaceful for a few minutes, as morning doves and starlings steadily replace the ringing of steel and their gentle footsteps drown out the thumps of bodies hitting the ground. Time slowed since Dream broke the news to him, far too casual for something they had discussed for far too long, and Fundy can almost believe that the route he’s taken isn’t far too long to lead back to the castle.

“I thought you,” he starts once they’re well beyond hearing distance. “I thought you wanted to remain a captain.”

It’s difficult to phrase what he wants to say. Fundy is not Dream’s keeper and for his love’s sake if nothing else, he won’t act like one. He wants to, though, wants to hold on to him like a child and repeat every debate they’d considered since the offer was made. I thought it was too dangerous. I thought it was too much responsibility, you liked your squadron too much, hated meetings. I thought, I thought, I thought.

And of course, the drumming song beneath it all: I thought you wouldn’t leave me.

“I’ve always been a strategist,” he replies, voice too even to be genuine. A sigh escapes him, and he entwines their fingers and lets his head rest ever so slightly on Fundy’s shoulder. He’s living in the illusion, Fundy can tell, basking in the feeling of lovers talking a walk on an Autumn day. The prince can see right through him, can taste every thought he’ll never acknowledge, much less share.

“And the position needs to be filled sooner rather than later.”

This is what he means: We need to end, and I can’t stay if I can’t have you. He means to save Fundy from himself, to cut the chord so Fundy can’t try to keep him. To force Fundy to follow the rules.

“Bullshit.” He surprises himself with the outburst. “Leaving for some war won’t make me stop loving you. You don’t need to fucking protect me,” he throws their connected hands in the air and fights for words. “Protect me from-“

Dream tugs free before he can finish, unclasps his mask and throws it to the forest floor without even looking. He cups Fundy’s face in both hands, eyes shining with renegade tears.

“I don’t know how to do anything else.” He sounds broken and Fundy feels it like glass. There are too many things he should say so he says nothing at all, wraps a hand into the collar of his shirt like a man possessed and pushes until Dream’s back hits the tree and he can’t get any closer. He kisses him like he’s dying, kisses him like the world is ending, like they’re already on their future battlefields and Dream is his only lifeline.

The coronation arrives all too fast. He lives in a limbo between the grand hall and his chambers, between the seamstress and the head chef. The ceremony is beautiful, with green and gold filling the room and glass sparkling in the setting sunlight. He’s reached a state of calm he hadn’t believed possible only two weeks ago, looses himself in the dull ache of kneeling and the rhythmic voice of their Sage. No matter how foreign the crown feels, he doesn’t have to lie as he repeats the oath; he loves the kingdom, can swear to benevolence, to serve the people. The promises settle deep in his bones. The responsibilities, the service, was never really his problem.

“I present to you your crown prince,” the vicar finishes, and Fundy stands to face the people. He’d practiced the ceremony, knows he’s supposed to wait for quiet to settle once more and kiss his grandmother’s hand, to bow before his Majesty and show humility. Instead, he walks straight back down the aisle in long strides to where the guards are posted at the doors. The murmurs and gasps don’t matter, have faded from his awareness completely by the time he reaches Dream. And with sure hands, he pushes the stupid mask up enough to free the bottom half of his face and buries a hand in blonde hair, and finally falls into his love. He kisses him gently, and gentler when his love unfreezes enough to return the affection. In front of his father and his father before him and anyone else who cared to show up, Fundy claims his divine right.

Fuck the nobles.

[mentallyillwhumpee]

TW: institutionalized slavery, mouth whump, gore, gaslighting, implied catatonic state, drugging, past noncon, vomit

This one is pretty intense, please tread lightly

Pluto was exhausted, all day he had been doing chores, no food or water for him, and then entertaining house guests however master saw fit. He hadn't slept in a long time, he couldn't remember how long, but he just couldn't. He was terrified the moment he let his guard down even a little that something awful would happen to him. He had already been whipped, drugged, raped, shocked with cattle prods, pinched and groped, and beaten. He could not take more, he was too weak, he needed to get out.

"aww, cute little thing isn't he?" A woman smiled, petting his head and scratching behind his ear. Pluto leaned into her like he had been taught, smiling softly at her gentle touches.

"he's a rescue, some sick fucks improperly trained him. He's learning, but he needs a lot of discipline" he spoke it like a threat. The sound of a phone ringing made Pluto flinch and cower into the woman. Charles sighed. "will you excuse me for a moment? I need to take this" he said, leaving the room in an angry huff.

This was his chance, Pluto couldn't make it out on his own, he needed help, he needed to get out. He turned to the woman, big pleading eyes. "help me- please ma'am I need you to help me, you don't know the things he does to me- I need to get out of here please!!" He begged, looking up at her. She looked sympathetic for a moment, scratching behind his ear again

"it's okay baby, I'll help, I promise. I have a plan, just you wait" she can reassured. Pluto could've jumped with joy, but he had to hold it in.

That shred of joy quickly shattered in his hands when he felt his hair grabbed tight by the woman as Charles walked back in. He trembled and be fought and screamed as she told him everything, everything that Pluto had begged and done. He hit, kicked, punched to get away, but it was no use. Charles quickly got sick of his protests and slapped him with all his force, sending him to the floor. When he was there, he jabbed him with one of the needles he kept on hand. Pluto begged and protested slowly, but his body soon went into that limp, unknown twilight again.

He began to come to again in the basement, tied up to what looked like a dentists chair, his head strapped down and held in place by a leather strap and two plates on either side preventing him from turning. A piercing light was above him, and he just knew that this was going to be different than the rest of his punishments.

"you just can't listen, can you?" A voice said, walking up to him. Charles had worn his blood stained clothing he used for punishments. "you know I was going to keep you in good shape, show the world that you can keep pets docile without punishment" he grumbled "but you still had to find a way to fuck that up, didn't you?" He said, shoving a ring gag into Pluto's mouth to keep it open. "I wanted to make my image look better, after what happened with my last pet, I thought maybe you could be the one to show the world that pets can learn to obey" he spat "but I guess not, I guess you'll be the reason that things never change" he said.

Pluto wanted to sob, he couldn't handle being the reason that things didn't get better for pets. But then a lump formed in his throat. His last pet. His last pet had died in an 'accident' they said, he was bad and didn't take his punishment as instructed, and instead of his shoulder, Charles sliced his jugular, and he couldn't be saved. It was the pets fault to everyone else, but Pluto knew he would be next if he didn't start to obey. He mumbled and begged through the gag that he would be good, he could be a good boy and he wouldn't disobey ever again.

"oh Pluto-" Charles cupped his face "it's far too late now" he said coldly.

At this, Pluto began to shake, trying violently to escape, but his restraints hardly allowed him to move, let alone escape.

Charles approached him, a flaming hot brand in his hand. Pluto froze in his panic, looking up with terrified eyes.

"Pluto stick out your tongue" he commanded

Pluto shook his head, trying to hide his tongue with the ring gag somehow.

Charles began to grow angry. "stick out your tongue, NOW, or I'll cut it off entirely" he threatened.

Pluto complied, sobbing and sticking out his tongue. The worst pain he had ever felt shot through him as the brand was pressed down. The smell was horrible and the taste in the back of his throat was worse. He was in silent agony for far too long, until the brand was removed, and he began to scream. It was too much, too much pain and too much everything and too much-

He felt the familiar feeling of sickness in his stomach, as he vomited over himself and his chest. He couldn't even move to get it away.

Charles made a disgusted face, walking away angrily before returning with a bucket of steaming hot water, dousing him in it to get the vomit off.

Pluto screamed again as the water burned- it burned so bad, but only seemed to leave small little burns along his form.

As Charles approached again, he tried to speak, to tell him he had learned his lesson, that he would be better, but the pain in his tongue left him unable to speak.

Charles laughed at this, cupping his face for a moment, then walking back to grab something new. "I mean you didn't think I would just let you get away with this so easy right?" He quipped, a large pair of bone scissors in this hand. Pluto didn't even have it in him to tremble more. "tongue out again" he said.

Pluto instantly complied this time, closing his eyes tight. He cruel metal placed around the tip of his tongue, and then snipped. He screamed, the loudest and most piercing scream he could as his mouth filled with blood. Charles looked at the severed muscle, the first few centimeters of his tongue.

Everything after this became a blur. He could vaguely feel pliers in his mouth, and he came back to reality four times, only to scream again as his canine teeth were ripped violently from his skull. He didn't know how long it took anymore, he was exhausted, lost in a fog no drugs could even begin to compare to. After awhile he was let go, dropped to the floor. A blanket was thrown at him as he was left to lay on the floor so he didn't bleed on masters property.

"you're lucky I didn't wire your mouth shut like a fucking corpse. If this doesn't make you think twice about your words, nothing will" he threatened.

Pluto lay in his fogginess, it was too painful to eat or drink, so master had to bring an IV and a feeling tube so he didn't die. He didn't know how long it was, it seemed like forever. After a bit, he was brought back up to masters room, still with his IV and feeding tube. He wasn't expected to be near guests right now, but even when he was, master would just tell them that he was recovering from a very bad punishment for being a very very bad pet.

The fog began to clear, bit by bit, but a certain level of haziness still floated in his mind.

"you'll never talk like that again right?" Master knelt down to him, looking him in the eyes so he would repeat it.

He nodded fervently, his brain skipping certain words like a broken record. I will never talk again, I promise

@rat-father @sideblogformindtrash

[parkersbliss]

Who | Newt

Pairing: Newt X Female!Reader

Warnings: angst... no- no words? Minho being stupid and me roasting Thomas

wc; 4.4K

Synopsis: Ever since you woke up Newt can’t help but feel like you’re a different person, it seems he’s not the only one.

a/n: will probably make a part two if anyone wants it

Prompt list | Masterlist | Taglist

Based on: Who by Lauv ft. BTS and the scorch trials

—

Outlines of new eyes and visions of you

Girl, I think I need a minute

To figure out what is, what isn’t

It was all very sudden. One minute you were sleeping on Newt’s shoulder and the next you were being yelled at to get out.

Out of where?

“Move, move, move!” An officer shouted, helping Teresa.

That’s when you remembered, you had escaped the maze.

“C’mon, (Y/N),” Came Minho’s voice, gently shoving you forward. Everything was a blur, having just woken up you could barely make out the yelling and the blinding lights. Minho pushes you toward the edge of the helicopter and a pair of familiar arms wrap around your waist and lift you off and onto the concrete below.

“Are you alright?” Newt asked, moving his hands to rest on your shoulders as you blink wearily, flinching at the gunshots.

“Yeah,” you shake your head, “just a bit of a rude awakening.”

Newt nods, lips pursed, “I’ll say.”

“Thomas we have to go!” Minho shouts, but as usual, Thomas doesn’t listen and he dives back into the helicopter to grab something. Minho curses under his breath and grabs the boy's shirt, practically throwing him out the helicopter after, “Let’s go!”

Thomas and Minho get pushed into you as multiple guards surround you and direct you into the base. The door slams shut behind you and your group stares in awe at the huge place. The same question hung in the air as you all looked at each other, what is this place? A man steps forward, introducing himself and leading you through the garage, giving a brief explanation of the place.

“But we do have a place for you,” Janson said, grabbing your attention as you focus on the back of his head, “a refuge of sorts, outside the scorch. Where WCKD will never find you again,” He turns around to face you, “how does that sound?”

You and Newt share the same skeptical look. It seemed almost too good to be true. Was this truly the end?

“Why are you helping us?” Minho asked, taking the words right out of your mouth.

Janson doesn’t turn around, “Let’s just say the world out there is in a rather precarious situation, we’re all hanging on by a very thin thread. The fact that you kids can survive the flare virus makes you humanity's best chance of continued survival. Unfortunately, it also makes you a target as no doubt by now you’ve noticed.”

Janson stops in front of a door, turning towards you “Beyond this door lies the beginning of your new lives.” He slides a card through, opening it and revealing a long hallway, he turns back, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “First things first let’s do something about that smell.”

You’re sat on a bed next to Teresa, legs dangling over the edge as you glance at Newt. He’s sat in a chair, a rather big needle being pointed at him as he gives the medical personal a concerned look. It’s as if he can feel your eyes on him as he turns to look at you, he smiles softly, trying to reassure you, but you can see the look in his eyes. He looks scared, and maybe it’s the huge needle in his arm or the fact that you’re so far from him.

“Teresa, (Y/N)? I’m Dr. Crawford.”

You glance at her, turning back to Newt, and your eyes drift to Thomas, giving Teresa the same look and you start to wonder if this place was all that it seems.

These choices and voices, they're all in my head,

Sometimes you make me feel crazy

Sometimes, I swear I think you hate me like uh

It seemed the world had a thing for rude awakenings for you. However, this time, you’re being shaken and someone is calling your name.

“(Y/N)? Hey? Hello, c’mon wake up love.”

It’s his voice, but who is he? Your eyes slowly blink open as your head pounds, you can hear distant shouting.

“Guys they’re coming!”

As you slowly regain conscience you realize Newt is the one holding you, and his eyes are searching your face for something.

“What’s happening?” You asked.

A loud crash grabs your attention and you watch the boys flip a table over and shove it against the door, forming some kind of barricade for the time being. Newt helps you off the bed and you wobble against him, before securing your footing and reassuring him you’ll be okay, but it doesn’t seem to convince as he keeps a tight grip on your hand.

“Everyone get behind me!” Minho shouts, forcing you all back.

“I know I’ve been asleep for a while, but I’m pretty sure Minho didn’t know how to use a gun last week,” you said.

Newt shrugs, “Yeah, well, he’s learning now.”

Minho spares a glance back in your direction, before loading the gun, “We gotta get out of here!”

Thomas comes up with another one of his brilliant (and quite dangerous) plans and grabs a stool, bashing at the glass.

“Newt, help me!”

The said boy grabs another stool and both manage to break the glass. Teresa is quick to drop a blanket over the broken window to prevent any injuries. Thomas practically leaps over the area, helping Teresa out as Newt goes next. You climb over after, rejecting his help as you clamber over. The rest follow, and Minho tosses Thomas the gun as he runs toward a door, trying to peer out of it.

“Stay behind me,” Thomas orders as he opens the door and comes to face with someone. He’s quick to respond and shoots him, the man flies back onto the ground as you all stare in shock.

“Well, shit,” You breathe, looking at Thomas, “that’s one hell of a gun.”

Thomas nods, “C’mon.”

And just like before you’re running again, down hallways, and to what looks to be an exit. As per usual, Thomas and Minho lead. Thomas grabs a key card from his pocket, swiping it through only to be met with soft beeps of denial.

“No, no, no,” He murmurs. Alarms are going off above your head and you’re not oblivious to the hopeless looks on everyone's faces as Janson turns the corner.

“Open this door, Janson!” Thomas shouts, aiming the gun at him. Janson holds his hands up as Minho picks up the key card and tries again.

“You really don’t want me too-”

“Open the damn door!”

“Listen to me!” Janson commands, “The maze is one thing but you kids wouldn’t last a day out in the scorch. If the element don’t kill you, the cranks will.”

Thomas continues to hold fire, but the look on his face says anything but.

“Thomas, you have to believe me, I only want what’s best for you.”

You scoff at that, rolling your eyes, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

“Oh yeah? Thomas counters, “Let me guess, WCKD is good.”

Janson smirks, “You're not getting through that door, Thomas.”

As if to prove a point, the door dings, a green light radiating from it as it states ‘access granted’

The door slowly opens and there stands a boy you’ve never met, with Winston, “Hey guys.”

The group of you rushes out, waiting for Thomas, who being Thomas, fires angrily at the guards before throwing the whole gun away.

You lean over to Newt, eyebrows furrowed, “Does he know how to use a gun?”

Newt frowns, “I don’t think so.”

The door begins to close and panic fills you as Thomas runs, but it doesn’t look fast enough. Everyone begins cheering, hoping the runner will make it, but time is running out and the door is closing. Against all odds, Thomas slides through and the boy who you’ve learned to now be Aris smashes the panel as Janson bangs at the glass. In response, Thomas only gives him the middle finger as you laugh.

Newt shoots you a small glance, but you don’t notice. He’s not sure why, and maybe it’s just his brain playing tricks on him, but it almost feels as if something’s off about you. Had WCKD done something to you?

Ever since you woke up he had noticed you weren’t as close to him. Maybe it sounded ridiculous, but it started with when you woke up. He knew you like the back of his hand, and when you first opened your eyes and saw him, there was nothing in them. No love, recognition, warmth, happiness, nothing.

They were just void.

Then there was when you had rejected the hand he gave you when you went through the window - and maybe he’s just paranoid, but you’ve never rejected his help. Even when you were holding onto his hand, it just wasn’t as tight anymore. It’s probably just him, but Newt couldn’t help but feel like ever since you woke you were someone else, but who?

Even now as you climb up the dunes, you were far ahead of him, next to Teresa talking in a hushed voice.

Newt sighs, who were you?

I need a walk, I need a walk, I need to get out of here

'Cause I need to know: Who are you?

'Cause you're not the girl I fell in love with, baby

As the days passed, Newt felt like you were growing more distant. It felt like he didn’t even know you anymore. He could pinpoint the exact moment it happened when you woke up. He knew that much, WCKD had done something to you - you weren’t the same. You weren’t the girl he fell in love with. Newt sighs, running a hand through his hair as he stands up, glancing at the fire in front of him before walking off into the cold night. He just needs to clear his head, reassure himself that it was only him, but he can’t help it. Even now, you were curled up on the desert floor, knees tucked in and completely facing away from everyone. It was like you were closing yourself off from them - distancing yourself.

“You okay?” Thomas asked, startling Newt.

Newt shrugs off Thomas’s hand, nodding, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“It’s (Y/N), isn’t it?”

Newt purses his lips together, staring off into the dark, “How'd you know?”

“She’s not distancing herself from just you. We’ve all noticed, Newt.”

“I’m not crazy,” He mumbles as Thomas nods.

“She’s changed. WCKD did something to her - to them.”

Newt spins around, “Them?”

“Teresa, I know she’s changed too. It only makes sense,” Thomas replies.

“So what do we do?”

“What can we do?”

Newt tugs at the roots of his hair, trying desperately to find a way out of this. “Is there anything we can do?”

Thomas shrugs, “I don’t know.”

Silence settles over the two boys, both sitting on the hard ground and staring into the night. If you weren’t (Y/N), who were you? Had WCKD altered your personality? Changed you? What could they have possibly done to the girl he loved?

Who are you?

'Cause something has changed, you're not the same, I hate it

Oh, I'm sick of waiting for love, love

Oh, I know that you're not the one, one

“Newt, hey do you see that?” Thomas asked, pointing to what looks to be a building in the distance. Newt nods as Thomas works at waking the rest of the group.

“(Y/N), hey, we gotta go,” Newt murmurs, gently shaking you awake. You blink a few times, registering his face before nodding and letting him help you stand up. A loud rumble echoes through the deserted place, followed by a lighting bolt in the distance.

“We have to go, go now!” Thomas said, grabbing at everyone and pushing them forward. You all began running, feet slamming against the sand, desperately trying to beat the storm. Lighting rains down on you all, getting closer and closer.

“(Y/N), c’mon!” Newt shouts, extending a hand toward you and despite what he thinks, you grab it, letting him pull you forward. Holding hands with Newt use to felt right, like two puzzle pieces connecting for the first time, but it only felt wrong now. So, so wrong, and you couldn’t understand why.

A bolt strikes down, alarmingly close and you can hear it ringing in your ears as Newt tugs you toward him, bumping together as you breathe out a sorry.

The building is closer now and you run a bit faster, pulling Newt with you as you near a door.

A loud cackle startles you as you watch Minho and Thomas go flying. Your group screams their names, but it looks like Thomas can’t hear you and Minho is - he’s smoking.

You can hear Thomas screaming Minho’s name, crawling over to him. Newt leaves your side, pushing you back and ordering you to stay there as he and Aris go to help Thomas pick up Minho. You follow Teresa, racing toward the door and waiting in the dark for the boys as they race against the storm.

“Newt!” You scream, urging them to move faster. Against all odds, they stumble inside and Fry slams the door shut.

“Minho?” Thomas cries, shaking him, “c’mon.”

Your heart drops when the boy doesn’t seem to wake up. Out of instinct, you reach for Newt and let him pull you to his chest, hiding your face into the crook of his neck as your fear the worse.

Then, a sharp intake of breath, “What happened?”

Thomas exhales, “You were struck by lightning.”

Minho smiles, a bit dazed, “Sick.”

You roll your eyes, at his comment, stepping back from Newt and offering him an apologetic smile as he nods.

“Guys, do you smell that?” Teresa asks, walking forward.

There’s the sound of chains clinking together before a scream tears through the building. A flashlight shines on the creature and you realize it’s a crank, it screams again and Newt pushes you behind him as the group realizes they’re surrounded.

“Oh shit.”

“I see you’ve met out guards dogs,” A voice says, and you watch as a woman walks up to you guys, “you look like shit.”

You roll your eyes, smiling a bit in relief, “Thanks.”

Feeling hypnotized by the words that you said, Don't lie to me, just get in my head

When the morning comes, you're still in my bed, But it's so, so cold

“Are you okay?” Newt asked, brown eyes sincere.

“I’m fine,” You replied, glancing at your hands instead of him.

“You’re sure?”

“Newt, I’m fine.”

Said boy sighs, “I know you’re lying.”

That gets your attention and your eye snap up to meet his, “What?”

“I know you’re lying, (Y/N),” He shrugs, leaning back. You open your mouth to further argue, but Newt cuts you off, “I don’t know why. I wish you’d tell me, but I guess everyone has their secrets.”

There’s an almost threatening undertone to his voice, but you knew Newt and brushed it off.

“Yeah, I guess we all do.”

Silence fills the void between you both unless you count Jorge yelling at Marcus. You felt so far from Newt, and the reality was you were and Newt was feeling the strain.

“They did something to you,” Newt said, catching you off guard. “They messed with your mind or… or something!”

“Newt,” You call softly, “They didn’t-”

“Don’t say they didn’t do anything, I know they did. I know you’re lying to me - to us. Just tell me, please.”

You turn away from his pleading eyes, intent on keeping your mouth shut, “Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you so cold to me?”

“I’m no-”

“Yes, you are! You can’t even look me in the eye anymore. I pretend I don’t feel it, but I know that when you hold my hand it isn’t the same. You don’t want to.”

You go silent again, opting to look anywhere but him, you couldn’t. If you looked at him, you’d see the tears, the pain in his eyes and it would make the choice too hard.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper.

“What did they do to you?” He asked, setting a hand on yours, trying to get you to look at him, “Please.”

“I can’t,” You protest, making no move to grab his hand, but also not shrugging him off. “I just can’t.”

Newt clicks his tongue, nodding as he removes his hand from yours, and for some reason, you miss it.

“Of course you can’t.”

“I’m sorry Newt.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“Everyone has their secrets,” You echo back to him, “some secrets just aren’t meant to be revealed.”

Newt shakes his head, “Yeah, I guess not.”

Who are you?

'Cause you're not the girl I fell in love with

The fire did nothing to keep Newt warm. He felt numb, cold all over. It seemed after talking to you, he only pushed you away more. Arriving at the right arm should’ve been a moment where you rejoiced, but Newt hadn’t seen you since they arrived.

“Where’s (Y/N)?” Minho asked, glancing around the camp for you, when he doesn’t see you he turns to Newt who shrugs, “It’s none of my business.”

Fry raises his eyebrows, looking to Thomas and Minho as if to say ‘I think we hit a nerve.’

“Aren’t you guys, like, I don’t know… close?” Thomas stuttered, Minho face-planting next to him.

“I loved her,” Newt answers, looking off in the distance missing the way all three boys jaws fell.

“Did he just say loved?”

“That’s like… past tense.”

“So he doesn’t anymore?”

“Holy shit, he’s in love with Thomas.”

“Minho, shut up!”

Minho raises his hand in surrender, “Okay, so then… he’s in love with Teresa?”

Fry slaps Minho upside the head for that comment as Thomas shoots daggers at the Asian, “How stupid are you?”

“Okay fine! He’s-”

“If you say he’s in love with me, Minho I swear to god I will throw you off this cliff,” Fry threatens as Minho goes silent.

“I’m not in love with anyone else,” Newt said, turning back toward them, “She’s just - she’s not the same person from the Glade.”

“Are you saying she’s been taken over by Aliens?”

Fry sighs deeply, lowering his head into his hands, “Minho I’m seriously going to throw you off this damn cliff.”

Minho huffs, mumbling something under his breath, “Okay. I’m done now. You think WCKD did something to her, don’t you?”

Newt nods, staring at his shoes, “I know they did something to (Y/N).”

“But what?” Thomas questions, leaning forward slightly.

“I don’t know! Maybe she has been taken over by bloody aliens-”

“Ah-ha! I was right!”

“Minho!”

“Sorry,” He coughs, “carry on.”

Newt runs a hand through his hair, “Do you think there’s a way to get her back?”

“We don’t even know what they did,” Thomas said.

“There has to be something,” Newt protests, standing up, “I can’t just - I can’t let it end like this. I can’t let her go without knowing we could’ve done something.”

“Newt,” Fry calls, “Is there maybe a chance she just…” He trails off, hinting at something he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“She what?” Newt snaps.

“She doesn’t love you anymore.”

As soon as he said those words, Fry folding in on himself, mumbling an apology.

Newt shakes his head in denial, “No, why would she - it doesn’t make sense.”

“And her being taken by WICKED and them changing her entire personality does?”

“Yes!” Newt shouts, “It makes a lot more sense. You don’t just fall out of love with someone, you can’t. Look, the moment I woke her up I knew something was wrong.”

Minho stands up, resting a hand on the shoulders of his friend, “Just think about it. We’re not saying she did, but you’re ruling it out because you don’t want to believe.”

Thomas nods, “You know we’re here for you and (Y/N). If something’s wrong, we’ll figure it out.”

Newt nods, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, “Thank you.”

“We’ll save her, Newt.”

“I know we will.”

Who are you?

'Cause you’re not the girl I fell in love with, baby

Who are you?

Thomas is forced to his knees next to Minho as the guards yank him in line.

“Why didn’t you run?” Minho whispers, glancing at Thomas from the corner of his eye.

“I’m tired of running,” Thomas said.

A loud rumble echoes through the night as another berg lands. Sand is tossed up from the turbines before they shut off and the door opens. Four guards step out, protecting something - someone.

And that someone was Ava Paige, “Is this all of them?” She turns toward Janson.

“Most of them,” he said, “it’ll be enough.”

“Start loading them in,” She orders.

“Yes, ma’am,” He complies, looking to the guards. “Okay, you heard. Let’s go! Get ‘em on!”

Ava stops in front of the three boys, staring at Thomas, “Hello, Thomas.”

Hurt, betrayal, disbelief flood through Newt when he watches you walk forward with Teresa. The guards weren’t pushing you, in fact, they were protecting you.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Ava said, nodding at the two of you.

Minho stood up, hurt laced in his voice as he looks at the two of you, “What the hell?”

“Teresa? (Y/N)?” Fry questions.

“Wait, what’s going? (Y/N)?” Newt called out, trying to fight the obvious. He already knew the answer, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. What happened to you? What changed the girl who wanted nothing to do with WCKD to siding with them? Most importantly, what happened to the girl he fell in love with? Newt had felt like he’d been stabbed. He should’ve seen the signs, they were right there in front of his face, but he had turned a blind eye and he couldn’t help but feel some of this is his fault.

“They’re with them,” Thomas spat, voice like poison as he glares at the two of you.

“Since when?” Minho scoffed, not even meeting your eyes.

“Oh, Teresa’s always had an evolved appreciation of the greater good,” Janson steps forward, “(Y/N)… not so much, but it seems once we restored Teresa’s memories, it was only a matter of time. (Y/N) was just a bonus here.”

“I’m sorry,” Teresa said, “I had no choice. This is the only way. We have to find a cure.”

“She’s right,” Ava spoke up, “this is all just a means to an end. You used to understand that, Thomas. No matter what you think of me… I am not a monster. I’m a doctor. I swore an oath to find a cure! No matter the cost.” She pauses, “I just need more time.”

“More blood,” Mary said, glaring at Ava.

“Hello, Mary,” Ava replies, ignoring her remark. “I hoped we’d meet again. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”

“I’m sorry about a lot of things, too, but not this. At least my conscience is clear.”

Ava didn’t even bat an eyelash, “So is mine.”

A gunshot echoes through the night and you flinch. Mary slumps forward, Vince desperately calling her name as he fights off the guard.

“Come on, Janson,” Ava commands, gently grabbing you and Teresa’s arm. “Load them up. Let’s go. All these people. Get rid of them. Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Your eyes gaze down at the ground, trying to fight the feeling of all this being wrong. Was it wrong? You wanted to save lives, but was it worth risking theirs?

“Get back! Everyone, stand back!” Thomas shouts, and you spin around, eyes wide when you see the explosive in his hand and the determined look in his eyes.

“Stand back!”

Janson runs forward, eyes blazing, “Hold your fire!”

“Stand back,” Thomas said, “let them go.”

“Thomas, put it down,” Janson tried, but Thomas shakes his head, “Let them all go!”

“You know I can’t do that!” Ava protests.

“Thomas,” Teresa called, voice soft, “please stop. I made a deal with them. They promised we’d be safe - All of us.”

You don’t say anything, you can’t even look at them. Guilt was eating at you, you were in the wrong, but you couldn’t go back.

“And I’m supposed to trust you now?”

“It’s true!” Ava steps in, “it was her only condition-”

“Shut up!” Thomas screams, stepping back,

“Everything can go back to the way it was. Thomas… do you really want all of them to die?”

You turn away from her, eyes glassy as you realize how badly you screwed up.

“Listen to her, Thomas,” Janson spoke, “think about what you’re doing.”

“We’re with you, Thomas.”

Your heart drops when you hear Newt’s voice among the three, all of them crowding around the bomb

“Please,” You whisper, the first you’d spoken, “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t,” Ava backed you up.

“Do it, Thomas,” Minho said, glaring at you. 

“We’re ready,” Fry reassures. 

“We’re not going back there.”

“Thomas…”

Thomas raises his hand with the remote, finger hovering over the detonation button, “It’s the only way.”

You screw your eyes shut, turning away and waiting for something, an explosion, but instead, a crash and the sound of a truck come through. Chaos explodes as Jorge crashes into the helicopter. Everyone tries to break free from their restraints as you remain frozen in place, wondering if this was your chance to escape. Thomas blinks a few times, still holding the bomb. 

“Freeze!” A guard orders, “Drop it, kid!” 

Thomas, being the little shit that he is, ignores him and tosses the bomb forward, falling straight to the ground as it explodes. You think this is your chance to escape, to run away and find Newt and apologize, but Teresa grabs your arms, dragging you with her to the berg, and your hope diminishes, “We have to go, (Y/N).” 

You follow her inside, watching the whole ordeal play out. Your eyes scan the crowd for Newt, but you can’t find him. Instead, you see Minho being dragged toward you by two guards. The guards drop him right at your feet, and you glance down, eyes filled with tears that roll down your cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper only to Minho. “I’m so sorry.” 

Cause something has changed, you're not the same, I hate it

Oh, I'm sick of waiting for love, love

Oh, I know that you're not the one, one

— END —

The Maze Runner Taglist: @peterspideyy @martinimom @lozzypoz321

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,618

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide, description of past injury, scars, discussion of c!Wilbur’s overall terrible mental health

Chapter Summary: In which Phil and Wilbur finally sit down and have a talk. They both have things to say that the other needs to hear.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Eighteen: quiet now

They do come up with a plan. A simple one, as far as plans go, but that means less moving parts, less things to go wrong. Sometimes a simpler plan is better. And considering the effort it takes to get them all there, to get them all on the same page, he’ll accept it. But night has fallen by the time they figure it all out,

(and by that time his throat is hoarse and his hands are shaking so he shoves them into his pockets and Tommy keeps shooting him looks and Phil is doing the same and Techno is kind of hovering a bit but he ignores them because he’s fine and he keeps his shoulders straight his shoulders straight set and straight so that no one looks at him and sees his exhaustion the way he’s crumbling and he tells himself that he’s not and that he’s alright that this is nothing but he’s not sure he believes himself anymore and that in itself is terrifying because if he’s not alright then he has to confront the dark confront what he does not want to confront so he tells himself he’s alright but the walls are cracking they’re cracking)

so they’ll set it all in motion in the morning. For now, they retire to bed. Almost all of them; Eret says she’ll keep watch by the gates. Once, he wouldn’t have trusted her word. He’s not sure that he does, even now. But he doesn’t object, and neither does anyone else, so.

It’s night. He should sleep. He is even aware that he needs to sleep, that he’s been dealing with a pounding headache ever since just after the last time he let Schlatt materialize, that every so often his vision swims for no apparent reason. He needs to sleep, because he’s no use to anyone like this, not if he can’t wield a weapon, whether physical or verbal, and he used all the rest of his energy on getting through the rest of the meetings. The collaboration. The planning. The day, plain and simple.

He knows when he’s running on fumes.

Eret gave him a room. She gave everyone a room. Because she has a bloody enormous castle, with rooms to spare. So he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the moonlight slowly creep in as the clouds outside finally clear, and he can’t sleep. Exhaustion grips him with a thousand clinging hands, and he can’t sleep. He knows exactly where everyone is, knows that Tommy and Tubbo are sharing the room next to him, that Techno and Phil are on this same hall, and he even made sure to locate Fundy despite—everything.

Everyone is safe, in this moment, at least. But he can’t sleep, can’t give his body the rest it’s demanding of him. His mind is contorting in on itself, itching, buzzing, like a swarm of bees that can’t find the home hive. And his thoughts, as have been their wont lately, slip away before he can examine them properly.

(or perhaps he’s letting them go, has been letting them go all along, because he does not want to look at them, does not want to understand, because he wants to achieve that nebulous concept of being better but if he looks at himself too closely then he will have to acknowledge that being better doesn’t only have the meaning he’s assigned to the phrase, doesn’t just mean being better to others but also to)

He can’t sleep. So he gets up. Steadies himself against the bed’s banister until the world stops spinning. And then goes out into the hall. The stone is lit with flickering torches, and the soft crackling of the fire is the only sound. He slips out quietly, footsteps light on the carpet, and just walks. To the end of the hallway, glancing back just once, and—

Schlatt is at the other end. Staring at him. He stares back.

And then the ghost shakes his head and vanishes. The glimmer of blue is still there, still present as a shimmer if he doesn’t look at the spot directly, but the message is clear. Schlatt doesn’t want to talk.

He doesn’t particularly want to talk, either. Not after the mess that today has been. He regrets laying out all of his cards in front of Schlatt in the way that he did. The fact that Schlatt now knows how to make himself solid only adds to that. He’s not fond of the sensation, of his strength leaving him in a rush, pulled away from him without his consent.

(and his heart constricting in his chest)

The ground tilts a bit. He places his hands against the wall, and the dizziness passes. He keeps going. Keeps stalking through the halls.

He’s done this before. He felt like the castle’s passages were haunted, then, a few days ago. He still feels the same. Especially now, at night, when the whole castle is still. When he might as well be the only person alive.

(if he is that)

Except then, he rounds a corner and nearly runs over Ranboo. Or rather, doesn’t run him over, exactly, because Ranboo is exceedingly tall, and he somehow seems even taller now. But it’s him, his skin divided in black and white, wearing that suit he always seems to have on. Wilbur remembers to avert his eyes before meeting his gaze, but not before catching the fact that Ranboo’s are glowing purple. Which is different from usual. Definitely different from usual.

“Wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up,” he says, backing up a step. He fixes his gaze past Ranboo’s shoulder and tries to observe him surreptitiously.

Ranboo is holding a block of dirt. Grass intact. Interesting.

And then, Ranboo chirps at him. An enderman sort of warble, distorted and yet, somehow, gentle.

“Um,” he says. “Are you—is this the sleepwalking thing again?”

Immediately afterward, he realizes the stupidity of asking a sleepwalking person whether or not they’re sleepwalking. But the eyes are new, for sure; in the Egg’s chamber, when he was sleepwalking before, his eyes were just like they’d been previously, one red and one green, just glazed over.

His eyes now aren’t glazed at all, are bright and alert. But purple.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Alright, you know what, good for you,” he says. “I’m just going to keep walking. Maybe you should get some rest later or something.”

It’s not any of his concern what Ranboo’s doing. As long as he’s staying in the castle, he can sleepwalk and be an enderman to his heart’s content. It’s none of his business, and if he really feels the need, he’ll go get Phil. Since Phil seems to be halfway to adopting him in any case. Let Phil deal with it.

So he moves to walk around Ranboo. Except Ranboo mirrors him, and suddenly, the grass block is being shoved against his chest. Lightly, but enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Um,” he says again. Not up to his usual standards of eloquence, but Ranboo likely won’t remember this later if he actually is sleepwalking, so it’s fine. “You want me to take it? Is that it?”

Ranboo vwoops, still holding the block out at him, so he reaches for it, curling his fingers into the dirt. Ranboo releases the block as soon as he does, and the dirt immediately starts to come loose, to lose its shape, and a good bit of the grass starts to fall off. But Ranboo nods in satisfaction, letting out another warble, so he keeps hold of it as best he can. At least until Ranboo has passed by him, evidently content with whatever he thinks he’s accomplished. Wilbur turns to stare at his retreating back until he’s vanished around the corner.

And then he looks down at his hands. At the block, which barely resembles a block anymore. Mostly just a lump of dirt.

“Right,” he mutters, letting it slide through his fingers. Some of it clings to his skin, and he wrinkles his nose, brushing his hands against his coat.

He’s not sure what that was. But alright.

He finds his way out into the open air, eventually, climbing up and up until he gets to the roof of the castle. The sky above is lit with stars, and if he tilts his head and closes his eyes, he can hear them. Humming, always humming. Or perhaps he’s imagining it, his brain filling in a sound he can’t truly hear but that he knows is present. He’s not sure it makes a difference either way. It’s still a comfort. A small one, but a comfort nonetheless.

He’s considering whether to try to sleep up here instead when he sees that Phil is here too. A little off to the side, a dark silhouette staring out over the SMP, sitting on a stone bench. Why Eret put a bench on the roof, he has no idea; or perhaps Phil made it himself. He wouldn’t be surprised.

He should probably leave him be. And yet, he doesn’t want to go back inside, and—

Phil really ought to be resting too.

So he crosses the rooftop, slowly, almost reluctantly as he picks his way across the stone. He hesitates before sitting next to Phil on the bench, leaving a bit of space between them. This close, he can see the bags under Phil’s eyes better than ever, as well as the way his cloak twitches as the wings underneath move.

“Any particular reason why you’re up?” he asks. Phil doesn’t act surprised at his appearance; he knew he was there, then. Heard his approach, most likely, or perhaps just sensed his presence. Hundreds of years have made Phil a difficult man to catch off guard.

(though you did it once, in a different way, in that room, you caught him off guard and broke him in the catching)

Phil snorts. “Nightmare,” he says, clipped, though Wilbur is somewhat surprised to have gotten even that admission out of him. “I should be asking the same of you. You need to get some fucking sleep, Wilbur.”

“I’m well aware,” he says. “I’ve been trying. Thought a walk might clear my head.” He hesitates, not sure that he should push any further, not sure that he wants to, that Phil would welcome it. But then, he’s never been one to let such a small detail as whether his prying is welcome stop him. “Can I ask what about?” he asks, and is satisfied with that. If Phil wants him to fuck off, then he’ll tell him so.

But Phil is silent for a moment.

“You, usually,” he says.

“Oh,” Wilbur replies.

He didn’t expect that. But he feels like he should have.

Phil shifts, then, his clothing rustling as he turns to half face him.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. “It’s not your fault. You get as old as I am and you pick up a few recurring nightmares. Persistent little fucks, but it’s not anything to be worried about.”

But this one is bad enough to cost you sleep on the eve of battle, and I know you know better than to let that happen, so it must be bad, he doesn’t say. But this one is about me, he doesn’t say. But there is still an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, one that doesn’t let up no matter how deeply he breathes. So he doesn’t look at Phil, but he says, “Tell me about it?” and immediately curses the weakness of his voice. He almost sounds scared, which is not what he was aiming for. Inviting, maybe. He wants to know.

(he doesn’t, actually, but he feels like he should, so it’s the same thing in the end)

Phil sighs.

“We’re on a cliff, you and I,” he says, sounding tired. “There’s an ocean below us, far down. Neither of us speak. You throw a sword down at my feet, and I—I do it. Just like I did. And then, you smile at me and fall backward. Off the cliff.” He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I jump after you. And then I remember that I can’t fly.”

Wilbur swallows.

(he has no trouble conflating himself with a nightmare, no trouble at all, but it becomes more difficult when the nightmare is not him but rather losing him and he should have expected as much from Phil because Phil for all his long years has never been good at letting go at giving up on something that cannot be saved but he still doesn’t know what to do with this what to say)

“I thought falling from a cliff was a Theseus thing,” he manages.

Phil chuckles dryly. “Techno does like his myths,” he says, “but life’s not so cut and dry as those are. Not everything has a perfect parallel. We’re not storybook characters.”

It’s not a pointed comment. But his mind still cringes away from the words.

“But stories come from somewhere,” he says softly. It’s not a plea, because he doesn’t have anything to plead, but if that’s so, then he doesn’t know why his voice is lined with desperation, all of a sudden, why his heart is thumping against his ribcage. “Even in real life, we all have roles to play.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing, Wil?” Phil asks. “Playing a role?”

His breath catches, snags in his lungs, like his chest is full of thorns.

(you do not like to be seen do not like to be perceived not like this not in a way that lays out the heart of you your core beliefs those are for you and you alone and you guard them so no one else knows and they receive only what you choose to present and so you do not like this at all do not like to be known beyond what you have explicitly chosen to share)

(you have always been a showman)

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, but it’s stiff, too stiff, and Phil is too perceptive a man to be fooled by it.

“I’ve noticed what you’re doing,” Phil says. “You’re running yourself ragged trying to pull everyone together. To direct them. And I know you’re a leader, Wil, I really do, and you’re damn good at it, too, but you can’t possibly believe that wearing yourself out like this is healthy.”

He shuts his eyes. “It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“It needs to be done. But not necessarily by you, mate. A lot of the people here are more than capable of taking on some of  the responsibility. Your brothers included. Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear you ask one,” he snaps, sudden irritation welling up. “It’s not a matter of health, Phil! It’s a matter of what’s important, and what’s important right now is dealing with all of this bullshit. That has to come first.”

Phil sits up straighter. His hands grip his knees, and his eyebrows draw together.

“You come first,” Phil says. “You always come first. Your health is important, and you—you can’t take care of anyone else before you take care of yourself. Wil, how long have you—”

He cuts off, but Wilbur knows what he was about to ask. How long have you thought like this? Or something like that, anyway. This is another thing that he should have expected from Phil, this persistent concern for him. It’s unnecessary, since he

(decided long ago that his health could fall on his list of priorities so long as he was effective, so long as he was getting things done, and he did get things done, in his country, in his exile, he got things done and that was what mattered because he himself has always been so much less important than the things he could create and the things he could do for others)

has matters well in hand, but he doubts Phil would understand if he tried to explain it.

(easier to tell himself that than to admit that he can’t explain it at all, that no explanation he could give would hold up to a moment’s scrutiny, that Phil will see right through it to the real underlying cause, and Phil has already perceived far too much)

“Right, health is important,” he says, placating. “I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t. Though, honestly, you’re one to talk. Did you think I didn’t see the state your wings are in? When’s the last time you bothered to preen them?”

It’s a low blow, and he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Phil flinches, his face setting in a harder expression. More closed off, and he really should have known better, shouldn’t he? Should’ve known better than to bring it up like that, because Phil’s wings used to be his pride and joy, and now they’re ruined and it’s his fault to boot, and he can admit that he was looking for a sore spot to hit, but that wound is far worse than a sore spot.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” He looks away, unable to meet Phil’s eyes, and finds himself looking up again. To the stars.

“It’s alright.” Phil laughs humorlessly. “I can’t say that you’re wrong.” He sighs, posture relaxing slightly. “I caught that, by the way. I know when you’re trying to distract me.” He tilts his head upward, staring at the stars just like Wilbur is, his hat sliding further back on his head. “I’m not trying to lecture you. I just want to understand. Why can’t you let yourself rest, Wil?”

That is a far more complicated question than he knows. That is a question that has its roots in months long past, in a drug van and an idea and a revolution and a nation, in his drive to get recognition and his determination that his country would succeed,

(because if it was not a success then it would be a failure and he too would be a failure)

in sleepless nights spent screaming into his pillow and days pasting on a smile and a confident stride. And then, in relinquishing his power when the people called for it, when he lost, conceding gracefully even as his stomach dropped into his boots, and getting an arrow in his back for his troubles, he and his brother chased like dogs from the home they built. And then, in the ravine, every shadow a threat, every person out to get him, every whisper a lie, every moment settling the despair more deeply into his bones.

But perhaps Phil knows that. Or some of it at least. He doesn’t know how much Phil has guessed. But Phil knows enough to know that the him that he encountered in that room was a far cry from the him that he portrayed in his letters, before he stopped sending them at all, before he could no longer bring himself to pick up the pen, before the thought of lying to his father again left him feeling physically ill, and the idea of telling him the truth was worse.

Phil knows enough to know that something went wrong.

Perhaps a bit of honesty wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps trying to get him to understand wouldn’t hurt. At least, not more than it already does, no more than he already has.

“It’s because I know what I’m like, Phil,” he says softly. “I know what I’m like.”

The stars twinkle at him.

“Okay,” Phil says. Patient. “What does that mean?”

He considers it. Considers everything.

“You know the legacy I left on this server, right?” he says. “You know what I left behind when I died.”

Phil turns his head, looks at him. His expression is slightly pained.

“I sort of destroyed the legacy you left,” he says, and it takes him a second to realize what he’s talking about.

“Not that L’Manberg,” he says. “That L’Manberg wasn’t mine. I suppose it was Tubbo’s more than anything, but it’s hard to say, I think. I can’t really speak on it. Ghostbur—saw things differently than how I would have.” He stops for Phil’s reaction to that, but aside from a slight narrowing of his eyes, there is nothing. “I mean the original. L’Manberg. My L’Manberg.”

Phil sucks in a sharp breath at his choice of words.

“No, Wil,” he says. “No, I didn’t really get to see it.”

“That’s the point,” he says. He closes his eyes, searching for the right words. The stars are pinprick lights dancing on his eyelids. “I destroyed it. I destroyed it all, Phil. I waffled back and forth a lot, for weeks, deciding whether I was going to do it or not. And then I did. I pushed that button, Phil. I made the decision. I destroyed it. I destroyed people’s homes. I betrayed all of my friends. And the thing about that is, even if I regret hurting them, now, I still don’t regret the action itself. I don’t regret destroying it, Phil. It needed to go.” I needed to go.

“Why is that, Wil?” Phil asks quietly.

“It wasn’t good anymore,” he answers easily. This, at least, he knows. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t mine anymore, either, but mainly it was that it wasn’t good. It became—it became corrupt. Bad. And it was never going to be good again, so it had to stop. It had to end. It all had to end. But that’s not my point right now. My point is that that was my legacy, right? L’Manberg? And I destroyed that, but what’s most important is the pain I caused. That was my legacy. That pain. That was what I left behind me. And even before that, even before everything, when I started it in the first place, I brought war to the server, Phil. Suffering, conflict. And the war was a game at first. We were all friends at the start. But then I decided that it wasn’t a game. I declared independence, and I meant it. So in the end, all of the problems on this server can be traced back to me. Something I did, or something I said.” He leans his head forward again, gazing out at the horizon rather than the night sky. “It all comes back to me. I’ve never been good for this server.”

He pauses, waiting for Phil’s reply. None comes, and he glances over; Phil is staring at him, face white as a sheet.

“I haven’t answered your question yet,” he says. “But you need to—you need to understand all of that so you understand why I feel—” He breaks off. His tongue feels clumsy, and his mind suddenly blanks. He’s not even sure that any of what he’s just said makes sense, and if it doesn’t make sense, then he can’t continue, because if he’s really going to do this, really going to put this all out there for Phil to hear, then he needs it to make sense, needs to be sure that he actually understands.

“Why you feel what?” Phil asks. Still quiet.

He takes in a breath. Tries to gather his thoughts. The exhaustion isn’t helping. It’s like wading through mud.

“I know what I’m like,” he repeats. It makes a good springboard. “So I know that I sure as hell don’t deserve to be back here, even if it had been what I wanted. But I am, so I need to do something that’s worth that. I need to pull myself together and get us all out of this. For Tommy’s sake, if for no one else, and for Tubbo, and—and Fundy, and everyone who doesn’t deserve to be pulled into this mess. Another mess. If I have the ability to help, then I have a responsibility to do that. I can’t just—push it off to someone else, Phil. That’s not how it works.”

“Why not?” Phil asks.

“Because then I’m not worth it, then, am I?” he erupts. Why isn’t Phil getting this? “Phil, we’re all measured by the things we create. By the things we’re able to do, our accomplishments. If I can’t do anything that’s worth something, then what the fuck am I here for? Because it’s not because I asked, Phil. I got what I deserved in the end, and that was supposed to be all. I wanted it to be all, Phil, I wanted—”

He cuts off, horror mounting in him. This was a mistake. He never should have said anything at all, never should have started in on this. He should have dodged the questions, the probing comments, until Phil finally got tired and left it alone.

He should have gone back inside.

But Phil still hasn’t spoken, so he presses on, trying to wrap it up in a way that’s understandable.

“In the end, it all comes down to the fact that I have experience with this kind of stuff,” he says. “Someone needs to step up, and I can. So I need to. That’s all it is.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I probably should’ve just skipped to that part.”

“No, I’m glad you didn’t,” Phil says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that he can’t place the reason for. “I’m glad you—I’m glad you told me this. But—Wil, okay, first off, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, and it doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand it,” he mutters. He really ought to go back inside. But the night air is so fresh and clear, smelling of humidity and petrichor, and the thought of returning to that empty, dark room only to stare at the ceiling until morning makes something in him shrivel up and die inside. If he’s not going to be able to sleep, then he’d rather be awake out here than in there.

“Wil,” Phil says, insistent, and suddenly, Phil’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him toward him with a light but firm touch. He blinks. “Do you not take care of yourself because you think you don’t deserve it?” Something in Phil’s voice folds like wet paper, just as fragile, just as flimsy.

He opens his mouth to respond, and no words come.

(there is is, the crux of the matter, the core of it all, because he is a person built of pretty words and self-loathing, and long before he directed any anger at the world around him, he pointed it inward, lashed at himself until only scars remained, and he called that just, called that right)

He’s not sure how Phil jumped to that conclusion from all of that. But—he’s trying to deny it, trying to refute the point, but the words just won’t form.

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, sounding a bit wrecked, and then, the hands on his shoulders move to his arms, gently pulling him forward and into Phil’s embrace. Phil’s arms circle him lightly, his hands rubbing patterns into his back, and then, his wings rise from under his cloak, swooping forward and closing around him in a motion that is all-too familiar from his childhood, in a motion indicating that even now, Phil is trying to comfort him, trying to protect him with all that he is. It’s a hug that means warmth and safety and love, and Wilbur begins to tremble, because—

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t. He doesn’t understand what he did to deserve it.

“You don’t need to do anything to be worthy of love,” Phil murmurs. “You don’t need to do anything to deserve to take care of yourself. And—you’re wrong about your legacy. It’s not just pain and suffering. You’ve done so many good things for so many people, and they remember that, even if you can’t. I see it every day. You were missed, Wil. So fucking missed, by so many more people than just me.”

And that can’t be true. That can’t possibly be true, because he remembers his ending certainty, his declaration that everyone would thank Phil for killing him, that everyone wanted him to do it, and he was so sure of himself, then, because he was the traitor, he was the villain, and villains get what they deserve. And perhaps he wasn’t entirely right, not in Tommy’s case, at any rate, because Tommy wanted him back, at least, but everyone else should have wanted him dead.

But no one has. No one has thus far, at least. No one has tried to do anything to him aside from a few pointed comments. No one has tried to lock him up or kill him. No one has tried, even when they should, they definitely should, because he was hated by the end—wasn’t he?

(no. except for by one, and you have never judged yourself fairly)

So, what does that mean, then? What does it mean that he understands far less than he thought he did? What does it mean that he is struggling for control, falling back into old patterns because it’s all he knows, struggling and falling and failing? He thought he knew, thought he understood well how it all ties together, how to measure his own worth by what he can do, but here is Phil saying that that’s not right at all, and what is he supposed to do with that?

He has vowed to be better. Has been trying to be better. Has he been getting that wrong, too?

Or perhaps he isn’t wrong. Perhaps Phil is. He would like to believe that Phil is. It would be so much easier if Phil is. But here, now, held with arms and wings both, the contact chasing all of the day’s chill away, he’s not sure that he can arrive at that conclusion. Not sure he can let himself deny it, deny this.

But if he is wrong about this, he is wrong about so much, and that—that is terrifying.

“I’ve been trying to be better. I’ve been trying so hard,” he gasps out. “Phil—Phil, I don’t think I know what I’m doing. I don’t think I know how.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says. “That’s okay, you don’t have to. You just have to try. That’s all anyone wants. And it’s a process, not a one-and-done thing. It’s okay to not know.” Phil pauses. One hand moves from his back and goes up to card through his hair. Wilbur lets out a sigh. “But part of that is being better toward yourself. You deserve that just by virtue of existing. You don’t have to do anything or make anything. You deserve better things.”

(his own voice: you deserve good things and you can have them. but that was to Tommy, for Tommy, and it surely can’t apply to him, surely, because he is different, is not good like Tommy is, because he may be trying not to be the villain anymore but he was one once and he is not good and even before then he was not good enough so surely he cannot turn that around on himself surely he cannot)

“I don’t know if I can believe that,” he admits.

“That’s alright, too,” Phil says. “We can work on it, okay? We’ll all work on it together. Just, remember that you do deserve better things. No matter what your brain is telling you. Your brain is fucking wrong, okay? In this, it’s so fucking wrong. You deserve to be—to be fucking kind to yourself.” He pauses for a moment, and when he continues, his voice is full of trepidation. “Wil, you are—I mean, you do—you do want to—”

He seems to be struggling to phrase it, but Wilbur knows exactly what he’s asking.

“I don’t know about want,” he says. He’s been honest thus far; may as well continue. “I—I didn’t tell you about the time with the Egg, before you got here. It got in my head good. Really good. And it offered me—rest. I tried to give in to it. If other people weren’t there, I would have.”

Phil’s grip on him tightens.

“But I’ve decided I’m staying,” he continues. “I’ve decided. For the sake of—I mean, some of you people seem to care about me, for some godforsaken reason. And I don’t want to hurt you. So I’m staying here. Alive. I’m going to keep trying.”

“Okay,” Phil whispers. “Okay, that’s a good start.”

If that is a start, then what is the end goal? But he’s too worn out to ask. Exhausted in so many more ways than one.

But his mind is quieter. No longer buzzing. Like a storm has finally passed over, leaving destruction in its wake, but also calm.

He finally brings his arms up and embraces Phil in turn, leaning his weight against his chest. The moment he lets himself, all his muscles go limp, his body finally succumbing to the break he so sorely needs.

“You’re a sappy old man, do you know that?” he mumbles.

“I’m your father,” Phil says. “Comes with the territory.”

He hums, pushing his face against Phil’s robes. He’s clutching at his back, but the cloak has shifted, now that Phil’s moved his wings to wrap around him, so if he inches his hands up a bit, they’ll hit the wings’ base. So he does, slowly, cautiously, and then just lets his hands rest there, against the feathers. Phil stiffens.

��Let me preen them,” he says.

Phil takes a second to answer.

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about not taking on as much responsibility?” he says, and just as Phil can pick out when he’s trying to dodge a topic, he can tell right away that the question is an avoidance.

“This is completely different,” he says. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t. But—” He moves back so he can stare Phil in the face, taking a moment to chew on his next words. “I want to. Please.”

He’s not sure why this is suddenly so important to him. It’s probably something about how the state of these wings is his fault in the first place, about how Phil wrecked them in an effort to protect him, about how he turned around and begged him to kill him a moment later, with no regard for what Phil had just sacrificed. It’s probably something about how Phil is talking self-acceptance at him and yet obviously has not been taking care of himself, not in this aspect, at least, and he hates it, hates to see this disregard for things that he once held so dear, hates to see it and know that the blame lies with him. It’s probably something about how being held like this takes him back to when he was younger, and he always loved running his hands through his father’s feathers when he was still a child, straightening them and cleaning them and taking pride in the fact that he was helping, that he was a part of something, part of a family at last after so long on his own.

It’s probably all of that at once.

Something in Phil seems to deflate. His shoulders slump, which is not exactly the reaction Wilbur was hoping for.

And then—

“Alright,” Phil whispers. He leans back from the hug, stretching out his wings so that Wilbur can get a good look at them. So he does look, and he struggles to keep his face neutral; he’d hoped, somehow, that his glimpse of them in the Egg’s chamber, ragged and bleeding from the thorns, was exaggerated in his memory, that they’re not actually in as terrible a way as he remembers. But as Phil allows him to stare, his heart sinks.

Even in the dim light of the stars, he can see that the wings are a mess. And his stomach rolls as his eyes land on bare, scarred patches of skin, on exposed bone. A few places are still bandaged from the damage the Egg did, though potions have done much in the way of healing those particular wounds.

And only those, it seems.

(the Angel of Death will fly no more)

But there are still plenty of feathers, feathers that Phil obviously hasn’t been looking after, feathers that fall every which way, sticking out at odd angles. There are a few spots that Phil has evidently straightened himself, but not many. Some appear to be overlapping strangely, poking into the skin in a way that cannot be comfortable.

He looks back to Phil’s face. Phil’s expression is odd, some combination of resignation and defiance, as if halfway daring him to comment.

So Wilbur doesn’t. Just scoots forward slightly and runs his hand across some of the offered feathers.

And then gets to work.

Even in his tired state, the motions are familiar, far too familiar to mess up. Straighten the feathers, pick out dirt and other detritus that’s been caught in and beneath them. His hands are more hesitant than they ever have been, struggling with what to do as they near the more obviously injured places, but he does know how to do this. He has done it so many times before.

(and if Phil is allowing him this now, when he obviously has not allowed anyone near his wings in a long time, even Techno, even the son whose side he remained by, then perhaps it is a good sign, and perhaps he can take it as a sign of hope, as a sign that things can be better are getting better no matter the hurts that have yet to heal)

“Do they hurt?” he can’t help but ask, voice low.

Phil hesitates a beat too long. “Not usually,” he says, and Wilbur knows it for a lie.

There’s a lot of feathers loose. A lot of feathers coming out at a mere touch. And Wilbur knows how this works, knows that if the feather is already falling out then it needs to be removed, but it still concerns him, just how many there are, just how many now litter the ground, stirring in the wind.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if it hurts right now. But another glance at Phil’s face forestalls him. His eyes have drifted shut, the lines around his eyes and on his forehead smoothing out, and the tension has bled from his frame.

(a memory: you have lived in this house scarce weeks and you barely trust these two at all but this boy who will become your brother has sat you down with the man who will become your father and is telling you, determinedly, seriously, resolutely, that if you’re going to stick around then you need to know how to do this, and Philza is laughing at the both of you and you are nervous, because you have never had a home before and you want to keep this one, but Technoblade shows you how to card through the feathers, and Phil chirps at you every now and then, soft and encouraging, and it feels a bit like a home, you think, if you’ll let yourself have it)

For a moment, he lets his hand hover over bone. It’s so very wrong, so very disturbing. Bones should not be extended out of flesh in the way that these are. His stomach flips again.

“This is my fault,” he murmurs. The words slip out.

“It was my choice,” Phil says, opening his eyes. “I’d do it again.” It’s a steady declaration this time, no indication of a lie.

(and he almost wishes that there were, because he has never known what to do with unwavering protection, protection that he does not deserve—but then, Phil has told him that his sense of what he deserves might not be right at all, and he doesn’t know what to do with that either)

(because the protection offered is without a doubt resolute, unquestioning, unconditional, and in that moment, as the explosions went off and Phil shielded him with no hesitation even though he could not have known that a life lost to them would have been his last because he did not tell him did not tell him anything at all)

(you try not to remember that Phil must have waited for you to respawn and try not to imagine the look on his face when your body remained and somebody had to tell him had to tell him that this is a three-life server and the life he took was the last the last the last the finale the ending an ending he surely did not intend to grant and you cannot let yourself imagine the moment he found out you cannot)

He doesn’t have an answer to that. None that Phil would accept, at any rate. So he doesn’t answer at all, just keeps dragging his fingers through his father’s feathers, neatening them, cleaning them where he can, and there’s only so much he’s going to be able to to like this, here and now, but it’s a start. Judging by the way Phil’s eyes are drooping again, he feels more comfortable than before. And really, that was the goal, wasn’t it? To do something? Anything?

(anything to ease the weight to lift the burden and Phil has a point, perhaps, about responsibility and taking on too much but this is not a responsibility is not work this is taking care of family and if Phil is allowing you this then perhaps you ought to consider accepting help in return perhaps letting your loved ones in would not be such a bad idea perhaps you can put a little more of yourself on display and trust them to smooth out the rough edges perhaps perhaps)

Eventually, he runs out of feathers to preen, to fix. There is nothing he can do about the scars, the bones, but he has done what he can, and perhaps that means something, even if not everything.

“We should go back inside,” Phil murmurs. His words slur slightly; he’s listing to the side a bit, obviously just on the edge of sleep. It makes Wilbur glad to know that some things don’t change.

“Probably,” he says. “I’d like to stay out for a few minutes longer. The stars look nice tonight.”

Phil yawns, and halfway through, the noise transforms into a warbling chirp.

“I s’ppose we can do that,” he agrees, and in the next instant, Phil is wrapping his wings around him again, pulling him closer, and he doesn’t fight it. He lets himself lean into Phil’s side, warm and secure. Overhead, the stars spin. And hum. They always hum, even if he can’t quite hear the notes, and for the moment, he feels right with his place in the universe.

He falls asleep like that, finally. His dreams are full of music and feathers and distant birdsong.

--------------------

He wakes up to the clanging of a bell.

“Oh, fuck,” Phil is saying, and the weight of his wings disappears in a split second. Wilbur almost topples over as Phil lurches to his feet, catching himself just in time, bracing himself against the bench and squinting against the morning sun. It is morning; that’s probably the best night’s sleep he’s gotten in the past few days, the beginning insomnia notwithstanding. His weariness is not quite gone, but it’s far less prevalent than it has been.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the light. The first thing he sees are the red vines crawling over the sides of the castle, inching toward the roof.

“Shit, fuck,” Phil is still saying, “the enchantments are gone, we need to move—”

The bell clangs twice, then thrice more, and then falls silent. Eret said they had a bell, didn’t they? That they would ring it if something happened, to wake everyone up?

“Fuck,” Phil says, suddenly hushed. “Wil.”

He rises, coming to stand by Phil’s side, peering out toward the gates, the wall, the place where the enchanted boundaries are supposed to be set. The castle itself doesn’t yet seem to be overrun, but the walls are covered in the foliage, and if he watches them carefully, he can see them growing in real time, unfurling toward them like bloody banners.

Dream stands just inside the gates. Behind him, there are others: Bad, Ant, Ponk, Punz, the four they knew to expect for sure, along with a woman he doesn’t recognize, white flowers strewn in her hair and wrapped around her arms. In front of them, Eret stands with their sword held out, and Sapnap staggers to stand beside them, obviously just woken up. Hopefully the others are on the move, too.

But what draws Wilbur’s attention is Ranboo. Standing next to Dream, slouched. Eyes no longer purple, but vacant, staring, dull. Dream has a possessive hand on his shoulder. Ranboo himself isn’t moving.

(betrayed betrayed betrayed even if history does not repeat it rhymes echoes and rhymes and he should’ve known better than to trust should’ve known better than to think that no one would stab him in the back because that’s just what people do)

“I hope you took advantage of the time we gave you to prepare,” Dream says. “We thought it’d be only fair. But it’s checkmate now.”

And the smile on his mask seems to grow.

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter Nine ~ Cosima

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3476

Warnings: None

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour_rainycity” if you prefer!**

A/n Sorry this was a little late! Happy reading :)

Translations: Mae govannen = well met! // Meleth nîn = my love

Two weeks after I woke in this strange world, we reach Imladris.

When Haldir tells me that the sparkling city in the valley is our destination, I can scarcely believe him. After endless days and nights riding through open country, to finally reach civilization, even if it’s not the civilization I’m used to, is so welcome I nearly cry with relief.

Four men on horseback race up the slope of the mountains to meet us. They wear heavy armor—more than what Haldir and the others wear—and carry tall spears. Their leader, fierce though he seems, takes my breath away. Even from here, I can see his face because it reflects an ethereal glow. His hair, which has to be spun gold, flows long down the back of his horse and glints in the sun. Whoever he is, he is no mere man.

“Elrond’s patrols,” I question, remembering someone mentioning them earlier.

“Yes,” Haldir responds, and I can hear a grin in his voice. “We have reached their outer borders. Congratulations, Cosima.” He twists to offer me a proud smile. “You have completed your first journey.”

I swallow, unable to keep myself from smiling back. Haldir can be so stoic at times that praise from him is completely unexpected. Warmth spreads through my chest.

The riders come to a halt in front of us and the one I assume to be their leader dismounts, striding confidently in our direction. Haldir slides off Faervel, approaching in a similar fashion. I take the horse’s reins in my hands, stroking his back affectionately. The horses’ height doesn’t bother me anymore and I’ve become much more confident in riding them in the past two weeks.

“Mae govannen, Haldir o Lórien!”

“Glorfindel.” Haldir clasps the man’s elbow jubilantly. They converse in that language I haven’t heard since I arrived — the others have been speaking solely in English for my and Alex’s benefit — and it’s jarring to hear the unfamiliar sounds. It serves as a reminder that, though I have allowed myself to become comfortable here, too comfortable, maybe, this is not my world. This is somewhere different.

Haldir turns over his shoulder and extends a hand in my direction. I catch my name and Alexander’s among the strange syllables and offer the man—Glorfindel, Haldir called him—a smile in greeting. He approaches, stunning golden hair shining in the light of the sunset, and bows elegantly. A laugh bubbles from my throat—startled by the action. Vaguely, I remember Rumil bowing to me when we first met. Whereas his motivation had been to make a joke, Glorfindel seems totally genuine, the gesture one of respect and welcome. He performs the same movement for Alex.

“Welcome, lost humans and my elven friends. Come, I shall keep you waiting no longer. Elrond is eager to see you and I am sure you are equally ready for proper food and a full night’s rest.” With that, he strides back to his horse and mounts.

I scoot higher on Faervel’s back to give Haldir room and hand him the reins. The horses must sense how close we are to extended rest, because they race faster than they did the entire journey. Despite my new skill, I have to grip Haldir extra tight to make up for the frantic pace and only being able to use one arm. Though the mountain slope is steep and the city surely has to be miles away, we arrive in less than an hour.

Streams of blue and white cascade above us, falling every way I turn and crashing down below. The air smells impossibly sweet and fresh — perhaps due to the flowers that bloom all around. The rays from the sinking sun, brilliant orange and gold, mingle with the water in the falls and, just as Haldir promised, send gently curving rainbows over our path. I let out a breath, completely stunned.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Haldir’s voice holds a reverence I’ve never heard before, but it is aptly placed. I could not fathom regarding this city with anything less than the utmost respect and admiration.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Even in my homeworld, I—” I blink, unable to comprehend the etherial nature of my surroundings. “I would have remembered it. This…”

“I know.” Theres a soft, almost vulnerable quality to his voice that caresses the phrase. I can imagine his eyes are alight like mine, taking in the splendor of the city even though he’s seen it many times before. I’d wager this is a sight one never gets used to.

Glorfindel pulls his horse to a stop before an arching, narrow bridge.

Oh no.

I suck in a sharp breath, gripping onto Haldir with both my injured and uninjured arm. My wound stings, but it is preferable to suffer this momentary pain than to loosen my grip and go plummeting off the edge.

Haldir chuckles, the vibrations rumbling deep in his chest. “The bridge is only the beginning. Look ahead—part of the main city is suspended on pillars.”

My stomach churns and I feel my heart race. By the way my arms constrict around him, Haldir seems to figure out that he has not employed the wisest strategy. His voice softens and he squeezes my hand like he did earlier, after the attack. “Faervel knows the way. Neither he nor I will let you fall.”

I take a deep breath. It’s either the bridge and the safety of Imladris or the orc-infested mountains. And, I suppose, Haldir has gotten us this far. Minor injuries aside, we survived a heavily out-numbered attack relatively unscathed. I trusted him then and I can trust him now. “Fine.”

He chuckles again but makes a big show of lining Faervel up with what will be the middle of the bridge. I resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs — armor covers them anyway. It would hurt me more than it would him.  

Glorfindel calls out in that language again, then directs his horse onto the bridge. The three other mounted guards follow. Then, so gently I barely register the change, Faervel steps from the lush grass to the stone of the bridge. Water roars and tosses below us, drowning out any words the others might say. And drowning you if Faervel doesn’t keep straight. That is, if the impact doesn’t kill you first. I fight the urge to whimper and keep my eyes locked straight ahead. Almost to the end.

The bridge is mercifully short and soon we are on much surer foundations, having crossed into the city. While the water still cascades around us, its noise has subsided, almost like it’s been muted. In its place, soft, lyrical music fills the air. Harps. Once we are far from the bridge, I look around. The buildings are made of stone yet seem a natural part of the valley. Chains of flowers spill from every archway, peek between small cracks in the stone, weave into the intricate designs in the masonry. Trees, the same ones that welcomed us at the border, make a home in the city, growing where they wish — even if that means rising alongside a fabricated pillar.

Haldir speaks softly, hesitantly, almost like he doesn’t want to interrupt my exploration of the city. “Is it worth the bridge?”

I realize we’ve come to a stop in front of a large dais backed by a constant stream of blue and frothy white. It’s like we’re in the waterfall. “Definitely,” I exhale. Though, I have no desire to cross that bridge again any time soon.

A tall man steps onto the dais. His face is kind and, though the edges of his mouth and forehead are lined with creases, he could be any age. He seems altogether outside of time. His eyes hold wisdom, more than I could ever hope to collect, and I know this must be the Elrond my friends talked about. He could be no other.

He spreads his hands and smiles warmly. “Welcome. Our friends from Lothlórien and the humans who accompany them, welcome to Imladris. We have dinner prepared for you. Leave your horses with the guards — they will be well cared for.”

I believe him. He could probably tell me the sky is green or Faervel is a mouse and I wouldn’t question it.

And if he told you that you’re in a different world?

I gulp and push the weighted thought away.

Haldir swings his left leg to meet his right and slides off Faervel’s back. As always, he keeps a gentle hold on me until my feet are securely on the ground, then clasps his hands behind his back in his most favored stance.

I peek behind me to locate Alexander. He shifts from foot to foot and darts his eyes suspiciously around the room. With his short hair, lanky stature, and clear discomfort, he looks so out of place here. With a start, I realize that I must, too. Though the physical differences are certainly apparent, there’s just something about these men…an otherworldliness I had somehow gotten used to during our journey. But here, in this unreal city surrounded by others who are so clearly not men…For the first time, I truly, honestly consider that they might not be human.

Rumil appears on my right side, practically beaming with excitement. “What do you think?”

I exhale on shaky breath, my recent realization having left me feeling a little lightheaded. “I think it’s a lot to take in. It’s gorgeous, though.”

At my left, Haldir eyes me curiously. He heard my reaction upon reaching Imladris and is probably wondering why I’m downplaying it to Rumil. Truth be told, I just don’t have the energy to take much more this evening. A good meal and sleep will hopefully help.

“Orophin!”

I tilt my head around Rumil to find the source of the delighted shriek and find myself staring at the most enchanting woman I’ve ever seen.

Her hair, coiled and dark, tumbles down her back in tight curls, brushing the back of her legs. Her espresso skin shines in the nearly-faded light, almost as if it has a luminescence of its own — perhaps a result of the joy that radiates from her. She wears a long, ruby-colored gown that sweeps gently over the stairs as she practically throws herself down them, sprinting in our direction.

“Meleth nîn!” Orophin calls back to her, breaking from our informal line and rushing to whom I assume to be his fiancée.

Indulgent chuckles run through our group as the two collide, gripping each other in a fierce hug. They pull back almost immediately, pressing their foreheads together and just staring into each other’s eyes. The action seems much more intimate than if they had fallen to the floor in a passionate embrace, and I avert my eyes, feeling the need to give them privacy.

“Come on,” Haldir whispers, ghosting his fingers over my elbow. “They will join us later.”

Elrond leads us through open-air hallways. Every way we turn seems to offer a view of the waterfalls and brings with it a light, fresh scent. He takes us right, bringing us through one final archway and into what looks to be a dining room. In the center is a long rectangular table surrounded by ten matching chairs. The table is already stacked with food — breads, salads, fruits, and various kinds of meat that smell absolutely mouthwatering.

Elrond smiles invitingly, entering the room and stopping behind the chair at one of the table’s heads. “I expected you would be weary this evening and would wish to dine in private. Please, sit and help yourselves.”

I follow Rumil and Haldir, hoping I’m not violating any social rules I am unaware of by choosing a random seat in the middle. Before I can pull the chair back, Haldir steps in to complete the task, gesturing for me to take a seat. I have to hold back my amusement at the antiquated gesture — perhaps it’s a custom here. He does seem more formal than Alex and I are.

Haldir and Rumil take the chairs on either side of me and, before long, Alex appears at my opposite. I smile at him. Given our recent arguments and the fact that I don’t really know if we’re friends in this life, I’m not quite sure where we stand. But he returns the gesture which allows me to breathe a sigh of relief. He’s familiar, at least. Baranor sits between Alex and Elrond and immediately the two healers engage in deep discussion.

I distract myself with the food and soon have more piled on my plate than I could possibly hope to eat, but I can certainly try. Before long, Orophin and the woman from earlier join us and are welcomed jovially.

Orophin beams, gesturing to the woman at his side. “Lavandil, these are the humans I was telling you about. Cosima and Alexander, this is my betrothed, Lavandil.”

Lavandil sets her excited gaze on both myself and Alex. “Hello, it’s so nice to meet you. Welcome to Imladris! We are pleased to have you here.” Her voice is warm, welcoming, and I find it impossible not to smile along with her, distressed though I am at Orophin’s clear distinction of me as ‘human’.

Orophin pulls out a chair for Lavandil and sits between her and Alex, who looks ridiculously uncomfortable in the presence of so many of these…humans. Though, I must admit, my resolve to call them that is steadily weakening.

Minutes later, Glorfindel enters the room accompanied by a demure man called Lindir. Haldir and Glorfindel fall into a spirited debate about patrol strategies and border security. Rumil piles something on my plate that he claims I have to try. He’s not wrong — it’s really good!

“So, Cosima, Alexander.” Lavandil props her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her hand, looking at us with interest. “Orophin says they happened upon you both near the river and that you haven’t any memories?”

All eyes converge on me and Alex. I don’t trust him to be polite, so I hurry to answer her question.

“Yes. We remember each other and tiny snippets of our home, but besides that, nothing.”

“How strange,” she muses, looking fascinated. “That must have been so shocking. How are you adjusting?”

I exhale slowly, playing for time. How am I adjusting? The weight of everyone’s eyes feels almost crushing. “It’s definitely a lot to get used to,” I say diplomatically. “But we’re really lucky to have run into good people who were willing to help.”

Despite his feelings towards our companions, Alex wisely remains silent. It would do us no good to offend our hosts.

Lavandil giggles, the sound bright and cheerful. “I’m glad they were helpful and not rude. I know Haldir has a tendency to interrogate first and help later. He’s slow to trust.” She shoots Haldir a teasing grin, to which he merely rolls his eyes, but his cheek twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

I try to suppress a grin. “Well, he wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but he calmed down quickly enough.” I purse my lips, contemplating. “But now that I think about it, no one really left me unattended or gave me a weapon even though the trip was dangerous. Hold on, do any of you actually trust me?” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, though I raise an eyebrow at Haldir to let him know I’m only kidding.

He shakes his head, huffing in mock exasperation. “We trust you now but at the start, how was I to know you weren’t some sort of spy?”

“A spy!” I huff. “I’m hurt. But moving on. Later, once you decided I was not a spy, how come no one gave me a knife or anything?”

Rumil chortles. “Have you seen the lines of your mending? You’re more likely to impale yourself than an enemy.”

I grumble indignantly. He’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell him so.

Haldir quirks an eyebrow. “Would you like to learn? I can teach you.”

I think on this. Hmmm…do I need to learn how to use a weapon? Probably. But do I want to? Surprisingly, I find that the answer is yes. This world is obviously dangerous—I got a very real reminder of that just a few days ago—and I want to be capable in it. Haldir or the others might not always be there to defend me—I should learn how to protect myself.

“Yeah, I would. Thank you!”

Haldir nods, the edges of his mouth pulling into an expression of grim determination. I quickly discover why.

He’s psyching himself up, I realize with a quiet laugh.

He inclines his head towards Alex. “And you, Alexander? I can teach you as well.” By the gravity in his tone, it is clear Haldir’s offer is real, but begrudging.

Alex takes a bite of fruit. “No thank you.”

That’s to be expected. Though Haldir was angry earlier and probably overreacted, he did make a good point when he said that Alex has yet to make an effort to adjust to life here. He’s stayed on the edge of things since the moment we encountered him, always keeping one foot out the door.

A voice warns me that, rather than criticizing Alex, I should have been doing the same.

Elrond motions for an attendant to refill my glass of water. “Baranor says you were attacked in the mountains? That must have been very frightening.”

Flashes of grotesque beasts and shining swords enters my mind and I shrink away from the images. I know we’re safe inside these halls but the fear is still there, lurking at the edges of my thoughts.

Haldir cuts in and I realize I have been silent for longer than is polite. “We were attacked, yes, by about eighteen orcs, wouldn’t you say?”

Rumil and Orophin both nod — I didn’t even know they had a count. I had been focused trying to dodge the blades and arrows. To me, it seemed there was an endless stream of the monsters. Haldir continues. “We killed them all and had no trouble for the rest of our journey. It does make me wander though,” his eyes dart to mine and then quickly away. “Such a large party so close to your borders? Is that common these days?”

“Yes.” Elrond nods gravely. “We have seen an increase in scouting parties and attacks. Just last month, a fully armed company of forty attempted to breach one of our southeastern border stations.”

“No,” Orophin breathes, gripping Lavandil’s hand tightly, a stricken look of horror stretching his face.

She brushes his concerns aside. “Oh, I’m fine. I was up north visiting my mother at the time. I didn’t even know the attack had occurred until I returned home.”

Orophin’s reaction worries me. I lay my fork on my plate, appetite fading as fear gnaws at the edges of my gut. “That’s unusual?”

Haldir shakes his head. “It is not unusual to encounter orcs at the borders, but an armed, prepared, planned attack of such a large number is…telling.” He avoids my gaze.

My body runs cold. “Telling of what?”

“Sauron,” Elrond says simply.

“That name means nothing to them,” Orophin reminds him, still looking at his love. He holds so much concern in his eyes—and a measure of fear—and I wonder just how big of a threat this is. Is Lavandil in danger? Is Elrond? Are we?

Elrond elaborates. “Sauron is a being of great power and even greater evil. He was defeated once before, but whispers of his presence have been heard throughout the realm. I believe he is growing in power again, gathering his armies. He is preparing.”

I drop my hands into my lap, gripping the edges of the chair in an attempt to find an anchor. Across from me, Alex has gone pale.

I don’t have to ask what this being is preparing for. It’s obvious. He’s preparing for war.

If the orcs weren’t bad enough, now we’ve got an evil power looming over us all? I wonder…is my homeworld safer than this?

Glorfindel raises his glass of deep red wine. He holds a steely, almost feral glare in his golden eyes and, suddenly, I am very, very afraid of him. “As quickly as he rises, so shall he fall.”

All aside from Alex and me raise their goblets, a forceful, “hear, hear” resounding through the room of stone. My eyes meet Alex’s. He raises an eyebrow as if to say, what do you want to do?

And I know my answer.

I want to go home.

A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs make my day! Let me know if you would like a tag :)

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[thenightgazer]

A Long Way Home

While still trapped in the Underworld, Dante and Vergil have to resolve their family issue. One that can't be solved only by swords and guns.

It's been two years since Red Grave incident, one week after Christmas, and still no news about Dante and Vergil. That leaves Nero terribly upset, but little did he know that miracle will come to him very soon.

Merry Christmas @nibbbs! Surprise surprise, I’m your secret santa from @dmcsecretsanta! Hopefully you enjoy the gift I wrote for you! Happy reading and happy holiday!

You can also read it on my AO3!

~~~

The Underworld has never been this quiet before.

That forsaken place is the real no man’s land; always boisterous with fights between demons to take over the throne of the Underworld. Be it a slaughter between lower demons or higher demons, they couldn’t care less. Their primal instinct is just craving more power and of course, human flesh. But since the portal to cross into the human world isn’t always unfolded, cannibalism is ineluctable. It’s either eat or be eaten. It’s bound to happen and demons don’t have any choices but to yield to the Underworld’s natural law. Surviving and escaping the Underworld seems like an absurd fantasy for humans, even for demons as well.

Which is why voluntarily jumping into the depth of the Underworld to save the world is considered to be a valiant and honorable act, yet also frivolously lunatic.

Well, for Dante, lunatic sounds like his middle name, if he ever had one.

He chuckles by the thought of that.

“What are you laughing at?” Dante’s problematic twin brother Vergil snarls.

“Nothing,” Dante closes his eyes. “Just having a weird thought.”

Vergil replies nothing. He shows no interest in Dante's daydream, but that’s just probably because he’s too tired to even think of a reply. The twins couldn’t count how many days have passed since they cut the Qliphoth tree down. They spared and killed any demons nearby, exploring other regions of the Underworld simply because they are bored and need some time to rebound their lost time as brothers. Now, exhaustion forces them to take some rest. They lean side by side on the scorched desert, staring at the perpetual black sky while restoring their energy.

Dante can sense a demon’s presence not too far from where he is right now, but that presence fades eventually. “You feel that too, Verge?”

“I do,” Vergil murmurs. “The words have been spoken, I presume. That they better not to disturb us if they still want to live.”

“Well, once we recover, they’re going to die anyway.”

Vergil’s short hum speaks of his concurrence.

Dante shifts his hands under his head as he glances to his brother. Vergil stiffly lies on the ground with Yamato on his chest while his hands gripping on it. He might close his eyes but Dante knows his brother can still attack his opponent while closing his eyes. As hard as a steel, this old bastard, Dante amuses at his idea. “Rest means relaxing, bro. You don’t have to be on guard all the time.”

“I’m preparing for any attack.”

“It’s not like there is a demon near us at this moment.”

“Have some self-consciousness, Dante. You could attack me at any time, given a chance.”

Dante wakes up straight away. “Why would I wanna attack you?!”

“There’s always a possibility.”

“Says the guy who always has the intention to kill me, huh,” Dante lies back again. “Seriously, Verge. Just for five minutes, stop thinking and go to sleep. Bet it’s been a while since you have a proper sleep, right?”

Neither show any agreement or disagreement, Vergil turns his head to Dante. “Why are you still awake then?”

“Huh? To keep an eye on you, of course. Who knows you’d do some weird shit outta there again.”

Vergil curves a smirk, then turns his eyes to the dark sky again. “I see. You are also scared of me attacking you while you’re asleep, aren’t you? We’re twins, after all.”

“I don’t-” Dante almost bite his mouth.. “Man, you’re as sharp and annoying as you always have been.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“Yeah right.”

And there’s silence again. It’s been days, or weeks, since the last time Dante hears any demonic voices around him. To be honest, he kind of expects their appearance. He likes talking to Vergil, but the older brother has an issue in healthy communication. Hell, Vergil is a difficult person and Dante wonders if the eldest children around the world are always like this. But Dante realizes he is also no expert in social interaction, and fighting is also the only thing they both are good at. Vergil would talk a little bit much when fighting, even if it’s mostly taunting and mocking Dante, yet it’s better than having Vergil succumb to the dark side again.

“By the way,” Dante breaks the ice. “Are you ready now to tell me who’s the lucky girl a.k.a Nero’s mom?”

Vergil draws the Yamato above Dante’s throat. “One more word, and I’ll cut you into pieces.”

“C’moooon! I’m curious!”

The Yamato is now touching Dante’s skin. “Final warning, Dante.”

Dante flicks the Yamato’s blade. “Fine. Whenever you’re ready, bro. You might not want to tell me, but you owe that to Nero. He’s your son. He deserves to know.”

Vergil sheathes Yamato, scoffing at Dante’s warning. “It’s not like I’m going back to the human world.”

“Well, we HAVE to!”

“Pray tell why I should agree with you.”

“I have a shop to run and there’s a new menu at my favorite pizza parlor. You should try it, by the way. And you got a lot to explain to Nero. You don’t wanna be a deadbeat like Father, right? Though you kinda already are all this time.”

“You know it better than anyone else that I didn’t know Nero’s existence until you told me so.”

“Which is more reason why you have to come back to the human world soon. You can say you don’t need to catch up with Nero but I know you want it. You left him your frigging book; the same one you didn’t allow me to borrow. Dear ol’ Vergil got some soft spots for his son, huh?”

Vergil turns his back from Dante like a sulking child, ignoring his younger twin’s laughter. As expected from a cold man like him, he won’t ever admit that every single of Dante’s words is true. Again, a long and neglected fear consumes him. What’s fatherhood for a man who ran out of place and time like him anyway? Is there any chance for him to fix his family? Getting back in terms with Dante is one thing, but with Nero, the son he had never met before his escapement from the Underworld? Does he even have a right to call him his son after all he had done to him?

After quite long of silence and battle with himself, Vergil murmurs a question to Dante. “How old is he?”

Dante almost squealed if only he didn’t remember not to ruin Vergil’s mood or else they won’t have any friendly conversation anymore. “Nero? Twenty-something, I guess. Haven’t asked him myself.”

“How did you meet each other?”

“Long short story, some weird-ass cult that worshipped our father as a god turned out evil and wanted to use our father’s power to rule the world-”

“The Order of the Sword?”

“Right! You did your research! Nero was one of them but rebelled after they kidnapped his girlfriend and killed her brother. I came to Fortuna to retrieve the Sparda sword and apparently your kid was able to summon the Yamato and I got the picture already. He got white hair, he summoned Yamato, tried to kill me repeatedly, stab me with Rebellion and Yamato, craving for more power to save his beloved. I wondered where he got that from, by the way~”

A hint of smirk curves in Vergil’s mouth.

“Then we worked together to save Fortuna from a pope who was obsessed with our Father and destroyed the island. We succeeded and brought peace. Nero got his girlfriend back, and we established the branch of Devil May Cry in Fortuna. The end.”

“A heartwarming, and very unoriginal story.”

“You think I made up that story?”

“Didn’t say that. I am merely implying that I heard stories similar to your experience.”

“Hell knows you are the coldest person alive, but you are a terrible liar. You are a man of pride, after all. Lying doesn’t suit you.”

“I can tell thousands of lies as I please, if only that’s necessary,” Vergil takes a brief look at Dante’s mischievous face. “But I won’t, if it’s concerning my son.”

Is this really the Vergil I used to know? Dante can’t hold his grin while elbowing his brother. “Starting to feel like a real dad, huh?”

“Silence.”

“Admitting that you love your son won’t do any harm, Verge.”

“I-” Vergil stumbles upon his own words. He growls impatiently, hurrying himself to get up and sit down as he wipes his face frustratedly. “We’re not having this conversation anymore.”

“Why? Just because you can’t admit that you grew care for your son?”

“Because I’m a terrible person!”

That was the most honest words that came from Vergil, if anything, ever. When was the last time he showed his vulnerable side like this? Even as V, crumbling and dying slowly, he didn’t even spare Dante any sign of defeat and regret. Dante gets up, clapping Vergil’s shoulder. “Only if you still want to destroy the world and kill your own family, then maybe I’d call you the worst shit in the world too.”

Vergil shakes his head. “If only…”

“Huh?”

“Had I known I have a son back then…” Vergil says bitterly. “I would never leave him. I would never go pursuing power or raising that foolish tower and this ridiculous tree…” he points to the remains of Qliphoth tree with his sword. “I would have a better chance to be… a good father for him…”

Regret always comes late, isn’t it? The ‘if onlys’ never come at the front of the mind, merely whispering behind the head but never appearing into the surface before regret comes. Vergil knows that, but never really understands it until Dante tells him that Nero- the very man whose arm was ripped by him and still willing to help him in every way- is his own flesh and blood. His priority was to seal the gate of the Underworld and cut the Qliphoth tree, so that Nero and the rest of the human world are safe and sound. He will stay in the Underworld to redeem himself, for he thinks he has no place in the human world for all he has done. He planned to create a portal to the human world after he fixed things up with Dante to kick him out from the Hell with force, because he knows Dante won’t leave him alone again and will do anything to drag Vergil out from the Underworld. The plan is simple. It should have been easy to execute.

Yet ever since Vergil landed at this hellhole, his steps are getting heavier as time goes on. A haunting voice inside his head kept telling him to come back to Nero as soon as he finished his job cutting Qliphoth roots. Another sound tells him he should stay longer here with Dante to catch up with their sibling bound. The third sound, more demanding and urging, tells him to stay in the Underworld forever as a redemption.

“Y’know, bro,” Dante folds his legs as he seizes the Yamato from Vergil’s hand and puts it on the ground, which dismays Vergil. “Gotta admit that I wanted to kill you because I wanted to free you from evil, and get rid of Nero’s burden of having you as his father. Though he proved to us that we are just a bunch of nonsensical idiots who got unsolved sibling problems between us-”

“I am not an idiot!”

“You might have scored higher on the Math test than me but you’re still an idiot!” Dante barks. “Anyway that’s not my point! What I mean to say is, as much as I hate your dumb-as-rock head, you’re still my brother. And it’s never too late to fix things up.”

Vergil scoffs and takes his sword back to his embrace again. “How can you be so sure?”

“I blamed you, y’know, for that day” Dante admits, his eyes getting darker and the carefree vibe in his voice is gradually gone. “For not rescuing me and Mother.”

Vergil streaked at that confession. “What do you mean?”

“You thought Mother only saved me and left you behind while she died searching for you,” Dante woefully chuckles. “But for me, on that day, I thought you would come to rescue us.”

“I was planning to-”

“She could have hid with me in the closet until you come to save us. That’s what I thought back then when she died, and you never came back. I thought you left us, before I heard one of them say they had you killed. There I was; frightened and thinking that I was alone. My mother and brother died. No one could save me but myself. I was blaming you for running away that day. If you didn’t, we could have defeated them all and protected our home.”

“Or, we could have died. All of us.”

“Exactly. Instead of blaming you, I blamed myself for picking a fight with you. Should’ve left you and your book alone,” Dante stands up, spinning the Ivory before shooting a flying demon that approaches them. “I lived by loathing myself, until I met you again in that cursed church, remember? I was genuinely happy to see you.”

“I remember,” Vergil nods slowly, recalling a blurry picture of their younger selves. “You said you are a devil hunter and will be filthy rich someday.”

“Still waiting for that day, actually. Yet you fucker started being a dick, saying shits about power and stuff,” Dante’s harsh voice trembles slightly. “I thought we could start over as a family, but you decided to fucking stay in the Underworld. I couldn’t save you at the gate of the Underworld. I couldn’t save you at Mallet Island. I could save everyone else, but not my own family.”

Vergil raises up. His arm is reaching Dante’s shoulder, but it never touches him. His hesitation is rational, for he knows words can’t describe how Dante must have felt towards Vergil. Hatred might be the wrong word; it sounds too soft. Too lenient, too merciful.

One could tell it’s disappointment, Vergil gets his answer as Dante turns over to face him. The mischievous little brother side of Dante has gone as he aims his gun at Vergil. It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. Let alone a family.

Dante wails horridly. “Always the quiet one, ain’t cha? Remember how our parents always told me to be quiet like you? ‘Why can’t you just behave like Vergil?’ Guess what? At least I’m not the one who fucked the world up and ripped off my son’s arm-”

“Dante-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dante’s grip on Ivory is slightly trembling as he snaps. “I’ve been through shits too, Vergil. I missed Father and Mother. I missed you, for fuck sake! After all this time I believed I killed you in Mallet Island, then you came out of nowhere to destroy the world. I came out with the conclusion that you didn’t even change a bit, just an egomaniacal who thinks the world only revolves around him. I needed to kill you again because I don’t want my nephew to kill his own father. Don’t you fucking realize how maddening was that?!”

A bullet passes through Vergil’s head. The older hybrid stands still without any intention to return the attack, only wiping the blood from his forehead. I don’t have the right to be irritated, he reminds himself while his mouth forms a bitter grimace as Dante puts the gun on Vergil’s forehead, ready to pull the trigger anytime soon. For a second Vergil can sense Dante is going to lose his temper as he catches a glimpse of red flash in Dante’s eyes. Ever since they were kids, Vergil was always aware that Dante in his total wrath is dangerous. A ticking bomb , Vergil recalls what their father said about Dante’s anger as he watches the raging fire in Dante’s eyes ignite until it’s slowly fading.

“But I changed my mind again,” Dante continues. “Instead of blaming you and carrying on the bad blood, I choose to start over. And that’s how I can be sure,” he pokes Vergil’s head with the gun before putting it back into his coat. “That everyone deserves a second chance and it’s never too late to fix what you have done.”

The red devil yawns as he slams himself on the ground again, stretching his hands before he closes his eyes. “Sorry for raising my voice. It’s just impossible to use soft words whenever I’m talking to a stubborn jackass like you.”

He opens one of his eyes to see what Vergil would react. His older brother sighs heavily, sitting beside Dante’s lying body and puts his katana on the ground. For a man with a soul of a true warrior like Vergil, putting weapons down on the ground is a sign of defeat. Which is the reason why he was slightly aggravated when Dante seized the Yamato and put it on the ground as if he told Vergil to surrender. It should be a humiliating act, but for once Vergil throws his pride away.

Because you are right, Dante.

“Dante,” he calls his brother. This time there’s no hostility in his voice, only sincerity and repentance. “I am ever so sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Dante smirks playfully. “Why do you think I’m here if I still hold a grudge against you?”

“I mean it,” Vergil emphasizes. “Truthfully. For everything I have done… and my sincere gratitude for taking good care of my son while I wasn’t there for him.”

“Honestly, Verge. Forget it. I only do what I have to do.”

Watching his little brother finally howls in laughter, a surge of warmth fills Vergil’s veins as he joins the laughter. It’s comforting, since they can’t remember the last time they laugh together without any fight and bad blood. I barely remember how it feels like to have a family, Vergil chuckles while Dante kicks Vergil’s knee mischievously. Was it always this… warm?

“Dante.”

“Yup?”

“I think we should go back to the human world now.”

Dante whistles in joy. “Ready to meet your grandkids?”

“Do tell me the truth,” Vergil growls, impetuously tugs Dante’s collar. “Are you serious about grandchildren or you just make it up?”

“For fuck sake, Verge! Didn’t you know that already when you ripped your son’s arm?”

“I didn’t pay much attention... I can only recall a voice of woman called Nero for dinner- not the voice of that mouthful friend of Nero-”

“Yeah that was Kyrie. Your soon-to-be daughter in law. Anyway they adopted kids called Carlo, Kyle, and Julio,” Dante pats Vergil’s shoulder with pride and teasing manner. “Congratulations, you’re officially a grandpa! What a fine day for revelation!”

As if my life could get any worse, Vergil grinds his teeth in frustration as he releases Dante from his grip. “How unfortunate.”

“C’mon, swing that flimsy sword of yours and make a portal to the human world. We got plenty of things to do! I gotta pay those bills, refurbish my shop, return Kalina Ann to Lady, and buy a birthday present for Patty.”

“Rather a cumbersome list you got there, Dante.”

“What can I say? I’m a busy man! Now get your ass up, old man! Nero’s waiting!”

---

It’s already two fucking years.

Nero was never a believer. There’s no such thing as a miracle, he told himself. Protecting Kyrie and the kids is an endless responsibility that bestowed upon him. There’s nothing he won’t do for their happiness and safety, even if it means to cost his own well-being. He relies on nobody but himself. He doesn’t pray. He never tries to exceed any expectation, because hope is a dangerous and fragile thing. Hope bothers him, and he hates to be bothered.

Yet, lately, he almost surrendered by the temptation to hold some hope.

What hope? Nero rejects his own thought. For those douchebags to return safely? Gimme a break.

Sitting in his garage and polishing the Red Queen, Nero takes a brief look at the snowy ground outside of the house where the children are building a snowman. He grins at Kyle who waves at him; the youngest from the three children he adopted, who’s now taller and braver than he used to be when he found the little boy searching for some scraps at Fortuna’s slum. Nero chuckles when a glimpse of a picture of Vergil meeting Kyrie and the boys pops out from his head. Would they be pleased to meet him? Would Vergil be pleased to meet them? Would he himself be pleased to meet Vergil again? There’s no fucking way for them to coming back, Nero slaps himself. They either die or shit themselves in the Underworld. Probably fucking fighting again like toddlers.

Still, the thought of his father and uncle somehow return and meeting his little family is overwhelming. Nero can’t even hide his smile anymore. He throws away the rug he uses to wipe the blade and hangs the Red Queen on the wall.

Come to think of it, that fucker ripped off my arm in this garage too.

He lays a hard punch on the wall.

“Keep punchin’ the wall, and ya would destroy the house.”

Nero glances at his friend and partner in crime, Nico, who rests her back on the van and lights her cigarette. He still finds it strange to witness Nico in her winter outfit, a contrast to her usual tanktop and shorts she used to wear before winter comes. "How many times have I told you to smoke outside the house?”

“Ya blind or what? It’s cold outside!”

“Darn it, Nico! Then don’t smoke!”

“Too late~” Nico barks a laugh while blowing a smoke. “Anyway, why did you punch the wall like a madman?”

Nero shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing. Just feeling like punching something.”

“Cut the bullshit. Ya missed yer old man, ain’t cha?”

“Buzz off, Nico.”

“Aaaaw, don’t be so meanie~”

“Seriously, Nico. Go bugger off someone else. I’m not in the mood for having a chit-chat.”

“Everyone’s worried, ya know,” Nico exhales exaggeratedly, pointing at the children outside. “Those lil’ brats asked me if somethin’ pissed ya off because ya look like ya wanted to punch someone in the face since the Christmas party last week.”

“I indeed want to punch a certain person,” Nero lets out a cackle. “But he’s not available at the moment.”

“Y’know, I’m not an expert of daddy and son shits, and yer dad is obviously not an ideal father, but it’s totally okay for ya to miss him. The jackass did save the world, at least.”

“Thanks, Nico. That’s so motivational. I’m deeply touched- ouch !” Nero swears when a sturdy plug lands on his head. “What the fuck Nico?!”

“Talk to Kyrie,” Nico lowers her voice. Her brash mouth always sounds kinder and empathetic when she talks about Kyrie. “Ya locked yerself in this garage the whole day! You’re making her worried, ya know?”

“I think you should double your eyeglasses. I didn’t lock myself. See that door? It’s unhinged, because I need to make sure the kids are alright.”

“Yeaaah whatever. Go talk to her, pretty boy. I’ll watch over the brats.”

“Fine…” Nero scratches his nape as he walks away from the garage. “Don’t let the kids go anywhere near my weapons!”

“Gotcha~!”

Nero never meant to worry anyone, of course. He lives a happy life; he married the love of his life, adopted a bunch of orphans whom he loved and took care of equally, and ran a business with his best friend whom he considered a big sister. The world is currently safe from danger. So what's to worry about?

His confusion disappears when he sees Kyrie’s figure covered in a thick blanket at the terrace. She smiles happily as the snow continues to fall and catches a drop on her palm. Nero feels like he could melt anytime he sees Kyrie’s soothing smile. He takes his time to watch her catching snow as he leans against the door, ignoring the cold breeze that sneaks inside his body. It doesn’t take a long time for Kyrie to be aware of Nero’s presence as she asks him to join her at the terrace.

“You should put your coat on, Nero. It’s cold here.” Kyrie speaks her concern while she wraps him with her blanket.

“Chill out. I’m fine,” Nero gives her a light peck on the forehead. His right hand envelopes Kyrie’s waist to give her a sense of comfort. “The kids are building snowmans back there. Been hours and who knows when they will stop.”

Kyrie giggles. “The more they grow up the more energetic they become! At least we don’t need to worry about how to get them to sleep on time. I believe they’ll get exhausted after play and filling their stomachs with delicious dinner would quicken their way to sleep!”

“You’re right.”

Kyrie looks up at her lover’s tensed face. She brushes the tip of Nero’s nose slightly to make him smile. That little maneuver always succeeded to cheer him up. Kyrie rests her head on Nero’s chest. “Are you not happy with the Christmas party last week? I know you hated surprises but-”

“No- I liked it! Really! You know we rarely celebrate things lately and last week was one of the best days in my life! How could I hate that?” Nero tightens his grip on Kyrie’s waist, gazing at Kyrie’s eyes deeply. “I’m happy, Kyrie. I’m happy here with our little family.”

“Then it must have something to do with your father and uncle, is it?”

“That obvious, huh?” Nero smirks bitterly. “I just… I don’t know. You know how Dante is. To think that he’s actually my uncle is… weird. Then I found out the man who screwed up Red Grave was his brother. My father. Vergil, he left me when I was a child… as V, he manipulated me to do his agenda. He reemerged and left me again. And Dante didn't even bother to tell me the fact before Vergil was back. That made me feel… kinda betrayed. It still doesn’t make any sense to me. I got a pair of dysfunctional family members and I don’t know what I should do if they come back. I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

The only parental figure Nero ever had was just Kyrie and Credo’s parents, and they didn’t even live that long to give little Nero more love and parental advice. Kyrie truly understands Nero’s struggle to accept his heritage and keep holding on his humanity. “Nero… do you forgive your father?”

“What?”

“I don’t mean to bring it up again, but after all the ill he caused to you, do you forgive him?”

The memory of him and Vergil on the top of the Qliphoth tree rises again. He succeeded in bringing some sense back to his father and the old man entrusted him his precious book- the one which Nero kept safely on the shelf- before jumping to Hell and finishing what he started. Vergil didn’t say much, but his promise… his damn promise!

“I won’t lose next time. Hold onto that until then.”

“I forgive him,” Nero admits. “I think… I just miss him. And Dante. I really want us to be a proper family. That's all.”

“Just as I thought,” Kyrie cups Nero’s jaw with her hands. “I’m glad that you’re honest with yourself. There’s nothing wrong with missing them. They might be flawed, but they are your family."

Nero carefully caresses his beloved hands as if he's afraid of hurting her. "I'm sorry I keep putting you to my demon lineage problem…"

"Hey, we talked about this. Demon or human, it's you I want to be with…" she kisses him on the lips. "I love you, Nero."

"I love you too." He returns the kiss deeper.

Nero wraps her around his arms, seeking comfort and warmth from her presence. Kyrie's words succeed in getting his head together. He can feel a degree of burden has left his shoulders as he finds himself finally letting go his worries. Kyrie is right. There's nothing wrong with missing those douchebags. They're my family-

"NERO!"

Nico appears out of nowhere at the terrace, panting and panicking like she ran for her life. Every single nerve inside Nero's body tells him that something wrong is happening, but the sassy smirk on Nico's face while she tries to breathe normally tells another thing. "You're not gonna believe me if I told you this-"

"Are the kids safe?" Kyrie asks anxiously.

"Yeah they're fine. They have company."

What the fuck? "Company? What are you talking about?!"

Nico rolls her eyes as she grabs both of Nero and Kyrie's hands. "Just follow me quickly!"

Nico seems excited… if it wasn't a danger, then what?

The children are giggling and shouting happily at something Nero can't see yet. But as soon as Nico delivers them in the backyard, he spots two familiar figures among the kids. The red-coated man joins them to decorate the snowman as he helps them crafting the pile of snow with stones and branches. He summons a cowboy hat and a shiny red scarf from thin air- which excites the kids- before he puts the hat on the snowman's head and wraps its neck with the scarf as the last touch. The children are applauding and hugging him, saying their gratitude and bombing him with questions on how he could summon stuff only from thin air. The cocky red man barks in laughter and tells them that he learns some magic tricks.

In a contrast to the red man, the blue-coated man stands a bit far from the crowd, facepalming and reluctant to do anything despite the children's curiosity as they glance at him and whisper their surprise on how similar his face is with the red man. Carlo states that the blue man is scary, and quickly hides behind the red man when the blue man hears his mutter and glares at the poor kid.

"C'mon, Verge, stop glaring at the kids! You're scaring them!" The red man chuckles.

Dante?

Vergil?

How-? Since when…?

"You…" Nero breathes heavily, barely trusts his vision. "You guys are alive…"

Dante grins and waves a salute at Nero. "Heya, kid! Miss me? I know we're late, but Merry Christmas!"

Kyrie holds her giggle when she catches Nero's dumbstruck face. She grips his hand and whispers him a word of advice. "Time to let your doubts go, Nero. They are here, at last."

Nero gives a nod, but his mouth isn't capable of forming any words. He reluctantly approaches Vergil, who seems nonchalant about his surroundings, if only Nero failed to catch his father's warm gaze as he stands before Vergil. A minute has passed and none of them say anything. Words cannot describe how they feel towards each other.

But Nero decides to solve the problem in Sparda's family old-fashioned style: punching his father hard right in the face.

There echoes Dante and Nico's laughter as Vergil's body lands violently on the ground, covered with snow.

The older son of Sparda can taste a metallic scent liquid dripping from his lips.

"That hurts," he murmurs and proceeds to get up as he wipes the blood from his mouth. "Two years and still have no manners, I see."

"Fuck you, old man!" Nero spats angrily.

Dante, still laughing at the picture of his brother getting sucker-punched by Nero, sloppily walks to approach them. He pats Nero's shoulder in pride. "You're doing the right thing, Nero. You gave him the right Christmas present-"

The legendary devil hunter gets a very lethal slap from his nephew before he finishes his sentence.

"And that's a present for you, deadweight!" The young devil hunter shouts.

The view of Dante and Vergil getting slammed by Nero only increases Nico's laughter.

"Why did Nero punch Mr. Dante and Mr. Vergil?" Carlo asks Kyrie. "Nero always punches bad people. Are they bad people?"

"Well… no, they are good people! Mr. Vergil is Nero's father and Mr. Dante is Nero's uncle," Kyrie chuckles to hide her worry and struggles to find the correct way to explain the situation. "They haven't met for a very long time. Nero misses them so much that he… doesn't know what to do anymore. But punching people doesn't solve problems, so don't ever do that, okay?"

The kids nod obediently despite not completely understanding the circumstances.

"Can we stop Nero from punching them, Kyrie?" asks Julio, the oldest one from the three. "Family doesn't hurt each other, right?"

"Nah, don't worry. They will stop soon," Nico says as he points at the three hybrids. "Let 'em get the reunion they deserve."

They become calm and smiling at the sight of Nero bringing his father and uncle in a tight embrace together as the young man lets out a cry.

"You both are full of shits and stinky… like a scavenger…" Nero sobs, his teeth grinding hard. "At least take a shower before you show up, dumbass…!"

Dante sneers as he taps Nero’s back. “Yeah, I miss you too.”

The red devil glares at his twin. Say something to your son!

Vergil, unmoved and stiff, doesn’t know how to react from this awkward embrace. He feels uncomfortable, yet finds himself melting between this fuzzy feeling. “Nero…”

“Shut up,” Nero interrupts while breaking his embrace and burying his teary eyes on his palm. “Just fucking shut up.”

“Forgive me,” the blue devil insists to continue. “For leaving you again.”

“Yeah yeah, just shut up...”

Nero jolts by the unexpected weight on his head; Vergil’s hand ruffles his hair as he curves a very subtle smile.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

Oh how Nero wanted to punch him again, if only he could bring himself to.

“Uhm…” Kyrie comes to Nero’s rescue as she smiles politely to the twins. “I’m sorry to interrupt this reunion. It’s dinner time and… we would be very happy if the two of you join us for supper.”

“We’d be glad!” Dante accepts cheerfully. “Nero once told me you cook the best meal in Fortuna!”

“Shut up, Dante!” Nero grunts. He remembers he hasn’t told the twins that Kyrie and him are married. He pulls Kyrie closer and holds her hand firmly. “Anyway, Father. This is my wife, Kyrie. Kyrie, this is Vergil. My father.”

Kyrie smiles warmly at Vergil. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Vergil.”

Vergil appreciates Kyrie’s bravery and gives his sincerest nod of approval. There is not a single hint of fright from Kyrie as he recalls how people tend to tremble and stutter in fear whenever they talk to him. He can see why Nero loves her and is very protective towards her. “Thank you for taking good care for my son all this time.”

“Sorry for missing your wedding party, babe. We’ve been busy cleaning up Hell,” Dante grins at Kyrie. “Congratulations. My nephew is lucky to have you as his wife.”

“Can you shut up already?” spats Nero, feeling terribly embarrassed.

“I’m hungry~!” Nico shouts mischievously. “Let’s continue inside! It’s damn freezin’ out here!”

Kyrie gives the twins a final nod as she invites them to come inside the house. She runs to the kitchen with Nico while Nero gathers the kids to enter the house. Dante chuckles like a cocky cool uncle when Julio asks him to do another magic trick, and the little chuckle turns into a bigger laughter when he sees Vergil’s hand tucked in Kyle’s hand as the youngest child calls him Grandpa Vergil.

“Grandpa’s hand is cold!” Kyle says, unaware of Vergil’s death glare. “Once you eat Kyrie’s food, you’ll be warm in no time!”

“Let go of my hand, little rascal.” Vergil scoffs, uncomfortable by the strange kindness from the little child.

Kyle laughs and keeps guiding him to the kitchen. The food is prepared and everyone is about to get their seats. Carlo drags a chair beside Dante’s seat and shyly asks Vergil to sit there, which Vergil accepts.

“Starting to feel like coming back home?” Dante asks his brother.

“This is not bad.”

“I’ve contacted Lady and Trish. They will be here soon,” Nico says as she puts the cigarette on the ashtray. “Lady said something about returning her Kalina Ann. Trish gave her regards, and said that ya need to pay the rent as soon as possible.”

“Damn… those devilish ladies…” Dante buries his face on the table.

“Your office looks like shit without you.” Nero sneers at Dante.

Further family resolvement can wait. Now let them enjoy their first family dinner for the first time. Christmas might have passed a week ago, but Nero thinks his most valuable present had just arrived today. He still wants to beat the shit out of his father and uncle for some unknown reasons, but it can wait for later. His eyes meet Vergil’s, and his father forms a warm smile to him. He never says much, Nero knows that, but he can give him time to adjust in the human world.

Amidst the chants and chatter in the house, unbeknownst to each other, the three descendants of Sparda secretly hope that this rare moment can last forever.

[poptod]

Ivory Haunting Pt. 3 (Ahkmenrah X Reader)

Description: Maybe there’s more left of what you used to be than you thought.

Notes: this poor boy is so stupid, he gets a slave and the first thing he does is flirt and share wine with them, who tf does that WC: 1.8k

+

This should feel new, but it doesn't. Damn the reverence, damn the love, that warmth in your chest is for no one but him. Isn't he the only one that exists to you now? Who else do you talk to? The other slaves, the servants who look down on you, the rulers of the earth you live upon?

You're not sure when the obsession started – maybe you were born with it, but you know right when it began to take over your life. He was always beautiful––you saw him as a child being paraded through the streets and even then, even then when you met his eye your heart nearly burst out of your chest. Now you're here, knelt before him, a gift from another man to him.

He doesn't look all that impressed with you. You wouldn't be either. Standing tall above you, he's an image of royalty, beautiful and chilling to the deepest parts of your core. He isn't human here, in this room – he is the son of Gods, righteous and cunning. A shiver runs down your spine when he does as little as tilt his head in curiosity.

"... you're giving me a slave?" He asks slowly, eyes leaving you to drag up to your owner with an unimpressed glare.

"Yes, my best one," your owner says, which he says about every person he sells. You know the lie by heart – claim that just because you're Persian you're some sort of foreign royalty. All of his slaves come from Persia. It's where he hunts.

Just as expected he recites the lie, tilting your face upwards to showcase your features that differ from their own. Your long, thick hair that hasn't been cut in years, your darkened eyes, even the curve of your nose. You don't know how your master has managed to pinpoint all these things on your face.

At this point you don't even know what you should fear; staying with your master, or leaving with the Prince. Despite having memorized the young Prince's face during the many parades of the royal family, you know close to nothing about him, and you certainly don't know how he treats his slaves. You don't know if he's a kind person – you know he could hurt you, but so did your master. He could sell you, but so has your master.

"Very well," the Prince says with a hint of disdain, waving over one of his soldiers to take the chain from your master. "It will work in lieu of payment, but I will not be so lenient next time. You will need to have your grain ready."

"Thank you, my Prince," says the master, and those are the last words you ever hear him say.

They yank on your chain and you rattle forward, following the Prince with the quiet footsteps you've learned to make. You don't dare make a sound, so you don't ask where you're going when you're not immediately taken to the palace. Instead you realize, albeit very slowly, that the Prince is going around a sector of Memphis to collect taxes. It makes sense that your master sold you – you haven't eaten in days because of his dwindling supply of grain.

You're more used to the beating sun than the Prince––which doesn't surprise you, considering the amount of manual labor you've done––and when he tires of his duties and the heat he retreats back up to the glittering palace with you in tow. What does surprise you is that he dismisses his guards, taking your chain into his own hands as he leads you through the maze of a palace. The biggest building you'd been in before was one of the temples, one built for Bastet and used by a small congregation of people. This, though – there are so many hallways, so many rooms, so many people, and the Prince knows exactly where he's going.

He leads you to his room––of course he does––and drops the chain the second the door locks behind you. There's a blush on your face, there has to be going by the way your heart beats erratically, pushing on the balance of your breath and the stillness of your eyes. You twitch in nervousness, flickering to every little thing in the room.

The paintings up on the walls tell much kinder stories than those put up in the palace hallways or in the temples of Ra and Horus. Here, instead of the stories of Gods, lies images of the Pharaoh himself and his family. Alongside the image of the Prince sit pools of water, fringed by lines of fruitful bushes that broadcast both the wealth of the artist and of the family. The furniture follows much of the same style – lined with gold, decorated intricately, and each piece worth more than yourself.

"What's your name?" He asks you, his back turned as he keeps his attention at his desk. You can't see what he's doing.

You can't hear your own answer. Muffled against your thoughts.

"Was he telling the truth?"

"... what?" You stumble, bound hands curling up against your chest as anxiousness once more seizes your fingers. When he turns you can't breathe – he looks right at you, and for the first time you make eye contact. It boils an unease in your stomach. In each hand he holds a chalice of sorts, swirling with red wine.

"Are you royalty? Are you even Persian?" He asks in a lax tone, leaning back against his desk in a way that both confuses and calms you. In the very least it seems he's not in a mood to hurt you.

"I am Persian," you answer honestly, your voice soft with your own placitude, "but I can't say I was ever royal."

"Mm," he hums, "I didn't think so. No matter – what specialty shall I place you in? Labor.. cleaning..."

He drifts off in thought as his eyes glaze over, attempting to recall the many jobs of slaves in Memphis. You don't bother to list off the ones you know, even though your list is much longer than what he's stated, as you don't want him to remember the more unpleasant of the bunch.

"Let's see," he says. 

When did he get so close to you? Last you checked he was on the other side of the room, but now you're standing right up against him, cheeks burning as his eyes rake up and down your form.

The edge of his lip quirks upwards, showcasing a small smirk as his fingers reach out to touch your arm. He runs them up your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he observes you – you and your uneven breath. You know he's checking you. He stated his purpose up front, and now he's looking over you, wondering what kind of labor you're used to. Where the muscles have formed. The sensitive parts of your body.

"I think you'll do well as a personal servant," he finally decides, though it doesn't look like the decision was all that much persuaded by the parts of your body that he felt. It feels more like a flimsy excuse.

"A personal servant?" You clarify in an uneven voice.

"Mhm. Have you ever done that before?"

"No," you mumble.

"Don't worry. You're in good hands," he says, but you're not sure if you should let that be a comfort. "Stay close to me," he commands, "and that way I will always be there to protect you. Yes?"

You barely speak the word but the movement of your lips is apparently enough.

"Be wary of my brothers, and never go into the cellars without me," he warns you. You nod, almost eagerly. "Do you have a family?"

It's a difficult question considering the origins of your move from Persia to Egypt, but the simple answer is no, not anymore.

"Then you'll stay here. With me."

He takes the cups from where he had set them, handing one to you and sipping from the other.

"Yes, my Prince."

+

It's that.

There it is––or, there it was. That's where you remember this feeling, the feeling of ultimate longing for something unknown, someone new, someone you know is inherently safe despite not knowing a thing about him. It occurs to you all at once, but unlike other memories it doesn't play like a movie. Instead you find it hidden in the corner of your mind, tucked away for God knows how long, desperate to be felt again. When you find it, it doesn't feel like yourself. You suppose that's too much to ask of ancient magic.

The more you think about the historical value of this core memory, the more interesting it becomes. You had, of course, always known that part of the ancient world resided within Ahk, but he never willingly told you anything unless it was about yourself. Maybe he wanted you to remember naturally, and if so it certainly worked.

"What do you think?"

How many times has this happened now, where you space out entirely, leaving your body to experience some other sensation of life? It happens a lot in his presence – he must be sick of you.

"... what?" You ask softly, brow furrowing in confusion. Even now you can't meet his eye.

"The wine, dearest. What do you think?"

You look down and there's a glass in your hand, lip marks already on the edge.

"I –– sorry, I..." you take a moment to taste the wine again, the flavor having already fallen dull on your tongue. It's nothing special, but it's smooth, and you know he likes those types of wines. You nod and he beams.

He sits you down––just the two of you, and you sit shoulder to shoulder on the velvet lounge. Most of the time you sit on the floor, or on the stool in the corner, but apparently not tonight. No, tonight he has some sort of desire to be close to you, to reward you with an affection he purposefully holds back. 

You open your mouth to speak, but before any sound comes out you shut it. There’s no advice to be given in your situation, so you’re split between informing him of your vision and keeping him in the dark. Thus far he's been in the full belief that you recall nothing from the past. Thus far he's been right.

I don't need to bother him with that, you eventually decide. After all, you're still just his servant – you don't need to bring up trivial things. Especially not when he pulls you into him, resting his cheek atop your head as a long sigh escapes him.

You could exist like this for eternity.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The Sweets We Wish For || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: This morning

LOCATION: Morgan & Deirdre’s house

PARTIES: @deathduty @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan Beck, dead girl walking for fourteen months and counting, feels a world of difference.

CONTAINS: N/A

Morgan opened her eyes feeling like there were spiders crawling on her back. She jolted upright, kicking the sheets away and--- “What the fuck.” Morgan Beck, dead girl walking for fourteen months and counting, felt. She brought her fingers to the sheets and rubbed her fingers over the surface. There was that feeling again. This soft-but-prickly all over tingle, this swarm of something. Had silk sheets always been like this? Was something happening to her brain? Her nerves? Morgan retracted her hand and turned to Deirdre, who was already waking up beside her.

She opened her mouth, trying to do something other than gape in confusion at her. This couldn’t be a spell, right? Her energy didn’t react to magic that way. But then that weird preternatural dream thing had gotten her once. Was everyone’s senses dialed up to eleven? This didn’t make any sense. None of this made any sense. “...Babe, uh...something’s…” Wrong? Maybe? Or not? “This is gonna sound really weird, but can you touch me real quick? But just a little bit?”

Thunk, thunk, thunk—Kaden’s body tumbled gracelessly down a spiraling, never-ending set of stairs as Deirdre stood above, holding a squirming Morgan in her arms. Her mind told her that Morgan was simply dancing to praise the death of Kaden (as all ought to) but her body told another story. Warmth filled her senses one moment only to be lost in another. In bright spots, the vision of Kaden’s rolling body was replaced with the interior of their bedroom, and the Morgan in her arms was the Morgan sat up beside her. A strange expression played on her love’s face, and Deirdre groaned as her mind struggled to put pieces together. “Now…?” She mumbled, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palms. “At this hour?” Not that she was objecting, she wanted to explain, just that she was a little too tired. “If that’s what you want, my love.” With another groan, she rolled half on top of Morgan, pointing at their nightstand. “I think the bite guard and the handcuffs are back in there.” And with a yawn, she smacked her lips together and rested her head against Morgan’s shoulder, pressing a tired, gentle kiss to her cheek. “If you just give me a moment to wake up I can…” Deirdre trailed off, yawning again, this time expelling her hot breath across Morgan’s skin.

Morgan looked bewildered at her love, then at their window, where morning light was just barely coming through. Oh. It was still early. “I’m--no, not exactly--oh, my love--” Morgan tried to find words to explain what was happening to her, but she still wasn’t sure. As Deirdre came closer, her insides clenched. She didn’t know whether to dread her touch or ache for it. “W-wait--” Something’s wrong with my body. Or different. And do the sheets feel weird to you? Morgan could have said any of those, but she said nothing, because as soon as Deirdre’s head touched her, Morgan gasped and forgot how to make air flow. Then Deirdre was kissing her, and cold wasn’t enough of a word for it.

“Mother fucking Earth!” She cried, shrinking away. “That’s--you’re--” Morgan hovered her fingers over the spot where Deirdre had kissed her. She flinched, squeaking out a cry over her skin... “Cold! You’re freezing cold! And I’m cold! Or maybe it’s just our room that’s cold? And the sheets are--I don’t even know! I don’t know, I don’t know what’s happening, but I--” She held out her hands between them as if the answer might be written somewhere on them. Of course they weren’t, so she looked up at Deirdre, more bewildered than ever. “I-I...feel things. Like...feel-feel. Like before or maybe…even more.”

The early morning had its way of clouding the processes of the mind; Deirdre’s eyes grew wide as Morgan pulled away. Then they flickered shut as she pulled her hands back. It had been so long since someone shrieked at her coldness; for a moment, it spurred only bitter memories, a fog which threatened to color even Morgan’s old delight at her cold fingers, a delight she hadn’t seen in over a year. Deirdre’s eyes opened, finding thin streaks of rising sun spilling across their dark silk sheets. There was something about the morning. Deirdre snapped her attention to Morgan, her eyes grew wide again. This time, she was grinning.

“I’m cold!” Deirdre pointed at herself, tumbling off the bed, “I’m cold! That’s me!” It was too good to believe that Morgan was feeling her suddenly--this must’ve been some new sort of dream, the kind that felt too real--but as she nodded along to Morgan’s jumbled thoughts, she felt like it was the most clear assumption. She crouched down at the edge of the bed, looking up at her girlfriend. Slowly, she reached her hand out and trailed her fingers across Morgan’s. Deirdre paused there, watching her reaction before she continued and wrapped their hands together. Once upon a time, Morgan had tingled; she felt like fire against her skin. Their first night together Deirdre thought she might melt into Morgan. “Y-You’re still cold,” she said, brows furrowed together. It made sense for a zombie, of course, but not for this dream. Not for any drug she knew. Frantic, she pressed the back of her hand to Morgan's forehead, as if only her hands might’ve been suffering from poor circulation; she was cold—just as cold as Deirdre. “No, no, that isn’t right.” Deirdre fell back with a heave, lost in her thoughts.

Morgan finally brought her eyes up to Deirdre in the quiet, remembering how she felt about her skin as she tried to process her body. “I-I’m just--I didn’t mean to--” But when Dierdre looked up at her, she was smiling with more light than Morgan had seen in a long time.

She followed her love like she might hold all the answers, crawling to the edge in spite of how her skin twitched with surprise and reaching over to meet her fingers. This time, when they touched, it was slow. Morgan braced herself for the full body shiver that rippled through her. The familiar words she had spoken when she was alive rushed to her mind but after a year of dull pressure, nothing in her vocabulary seemed sufficient. “You’re--I don’t even know how to--” Tears rose to her eyes as she mouthed stupidly, struggling for words. “You’re soft and smooth and cold but you’re so alive, I can feel how alive you are when you touch me, you’re incredible--” Her words trailed off as she shivered, all her conditioning lost to time.

“I’m cold too?” She asked, slow on the uptake. Her skin was still ash white and she did have goosebumps all over. But as Morgan sat with the feeling, she decided her cold was more stiff and stagnant. It wasn’t the strange death-in-life plunge she felt when pressed against Deirdre. She followed her love to the ground and reached for her hand, hesitated, then brushed their fingertips together. “It’s been so long I can’t tell if this is how the world used to be or if something’s turned up my sensitivity to a million. But you’re--” Morgan moved her fingers to Deirdre’s lips, tracing the outline as lightly as possible and gasping with tears when she felt how much more delicate they were than the rest of her. She did the same with Deirdre’s ear, her hair, always with the lightest of touches. “You feel real. Like, more real than anything in my memories. This is real, I’m r-really--I’m here.” She let out a quiet, tearful laugh of amazement. “Can I kiss you? Um, gently? I’m still trying to process whatever this is, but I will never forgive myself if I pass up the chance to learn what it feels like to kiss you again.”

It must have been a strange dream then, destined to be cruel in its ending, but how could Deirdre deny the look of wonder upon her love’s face? The cynicism, the weariness inside of her, dissolved quickly under Morgan’s rediscovery. In that moment, it didn’t matter to her if she was caught in a dream, or if Morgan’s sudden feeling was a dangerous infliction, all she could remember were the evenings soaked with tears, the nights plagued by the loss Morgan suffered. Their lovemaking, contorted to Morgan’s desperation to feel. It was absurd to question that she would even consider freezing her love out of the sensations she deserved. Her happiness said enough for Deirdre. She burned where they touched, she whimpered where they parted.

“Yes,” she breathed, smiling wide. “Yes, please, my love.” Deirdre leaned in, stopping just shy of Morgan’s lips with all the trepidation of a first kiss. She would let Morgan close the distance between them, but in the seconds she waited in twisting anticipation, her eyes darted between her love’s own and then her lips, her ears, her hair. They all appeared unchanged, just as beautiful as she remembered—as magnetic as always. She’d never forgive Morgan either if she passed up the chance to kiss her now.  

Morgan trembled as Deirdre came close enough for her to feel her breath.”I forgot what morning breath smelled like,” she whispered, giggling. “How on earth do you put up with mine every day?” Before Deirdre could answer, Morgan guided her the rest of the way with her fingertips and brushed their lips together. Then again, and again, lingering in place. “Mmmm...more people need to kiss more banshees. Really--” Another kiss, more firm than before. “A much under-researched field of study. Because I don’t know what the words for this are anymore, nothing feels right enough.” She took Deirdre’s face and kissed her the way she wanted to for as long as she could until she couldn’t hold the unreal novelty of comfort and love rendered into something her touch could decode any longer.

“Have you ever heard of this happening? Should we be worried right now, or--” She trailed off, entranced by her sense of Deirdre’s hair. There was so much of it, a million little threads, so fine they felt like almost nothing by themselves but something like a cloud, maybe, when stroked by the handful. How could she have ever taken gentleness like her love’s hair for granted?

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot about—“ Deirdre’s sentence muffled against Morgan’s lips, forgotten in favour of a much more pressing matter. The kisses felt the same for her, of course, but that didn’t mean she was any less enraptured—kissing Morgan at any moment seemed to have that effect. “Well, I’ve always thought you’d look cute in a lab coat,” Deirdre smiled and stole a kiss of her own. “For science.” Deirdre could think of a lot of words to describe it, though Morgan was right, none of it could ever be accurate enough. “I love you,” she mumbled; that felt apt to say. She was reluctant to touch Morgan as they settled, worried she’d send her shivering back, so she kept her hands planted chastely on the carpet.

“Definitely worried.” Deirdre said simply, smiling with ease. The statement, however plain, did not upset or surprise her. “This sort of thing absolutely does not happen. Ever. Not unless someone slipped you some drug. Or this is a dream—though, is it yours or mine?” Deirdre hummed, playing with the thought for only a second. It didn’t matter. She glanced down at Morgan, watching amazement flicker across her features. “It doesn’t matter, my love. If you could see the look on your face, you’d know that too.” Days, weeks, haunted by mourning. Deirdre knew them well; she didn’t resent them, she didn’t even mind them, but her memories flared with them. Morgan curled under weighted blankets. Morgan floating atop their pool. The answer to her agony was partly this one simple thing: feeling. What did it matter if it was too good to be true? Many of the greatest things were: love, kisses, comfort and finding a fresh carcass under the summer sun. If this dream was going to end, it didn’t matter. Deirdre would be there, and she’d see them to a gentle end.

“If you can feel again, maybe we should take out the handcuffs…” Deirdre paused, “I’m joking. You seemed like you could barely handle the silk. Do you think you just need a moment to get used to everything again?”

Morgan let her hands fall to the carpet near Deirdre’s, just close enough that the space between them felt charged with their not touching. She tugged on the fibers, a little less unnerved by their density now that she knew what was going on. Then she looked at her love and might as well have been a teenager on her first date. “I never dream anymore,” Morgan said, leaning in again, her lips brushing Deirdre’s only when she pursed them to speak. “Or maybe I do now. Maybe it’s time for a nap. Cold pillows always did make me drowsy…” She shied away and ghosted her lips down her love’s neck and shoulder.

“I feel like...I absolutely want to try sex while whatever’s happening is happening, but also maybe doing that right now would be a ticket for a really not fun panic attack, So I--Earth and Stars, there is nothing in the universe that feels like you. You’re better than snow, better than anything I ever said, than anything I understand right now--” She kissed her shoulder and carefully brought her cheek down to rest there. “I love you. Adjusting sounds good. Maybe help me get downstairs for breakfast?” At the thought of food, Morgan sucked on her love’s neck. “Mmm. You’re salty-sweet. No surprise there, except that it’s way too addicting for someone this easily overstimulated.” She continued, inhaling deep and moaning at Deirdre’s scent. To her, it was as powerful as divinity. It made her think of cherries, sandalwood, and soft dark soil. And there was something else, bitter and intoxicating, something that had no memory or word besides Deirdre in Morgan’s mind, too fae to be categorized. “...hey, just so we’re clear, I’m still dead, right? You sense me like you did before?”

“Morgan…” Deirdre breathed, snapping her attention away. She flushed now, embarrassed to be treated as if she was the eighth world wonder. For a year now, Morgan hadn’t been able to say anything about the way she smelt, felt or tasted. It was almost too much to hear it all at once. Almost. Her fingers twitched, her body shivered as if sparks ran under her skin. “Definitely my dream then…” she mumbled, and then at once decided her theory of this being a dream was moot—there was too little murder and far too many compliments. Her mind didn’t usually conjure such creative images. But the wonder in Morgan’s voice and reverence in which she took Deirdre in, all of that felt like a dream. She closed her eyes, the carpet had begun digging into her palms, and she was sweating in ice cold droplets down her back. Her lips parted as she breathed. And in time, with a curse spilled in Gaelic against her tongue, she gave in and wrapped her arms around Morgan, holding her gently.

“You are still dead,” Deirdre explained, tangling her fingers in Morgan’s bed-messied hair. She was careful to be gentle, and more to be slow. She began first by playing with small strands of Morgan’s hair. “You still feel dead. I can feel you like a hand around my heart.”

Slowly, she took Morgan’s wrist in her grip. “I can’t feel a heartbeat, either.” Which only served to confuse Deirdre; nothing she knew about had this sort of effect. It must’ve been magic, she thought, but from where? By who? Why? Then she shifted, “here, shall we get up now and start moving?”

Morgan gasped to feel Deirdre around her all at once. She was a current and she was a rock, she was a body and a force of nature, she was melting and she was safe. Deirdre was more things in one movement than Morgan knew how to name or process, but she welcomed them all.

She sighed and went back to memorizing the taste of her love’s skin. “What if we try everything in the freezer until I can figure out what you taste like,” she suggested, only half-teasing. “You know, for scientific purposes.” She rose to her feet without letting go of Deirdre in the usual way she had. She was curious about the rest of the world in their house with the petrified wonder of a child, but she was more eager to re-discover her love in a new language. So she kept herself fastened to Deirdre’s side as they left their room and awkwardly climbed downstairs.

“Carpet is weird,” she mumbled. “I know it’s soft but it’s also kind of itchy and dense, right? It’s not one thing, I don’t know how we were so casual about walking barefoot on it for so—” Morgan’s foot slipped and her leg went out from under her and she reached for the bannister to steady herself but it was not enough and she fell the rest of the way, only a little slower now, until she finally stopped and landed on her clumsy foot. For one breath, everything was alright like it would have been the day before. In the next, pain rushed in.

Morgan had forgotten about body pain. Impact was one thing. Impact had become a comfort. When Deirdre made love to her, Morgan begged for more impact, more pressure. She wanted to be found. She wanted to know that love could pierce through the dullness of death even if it stung. This was different. Morgan felt the air on her raw skin as if for the first time, gasping and choking on how furiously it burned. And her leg. It was a little swollen, and her ankle didn’t look right, and when she tried to move it, the pain shot up all the way to her throat and she cried out, covering her mouth too late to smother the sound completely. There was hardly any blood, just a thin black smear down her calf and strips of skin scraped clean. It was fine. She was fine. Just hurt. Hurt was a feeling just like anything else. Then the flesh on Morgan’s leg moved and the bones in her ankle inched back toward their old shape and there was nothing within Morgan terrible enough to understand the preternatural agony of feeling her body try to mend itself on a hungry stomach. She curled in on herself, crying and trembling and screaming under her hands until there was no air left in her lungs.

Head tilted to the ceiling, Deirdre barked out in laughter, water growing in the corner of her eyes. With a pittering exhale, she pressed closer to Morgan. “Very funny,” she chastised, finding only amusement in her voice, “I don’t taste like anything frozen, I assure you.” Deirdre pressed a soft kiss to Morgan’s cheek as they rose, as if chasing her on the way up. “And I might get jealous if you mention the freezer too much.” Now it was her turn to tease and she did so with a bright smile, falling easily into step with her girlfriend. “I’ll think you’re trying to replace me.”

And in strange fortune and obvious curse, someone did end up tumbling down a flight of stairs. Not anyone she would have liked to, though. Deirdre reached for Morgan feebily, flesh slipping through her fingers. She rushed down after her love, just inches from tumbling down for herself. “Morgan--” She tried to speak over the screaming to a similar futile effort. She watched skin recede and bones recede into place; what was once a beautiful marker of Morgan’s zombism, now felt like a terrifying reminder of things out-of-place. What was worse, breaking a bone or having a bone snap back in place? How about both?

Deirdre crouched down, hadn’t she wailed just like this the first time one of her bones were broken? She wrapped one cold hand around Morgan’s now-healed ankle, as if trauma were only fiction; and pressed the other to her calf, equally ignorant to memory. “It’s okay,” she began calmly, just under Morgan’s crying, “you’re okay, just give it a moment. It’s okay.” She counted five beats before she tugged Morgan into her arms, sitting with her on their cold, dark hardwood. “Carpet is weird,” she answered slowly, “it’s kind of like wooly grass...if grass was that thick. Oh, my love, grass is going to feel so strange to you again. When I was a child, I liked to bunch it all up in my fingers and pull. I’m not sure why I did that. Must’ve been a nervous habit.” And when Deirdre was sure her nonsensical talk had lulled--though perhaps time had done that without her help--she kissed the top of Morgan’s head and looked at her. “How are you feeling right now?”

Morgan was grateful for the sudden rush of freezing softness that enveloped her through Deirdre’s arms. She couldn’t look away from her body, the skin papering itself over, the leg hair pushing through the new flesh, the swelling turning flat. She had never been afraid of this part of herself before. But now she caught each little mend with a prick and a whimper. Something was wrong. She couldn’t tell anymore which part of her it was, everything about feeling her insides race to fix themselves was very, very, very wrong. She should have been more worried. She should have been more careful.

Deirdre’s words finally reached her and Morgan latched on. Wooly grass. Handfuls of green earth in a child’s fingers. Yes, that sounded really good about now. Morgan took in a shuddering breath, then another. She closed her eyes. The pain was gone. All she was holding onto now was fear. When she opened her eyes again, there was Deirdre, filling up her whole world. “A little more nervous than I was a minute ago,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. She sniffled. “I probably should’ve figured feeling everything again meant feeling...everything again. I-it wasn’t a serious thing. When I felt it--” Her voice snagged on the memory and she eased herself slowly into Deirdre’s arms to push it away. There was her smell again, and the foral whiff of laundry on her robe. “It was just my ankle. I’m okay.” She said it a few more times to reassure herself as well. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

Morgan breathed again and dropped as much of her fear as she knew how and held onto Deirdre just a little tighter instead. She kissed her love’s shoulder and lifted her head so her tremulous words wouldn’t get lost against her skin. “Maybe we could try to get to breakfast again? Nothing complicated. And maybe you can stay close while I try to get used to...existing, I guess? I-I know something bad is probably happening right now. And that scares me. But it also scares me that feeling the world again will have to stop. And I don’t want to spend all this time being scared.” She sniffled. “I want my life with you back.”

Deirdre pressed a hand to Morgan’s cheek, pausing just shy of roughly rubbing at her skin, thumb hovering in the air. The pressure she once needed to apply was habitual, woven into her body’s understanding of Morgan just as old memories of gentleness were. It took her only a second to adjust again, tucking loose strands of hair behind Morgan’s hair—promptly bounced free again with their fluffy nature—as she softly traced the bones of her face. “Everyone forgets about pain until it happens,” she smiled. “Paper cuts, stubbed toes…all of them hurt with the shock of it; no one wants to remember exactly how things hurt. And you shouldn’t worry; I don’t think you have to live your life worried about all the ways you can be hurt anymore. So,” Deirdre kissed Morgan as she helped them both to their feet, catching Morgan’s weight in case her ankle still tingled, “personally, I don’t know what there is to be nervous about. You’ll have to tell me if anything still makes you feel like that.”

At the mention of breakfast food, Deirdre eyed the stove, still several steps away. Since it was a little earlier than their usual waking time, the cats hadn’t stirred yet either, but she knew the sound of cooking would call them over like some kind of lighthouse to hungry, hungry shores. “How about pancakes?” She started one step at a time, slow and steady and careful. Left foot. Right foot. A pause to make sure Morgan was following along okay. Left foot. Right fo— Deirdre stumbled.

She was back to standing stiffly only a moment later, but for a second, she had stumbled. “Bad,” she repeated, gut churning and lips pulled thin. Yes, all of this probably did mean something bad, she knew that. She had been thinking that. But it was different to hear it confirmed from Morgan. “I-I’m sure it’s not that bad,” she argued nervously in a soft voice, “I’m sure it’s nothing to really be worried about at all.” She smiled thin, anxiously tugging Morgan closer to her. Bad had only been a thought until now, but if Morgan thought so too then…we’ll, it was rare that both of them were ever wrong. And as much as Deirdre knew about death, she wasn’t any sort of zombie expert. This peculiar sudden burst of feeling wasn’t normal, and didn’t come with the warmth or heartbeat it should’ve if it was a drug. She didn’t know what it was, and that frightened her too. “You’re going to be okay,” Deirdre was nearly angry in her insistence. There was a good possibility that Morgan wasn’t suddenly becoming more alive but turning more dead. Deirdre refused it. “Right?” She begged, dragging herself flush against Morgan. If Morgan was going to die again, she wouldn’t know, and that was a fact that terrified her everyday. Deirdre liked knowing things, most people did. “I don’t—I don’t want to spend this time being scared either. But, I…” she swallowed thickly and closed her eyes. “I love you so much, Morgan. Always. If this is something bad can we just…can we just…” She wanted to suggest forgetting it for now, but thought about how much worse it would be to not know. Caught between the two ideas, she floundered for a moment before she gestured for them to keep walking. It was okay. It was okay. It was okay.

Morgan lifted her tear-stained face to her love and watched her thoughts play out on her expression with avid devotion. She strained upwards to caress Deirdre’s jaw with little kisses as she gave her wisdom (because that was something Morgan could do now; she could be so gentle, and so tender, and feel every ripple of sensation at the same time) and nodded along with the plan she was constructing to supplement her own in such a way that her cheek rubbed against Deirdre’s skin.

“Pancakes sound perfect. But you’ll have to stay extra close in case I burn my hand on the skillet again,” she said, voice light. She had gotten better, but the skillet liked to get the better of her and her once-dead nerves at least once a week.

Then Deirdre stumbled and her wise and wonderful confidence fell away and Morgan ached with how clearly her fear was imprinted on her body, her touch. “Hey…” She said. “We don’t know anything for sure. For all we know; this is just my White Crest trauma talking. But either way, I’ll be okay. I’m dead, not gone. And it is really, seriously hard to get rid of me at this point.” Now that she was speaking up to soothe her love, Morgan’s words came easier. She sounded so confident she almost started to believe herself.

Morgan kept still and held herself in place with Deirdre, who was getting desperate to submerge them safely away from their concerns. “I’m okay,” she said again and turned Deirdre’s face to look down at hers. “I love you too. More every day and always, always, Deirdre. And I am okay.” She kissed her as tenderly as she knew how and lingered, forehead pressed to forehead. “Neither of us want to live in fear and neither of us want to ignore a chance to be proactive about finding out what’s happening. So I’m thinking…we give ourselves today to be happy. I want to sample everything there is to sense in our little world. I want to learn the right words of everything I’ve been missing out on. I want to know how it feels for you to have your way with me. I want to feel you and everything that makes up my life like I never stopped. And tomorrow, we can start looking for answers in whatever White Crest bullshit is going on now. Tomorrow, not a minute before.” Another kiss. “So no eulogizing. Just be with me. Show me how life is. Okay?” She pulled back and gave Deirdre a bright smile. “And, most importantly of all: decide if you’re brave enough to try my brain sausage with your pancakes.”

On the days where fear grew large and vicious, where the loss of Morgan was fanged and snarling, Deirdre kept herself afloat with a small hope; a tiny idea that she could trust in the world allowing them to have the space they’d so carefully carved out. Didn’t they deserve it? Though, the more Deirdre followed that line of reasoning, the worse she felt; she was a murderer, torturer, apathetic and destructive weapon of a creature. What she actually deserved was very obvious. So, she never let herself think that far. She let her thoughts rest on her small hope, praying it wouldn’t be crushed one day—and of all days, not today. Deirdre closed her eyes and let Morgan’s words wash over her. Her small hopes always felt a little stronger with Morgan there. “Okay,” she breathed, opening her eyes. “I’m sorry. I love you.” And meeting Morgan in a kiss of her own—it was of Deirdre’s expert opinion that kisses be divided equally among them, as she explained to Morgan many days ago, stealing kisses when she could—her hope stretched and smothered her fear for the moment and she smiled again. Morgan said she was okay, and Deirdre chose to believe it. “Just don’t expect brains to feel like normal meat. It’s a little more creamy, or like jelly depending.” She paused, “I’ve had some of your brains before.”

It was easy then, to move forth as though things were truly okay. Morgan was in her arms, touching her, kissing her. Her hands rose to Morgan’s face, keeping her still, tracing pores and the lines her tears followed when they spilled. She kissed her again, sealing her hope there and pulled them along to the kitchen. She left Morgan to get acquainted with the countertops and the tile as she fetched ingredients: flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, milk, eggs, butter. The flour rained in small spurts when she put everything down, looking at Morgan. “How do you want to do this?” Deirdre smiled, knowing their usual division of labour was Morgan doing most (all) of the work and Deirdre doing the odd cutting job and the dishes at the end. This time, though, she wanted to do more. Her excitement portrayed in her holding the pan up, deferring to Morgan.

Morgan skated her toes along the tile. She remembered pretending to be Nancy Kerrigan in her worn out socks when she was a kid. The kitchens she’d grown up in had never been as smooth as this. The holes snagged on little chips and rough patches. She could only do circles a few feet wide. But the summer was humid. There was something slick about their wide, polished tiles, and she could spread the tips of her toes as far as she could reach and glide as if they were a single, icy blade.

She giggled, and looked up to explain to Deirdre, when she saw her love holding out the cooking pan, a look on her face that made her seem brighter, younger, than she had been in some time. It was almost impossible to misread her expression, so inviting, pleading but in the kindest way. Morgan couldn’t help but answer her smile with one in return. “Um…” She was strangely bashful, having Deirdre’s attention in this way, teaching her something they could share in for once. Morgan’s hands, ever curious, were dancing over the stovetop and over to her arms, which made her jolt with a sweet plunge of cold. “Well, the pan goes on the stove, and you turn the knob on low so it can preheat…” She guided Deirdre through the movement, starting to enjoy the gradations of goosebumps their closeness sent through her body. Somehow, they reminded her of the way water ripples looked. “And then we get to start the batter. Do you want to crack the eggs for me, farmgirl? I could use some strong fae muscles to help me out.” She batted her eyes, feigning the role of a damsel in need before laughing once again and reaching for the requisite measuring cups. Morgan made pancakes so often, she barely had to take her eyes away in order to find all her tools. But that didn’t stop her from sliding her thumb around the plastic and the rubber grips on the handles. She laid them all out and took a moment to consider what a miracle it was to have so much beauty in so many ordinary places, right at the tips of her fingers.

Morgan smoothed her hands over the countertop and pressed, with a delighted gasp, into her love. “Do you want to run the mixer too, babe?”

Whatever complaints Deirdre had about being shown how to work a stove, as if she didn’t know, shivered under the delight of having Morgan show her at all. She gasped at the fire, as though she couldn’t believe it, and nodded enthusiastically at being led along. It ended far too soon for her liking, but there was only so much to do with a pan. “Yes!” And, excited at the prospect of helping, Deirdre nearly forgot about the teasing. “Oh, right,” she coughed and was quick to correct herself. “Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.” But what should have been a smirk was a bright grin instead. Deirdre could crack eggs with one hand, which was all the better for her so she could use the other to pull Morgan close. As the mixer whirred, bringing everything together in a light and sweet-smelling batter, Deirdre had moved completely behind Morgan, arms wrapped around her waist. “I love you,” she mumbled against her neck, “and is it too late to say I wanted blueberry pancakes?”

For the rest of it, she cooed and hummed as Morgan worked. There were simple sensations that even she had taken for granted; the warmth of the skillet, the uneasy weight when it came to flipping a pancake, the sweet smell, the burnt smell. Deirdre gestured silently where Morgan should keep her fingers now, in case she forgot; don’t burn yourself here, remember you need to use the handle like this. But it was like nothing had changed from their first few mornings together, intertwined as breakfast was prepared. Where the sun was warm and the wind cool. It wasn’t like they didn’t share mornings in the wake of Morgan’s death, just that it was different. Deirdre always felt odd being the only one to enjoy a meal, even if Morgan said she didn’t mind. It always felt better when they could share things.

Deirdre moved and readied plates and silverware for them. Stirred by the sounds of cooking, and the scent of it, the cats emerged slowly from their slumber, walking and howling like drunk sailors towards them. Anya, despite being told not to, pounced on the counter, pawing at spoons before Deirdre scooped her up and turned her towards Morgan. “Hey,” her voice was soft. Their pancakes were done, and there was just one aspect of their domestic life that remained unfelt, un-petted. Moira was on her way to Morgan’s feet. Niamh had claimed the center island, also jumping up where she shouldn’t. Deirdre moved a little closer. “Do you want to…” her sentence trailed off, “I can plate everything up, if you want.”

Morgan stared at Anya, who blinked back at her with wise indifference. Of all the feelings she’d lost, Anya had been the strangest, because there was nothing to recover when the cat was too put off by her death smell and the trauma of their bond breaking to go near her. By the time they made up a few short months ago, she was all out of practice and the best she could think of was “cat” which was no association at all. She looked to Deirdre next, and saw that her love understood what she was offering. A piece of a life half-forgotten. A piece of herself that could never be fastened back in place but might be collected, carried for safekeeping. Morgan nodded without saying anything and took the cat into her arms.

By now, Morgan was coming to accept that ‘soft’ would never contain everything that belonged to it, but Anya and her fine short fur seemed to be at least three different kinds of soft at once. There was the tender flesh of her ears, which stayed on alert until Morgan scratched her under the collar the way she liked. Then the shorter hairs under her chin, almost like fuzz. Her toe beans, which tickled Morgan’s skin. Her sleek black coat. She was a lean thing, fit from her daily hunts. You wouldn’t think there was much to cuddle, but the fine hairs grew thick and Morgan felt whole bunches of softness between each finger as she carded them across her back. So this was what having a friend back felt like, soft leather paws pushing against skin, the scratch of cat claws, and a soft (so, so soft) little body warm against your chest.

Morgan looked at Deirdre again. “Um why don’t we...we could eat in the great room? Put on a fire and watch the snow. We might as well enjoy all the strange magic we’ve been given at once, right?”

Moira sat on her toes and mewled pitifully, wanting a turn. Morgan’s eyes blurred as she knelt to pick up the kitten with her other arm. She was so fluffy, so light, Morgan couldn’t believe how deep her fingers sank into her fluff in order to cradle her properly.

“I’ll just...I can meet you there?” She said, her thanks written all over her watery face.

Morgan relished every brush of movement and contact. Wood floors (very cold), fancy rug (even stiffer than normal carpet), cats scratching, cats wriggling, cats using her as a diving board and a jungle gym, firewood, kindling, poker. And then pillows, blankets, and cats again. They drifted through her, it threw her with the force of a wave. And yet the ocean wouldn’t have been half as overwhelming, as far as she could figure, because it was all one thing. The wave that threw her into stillness was at least a dozen different sensations, a world’s worth of being she hadn’t thought to appreciate.

By the time Deirdre arrived with breakfast, Morgan had done up the floor by the prickly-toasty-warm fireside to be comfortable for them. She sat on a pillow, legs tucked up, one hand still stroking Moira, who she decided reminded her of clouds and feathers and those awful fur pillows that had been popular when she was young. Her smile turned wide and sloppy with delight. “That looks amazing! Pretty excellent teamwork, if I say so myself. This might sound weird, but I’m having--none of the words I’m familiar with seem enough to describe how everything feels. Like you’re soft, and Moira is soft, but not in the same way at all. It’s probably just the novelty of everything, but I was wondering--how would you describe the way blueberry pancakes taste?”

Deirdre watched Morgan leave with a warm smile; she didn’t need to read her love’s expression to guess at what might be floating around in her head, but even so, she desperately wanted to ask. It was a gift, always, to hear Morgan’s thoughts with her own voice, said her own way. She plated their breakfast with care, arranging everything as she’d seen it done at the sort of restaurants they didn’t frequent anymore and just the way Morgan used to like everything—extra blueberries and a handful of blackberries on the side. Coming into the great room with everything on a tray, she figured the only thing separating this from the mornings she once coveted was the denial of romantic feelings. And the extra cats. But it was so much better like this; the moment in time they never got to have. The promise of a long domestic life filled with feeling; their world. Their slice of paradise and heaven; that dusk-covered beach with the stars. “My love,” Deirdre greeted, settling herself and the tray on the floor. Morgan’s smile wasn't the only one messy with affection and delight. She had never learned how to describe how anything felt, and she wasn’t even the one who lost feeling.

Deirdre poured maple syrup from the ceramic jar over her pancakes slowly as she thought about it. “You once said…” She offered the jar to Morgan. “That I felt like melting snow in your hands, the first time you held some. Like that cold pool, that one summer day.” Deirdre paused, watching syrup run down her stack of pancakes. How did anyone describe how pancakes tasted? How love felt? How happy some moments were? “Memory,” Deirdre looked up, “I think you describe things with memories. Blueberry pancakes are sweet and tart, but they taste like Sunday mornings before prayer, in August when the fruit was ripe and my mother faithfully marked the day as rest. They taste like one moment's peace, one good day, one allowed indulgence.” Deirdre cut a piece, stabbing her fork into the fluffy delicacy and holding it just shy of her mouth. “Words are often inadequate, they’ve been like that before this…” Deirdre stopped herself. She wanted to call it a miracle, a dream, but didn’t want to test the world. She’d heard some things said about curses and intentions and minimized emotional footprints, and while she never believed a word of any of that, she didn’t want hopes to run too high. “…surprise. I wouldn’t worry about a lacking vocabulary; even if the words did exist, they wouldn’t tell me that my coldness felt like falling in love. But you did, your memories did.” Finally, she put the bite in her mouth. It was sweet, it was a little tart, but mostly it tasted like Sunday. And some of this moment too. “I mean to say; I am soft, kind of like a squishy ice cube. Moira feels like a hairy cloud. But far more like that first day we got her, and it felt like everything would fall into place, like relief, reprieve. New life. And this fire is warm, but to me it feels like the first time we had sex, and I thought you had a fever. Did I ever tell you that I tried to check your temperature while you were sleeping? I couldn’t believe anyone could be that warm, but I didn’t exactly keep a thermometer at my bedside.” Deirdre turned her attention to the flames, reaching up for more as they always did. “What does everything feel like?” She looked back at her girlfriend, “the pancakes, the cats, the fire…does it remind you of anything? What words do come to mind?” She paused again, breaking into a grin. “And yes, it was excellent teamwork.” Most things they did were.

Morgan ate as Deirdre spoke. She wanted the pancakes to taste the way listening to her voice felt. She was so thoughtful, so patient, and when she paused over her ideas just as Morgan bit into her fluffy-heavy-buttery-melt-y pancake and a fresh sweet-tart-slightly-satin-skinned blueberry burst between her teeth, Morgan thought she understood what Deirdre meant by a Sunday’s reprieve. A quiet and wonderful relief, a present that arrived just in time.

As her love went on, Morgan tried to make everything work with one hand while studying the room, the light, and the strange little textures around her. She wanted to braid the whole room into Deirdre’s words so that when she touched the couch, her heart would feel as warm and light as it did right now. “A squishy ice cube,” she echoed, laughing tipsy on happiness. “Sounds a lot better than fleshy water. But I understand what you mean.” She shoveled another bite into her mouth and held it there until the pancake turned to mush on her tongue before swallowing. Then another.

“The funny thing is, with how much I doubt my memories of things sometimes, I’ve already started trying to turn everything I touch into feelings. Like, kitchen stuff,” Morgan twirled her fork as an example, “Feels like some of the early days, wanting to do something nice to impress you or make you proud. The bones in my art feel like forgiving myself. The bones everywhere else feel like discovery or wanting to belong. My books all feel like whatever I felt reading them, or how I used them. But, let’s see…” She paused to eat some more as she tried to puzzle the images and heart-feelings she subsisted on into words. “Moira feels like being a kid at the end of a good day and thinking tomorrow might be even better. Naimh feels like wanting to do better. Anya feels like missing someone who’s still here.The fire feels like that heavier grown-up kind of hope, the kind we have at Yule and Beltane. I’m still deciding on the pancakes, though. There’s at least six different textures and flavors in one bite, it boggles my mind that we shove all of it into two words.” It took everything in her not to smile with her mouth full as she shoveled another bite.

“Normally, everything is so dull there’s hardly any variety. Like, our couch and the carpet: totally different material, but absolutely the same to me unless I really try to pick the carpet fibers apart. And the floor, and the stone mantelpiece, same thing. It’s just hard or soft, solidly together or kind of coming apart. And when it comes to softness…” Morgan paused and looked away from her plate as she scraped her plate clean. She didn’t want the last bite to taste like the heavy feeling building in her chest. “So much of it’s the same. The only difference is the shape. How much of me it covers. If I closed my eyes, I’d only know you were kissing my cheek instead of touching it with your finger by the sound and the shape of it. It’s not a bad kind of same. It’s like cotton balls and moth wings and those chunks of lint you have to pick out of the dryer, or that’s what I decided early on anyway. But it’s been just as long since I felt those things too. So of course it doesn’t always do the trick, especially when I’m low. But I still feel emotions every day, so it’s easier to trust that your hands feel like wanting to be faithful and your hair is like longing for a gentler world and your chest is being certain I’m safe…” She reached over and touched each part of Deirdre as she named them, shivering as she tried to memorize this new, vivid touch.

Morgan crawled closer. She picked up a blueberry and fed it to her love and kissed her. “Your lips feel like saying I love you,” she murmured. She grazed her lips over Deirdre’s cheek, then stilled, pulled back. “You’re warmer,” she whispered, as though she had discovered this phenomenon for the first time. She slipped her hand under Deirdre’s robe and felt her shoulder. She bunched her hair in each hand. “The fire’s making you warm!” She laughed, loud with amazement. “Do you know what you feel like when you’re warm? You at least know it’s different, right? But it doesn’t make me think of being sick or worried. It’s…not really warm enough to be toasty but it’s nice?” She ran her hands over the same places again, then her lips. “You feel like you but..new. Has anyone ever told you that before?” She snaked her arms around Deirdre’s body and tried to cover herself in the feeling.

“I know I was overstimulated like an hour ago, so I’m gonna let you be the level-headed one and decide. Okay?”  Morgan mumbled into her back, “I want to feel the rest of you, all of you. If I only get one day of this, I want to find all the different ways you feel like and melt my brain trying to name them all. Also, have hot cocoa again. And pie. And maybe build a snowman. And try on all my sweaters. But mostly you. Like right now maybe, while you’re warm? And then later tonight, when you’re cold again. And then maybe a few more times for good measure.” She kissed the back of her neck. “Sometimes I forget how much it broke me in the beginning, not being able to feel you the way I used to. Sometimes I don’t understand it. But I get it now. Your body is a whole world of wonderful things. And I could discover it for the first time all over again. ...Please?”

Deirdre never did take another bite of her breakfast. Her attention was captured by Morgan, watching her love as she spoke. Deirdre’s lips parted with each pause, silently encouraging Morgan to continue. Their worlds were different, and Deirdre had never stopped wanting to hear of Morgan’s. Anya, to her, felt like old memories. Niamh like loss, love, and the cold tingle of Lydia’s pearl hair. And Morgan, like everything good. Deirdre shivered under her touch, her eyes remained on her girlfriend and faithfully she sat and held her plate of forgotten pancakes. Her tongue curled around the blueberry offered, sweet juice burst under her teeth. Yes, yes she was warmer, very warm for a lot of reasons and only some of them had anything at all to do with the fire. “I hadn’t noticed,” Deirdre lied, flushed and grinning. And no, no one had ever told her that. No one had ever told her half these things. “Would you still say that knowing being hot makes me feel feverish?” She tried to joke. It came out as a rasp. She feared her mind was being too transparent with its ideas. She set her plate of pancakes aside; she wasn’t very hungry. Well, not for them at least.

One could imagine her excitement to learn Morgan was on the same page. “Hm,” Deirdre hummed, “only because you said please.”

It was true that for her, kissing Morgan felt just as it always had; like coming home for the first time. It was true that she had never lost the world of feeling and memory that Morgan gave. Touching her was walking down her favourite roads, looking up at the stars and choosing to let them guide her someplace. Her fingers tangled in her hair were the days spent sprawled in meadows uncaring for how the sun slowly hid behind the horizon in an explosion of pinks and oranges. Loving her was, as it always had been, the best thing that ever happened to her. Moments with Morgan always felt ripped from reality, placed in their own special glass-bottle world. But moments like these didn’t have a name and were too many feelings to let just one be picked. Deirdre described it simply as “I love you” said with the same rapturous affection every time.

Which, over the course of the day, was 192 times.