#and what happens behind his decision making and how that's linked to his personality and way of seeing life

[longagoitwastuesday]

On the one hand, I don't believe Megumi and Gojo were ever too close, even if their apparent closeness called my attention since their first scene together because of the way they behaved and talked to each other.

On the other hand, Megumi was a fifteen years old with a lot of problems, a pretty bad childhood and a bit of an attitude to say the least, and Gojo, besides Tsumiki, was the "paternal" figure he could turn against

[adelheidvonschicksal]

⋆｡°✩ DARLING, DON'T BE AFRAID

Summary: Despite living with Xavier for the past few weeks, you still haven't taken the plunge to see if all this time together make you anything more than roommates especially when he disappears again in the middle of the night. Determined, you decide to question him on where his feelings lie. You just never thought a simple kiss on the cheek was the only push needed.

Pairing: Xavier x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: Roommates AU, Vanilla Smut (A lot of it. Like 7k words of smut), Love Confessions, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Sex

Word Count: 12,000~

Note: Sequel to Do Roommates Sleep Together. This part can be read as a standalone. So not necessary to read part one but it adds more context.

AO3 Link

You make a final decisive pull of the trigger. A loud pang resonates in the air and smoke spirals off the barrel. The Wanderer disappears in a wisp of debris and dust that is quickly caught in the wind.

Xavier stands a few feet in front of you. His sword twirls with one final arc of light illuminating behind the sharpened tip before it dematerializes in his hand.  You’re oblivious to the way his eyes search and find you on instinct as you run eager fingertips on the warm barrel of your pistol. 

“Mission completed. We should report back.”

You raise your head to meet his gaze while your gloved fingers remain faithfully on your weapon. The adrenaline from a successful mission is still surging through you.

“I want to test out my guns some more.”

His eyes soften at your response, but the weight of his gaze is still heavy as he walks towards you and places his hand on your head. 

“There will be more Wanderers tomorrow,” he murmurs. His thumb gently brushes your forehead before his hand swoops back over your hair. Though your hands were still itching for another battle, your mind was weak to the calmness of his tone, like the slow tumble of waves on the shore, as he coaxes your head back to look at him more directly. “Let’s go home.”

This time you do not protest. Even if you did, what could you possibly say? 

Your aggression relaxes along with your shoulders, allowing you to give in to his request with a quick holstering of your twin guns. 

You return to headquarters and give your mission report to Jenna – pausing only to poke fun when she mentions how much Xavier’s reporting time has improved since the two of you became partners – then you start on the way home with the sun kissing at your back.

Laughter fills the air on the streets. Immediately, you feel warm inside. It was only thanks to the work you do every day that citizens could enjoy this peaceful dusk without fear of monsters scrambling to destroy the city like so many years ago. 

It’s rewarding to know you hold some small part in the safety of the city after almost dying in the catastrophe as a child. You breathed it in fully, letting joy fill your lungs as you savor the calm moment. The emotion is only highlighted by the fact that when you look to your side, you can see Xavier there, putting weight to the empty space left in the wake of your family’s death. 

Walking home together in the past was a random occurrence, happening whenever your busy schedules after missions aligned. As freshly cemented roommates, it was almost a given you’d walk home together now. Not just to the apartment complex, but to an actual shared home. 

This path you go along every day has become special in that time. It’s full of promises, the kind you could only wish for on snowy New Year's evenings as you tied red ribbons to the shrine gate and prayed for good things to happen in your life. Not a lot of those wishes came true but Xavier did. 

In that way, you were a fortunate person. 

It was only your guess if he felt the same. You want to ask him. Unlike when you’re fighting Wanderers, you’re not brave when it comes to Xavier - a part of you prefers to leave things between you unsaid. It’s safer that way as you can keep living in a beautiful world of your own illusions. 

Therefore, you’re unable to help yourself. Pinching the sleeve of his uniform, you tug on it gently to gain his attention; Xavier looks at you with glossy glazed eyes. He’s always so sluggish after missions. His steps slow and methodical, like a robot, as he barely manages to straighten his spine and raise his head.

“Chin up, Xavier. We’re almost there.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says. 

You don’t need to hear him say it to understand. You think you’ve become good at reading his body language by now. Donning a sympathetic smile, you shift your hand, aiming for a lower target, and entwine your fingers with his under the guise of leading him faster.

“My next solution is carrying you by the way.”

A smile cracks on his face, impossibly light as his gaze drifts to the hold you have on his hand. “I don’t think you could carry me.”

“You dare doubt me?” Truth be told, he was right. He was tall and muscular and much thicker under that uniform than he looked. He would probably crush you under his weight if you tried to lift him. Despite how improper it was to think, you wouldn’t mind if he wanted to place his weight on top of you in another way. You tick up the corner of your lips into a surprisingly innocent smile opposite of the images in your imagination as you flash your bicep to him. “I’m very strong.”

“I think it would make more sense if I carried you.”

“I can walk.”

“I don’t see why that matters,” he says with a yawn, and you smile.

“Are you sure you won’t drop me?”

“If it’s a choice between falling asleep and dropping you then I’ll definitely stay awake. Otherwise, you might end up carrying me after all,” he says. Xavier always manages to be unfailingly charming. Given the mystery of his past and the way he carries himself, you often question exactly what kind of upbringing he had. You almost ask but your interrogation doesn’t have the chance to plant seeds when he stops in front of you and kneels. 

You thought he was joking when he said he’d carry you home but that doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arms over his broad shoulders and letting him scoop your legs up around his solid waistline. 

His clasp on the back of your thighs makes you shiver. You feel like a touch-starved virgin that the simple strength of his hands over the thickness of your pants incited such a reaction out of you, so you bury your burning face against the back of his neck. 

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Xavier must feel your hair against his neck, and you use the fact he can’t see your face to your advantage as you nod against his nape.

“Just hungry.”

For his part, Xavier doesn’t question your sudden hunger. Instead, he asks what you’re in the mood for and starts to list the restaurants that you pass on the way to the apartment complex.

You lay your cheek against him, watching the many buildings pass you by until you point out one you don’t recognize, flashing with many signs about a grand opening.

“How about that one?” you ask.

Xavier chuckles, continuing on in his steps past the building in question. “It’s not that great.”

“How do you know?”

“I tried them out.”

You squeeze into his shoulders, pushing off of them in a childlike manner and an even more dramatic gasp. “Without me?”

“I was going to bring you something back, but they weren’t very tasty. I like your cooking a lot more.”

You know he can’t see you, but you puff out your cheeks anyway. You wrap your arms tightly around him again, willing your heart not to skip when his back tenses as your chest compresses against him.  

“Are you asking me to cook dinner for you? I’m quite exhausted after all that running around,” you tell him sarcastically. 

He accidentally makes you regret your teasing when he agrees with a compassionate offer, “I’ll cook for you today.”

Hearing the word cook from his mouth makes your stomach sour. If there’s one thing after all these months you learned, it’s that Xavier is a…creative cook to put it gently. Or rather, he has zero cooking ability if it involves electricity. You didn’t mind. The two of you make it work with you doing most of the cooking and him cleaning up after, at your own behest, because if he had his way, he’d be in the kitchen much more often. 

“On second thought, I’ll cook.”

“You still don’t trust me,” he says with a sigh. Guilt tingles through you. However, your continued survival outweighs the guilt that the memory of his puppy eyes can draw out of you. “I’ll handle the cold stuff, and I’ll leave the meat to you.”

“Deal,” you say, nuzzling your head against his neck. 

When you get home, the night pans out like it always does. The two of you take turns in the shower with dinner being cooked shortly after, and the human garbage disposal known as your roommate leaves very little work for you to do once all is said and done. 

You decide to start on the last of chores for today while Xavier washes the dishes. It’s routine to check the plants before going to bed as the many potted flowers were like your own children after you spent so many hours tending to them, finding the perfect ratio of nutrients and water to keep them thriving. 

It is also routine to hunt down the birds so lovingly named Fatso and Alarm Clock by the sleepy man of the house to give them some of the seeds and nuts you regularly brought home from the store. You told Xavier that happy birds would stop eating his strawberries when in reality you liked to spoil them. 

So, you spread out the seeds on the ground for them, leaving them there for later. 

“If you feed them, they’ll never leave.”

You can’t help the laugh that leaves you. As much as he complains about the birds, you think, if his constant curiosity about the birds’ day-to-day lives was anything to go by, that he’d miss the two fluffy creatures if they were to ever find new nesting grounds. You turn back to the balcony door with a cheeky grin. “I have experience with things that don’t leave after you feed them. You enjoyed dinner a little too much.”

It’s hard to see in the fading light but Xavier blushes and brings a shy grip to the back of his neck. “Last I checked you moved in with me.”

That silences you. There’s no denying his observation, and you fail to notice him getting closer until he reaches his hand out to help you up. You willingly reach out, hand sinking into his touch as he lifts you to your feet. 

The coolness of your palms touching slowly births a lingering warmth. The soft squeeze around your hand makes it hard to let him go but eventually you must. Otherwise, you might say things that are better kept to yourself as you walk back into the house and close the sliding door behind you. 

With a pounding heart, you retire to your room early.

This room is a little different from the master room at your old apartment. The wall color is a little different brighter and it’s smaller. Luckily, you made the space work pretty easily by migrating half your plushie collection into Xavier’s room, checking like a dutiful mother to make sure he was treating them right and placing them with love should they roll off his dresser.  Sighing, you change into slightly more comfortable clothes, choosing a random pair of soft shorts and a tank top to wear before climbing into bed. It’s ten when you finally let your eyes slip shut, and it's around eleven you feel someone touching you.

Your eyelids are surprisingly heavy; you can barely pry them open enough to see the wisp of grey-brown hair shadowing medium-blue eyes. You don’t protest as you feel his fingertips brush along your waist or when his knee digs into the mattress, sinking you towards his weight.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he wants. You raise your arm enough to let your fingertips greet the curve of his chin in silent acceptance. Slowly, you drop your hand and squeeze his bicep. Like a good little soldier, he follows the order to fall into the bed with you. 

The most comfortable position is to slot your arm on top of his as he hugs your waist, props his leg on top of yours, and spoons your back. There’s absolutely zero space between your lower halves; and if he notices how you, with a small amount of shame, subtly shift and push yourself back on him a little more, he doesn’t say as he lolls his head against the curve of your neck while his incredibly light exhaling on your skin comforts you after a long day. 

With a flutter of your eyelids, you slowly slip back into sleep with the happiness that comes with being roommates with your crush. 

It’s times like these that make you think maybe he loves you. It’s also times like these that make you forget that despite all of the endearing things about him and despite how much you care about him, you don’t truly know a lot about him.

Xavier has always been a man with a lot of secrets. You’ve known this since you first met him asleep in the forest. It’s true that you once accepted the fact you’d never learn all his secrets but that was before whatever this abnormal relationship that the two of you found yourself in. 

Even after living together for more than two months now, you still had no idea where he would go when he would sneak off in the middle of the night. You didn’t question where he goes anymore, you found that he wouldn’t give you a straight answer to save his life. You merely stayed up until you heard the sound of the door opening or the warped echo of air being sucked into a vacuum, indicating he teleported inside. 

So, when you wake up at two in the morning, finding yourself alone and the side of the bed where he laid mere hours ago already cold, you’re not surprised.

Getting out of bed, you slip on your slippers and drag your feet to the balcony. It’s a familiar situation when you collapse into the swing chair, with nothing but the cold and the chirping of the birds to keep you company until he undoubtedly returns with his body hosting a family of fresh wounds.

It’s incredibly frustrating because you love him and seeing him hurt, without you having been there to prevent it, drives you crazy. You wonder why he won’t tell you, and your heart sinks, as quickly as a stone cast in a lake, with the idea that maybe you were the only one thinking that your relationship meant more than it did. Because even after all this time, you still aren’t close to him in the way you want. 

Clenching your fists, you shove your eyes against them. It was all so infuriating when he ran off to fight Wanderers or whoever and left you all alone to overthink and worry about him like some helpless house plant. It was enough to make you want to cry as the strange foreboding sense of losing him begins to echo inside of you, making you nauseous.                                                                                 There’s only one way to get rid of this feeling. Taking in a deep breath, you settle to give him a piece of your mind about sneaking off so much and also to bite the bullet to confess your feelings. 

It was only a matter of waiting for him to actually return home and to get your heightened nerves to stop firing in every direction in the meantime. 

By the time you heard the door to the apartment creaking open, you’d nearly fallen asleep in the wicker swing chair. You swallow down the bitter taste of fear, ignoring the tumultuous waves it makes when it hits your stomach. You’d never get anywhere if you didn’t face him. 

Carefully, you hop up from your seat and make slow strides into the apartment. It’s still dark in the house; you hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights earlier. Yet Xavier carries a lightness around him, mostly imagined by yourself, that makes him easy to spot in the darkness. 

For a moment, things seem normal as he takes a few stiff steps forward. Suddenly, he falls forward, the white of his uniform nearly a blur with how fast he collapses onto the sofa, but it is nothing compared to the speed at which you rush to his side. 

You call his name, press two fingers to his throat, and let your eyes slip closed with a desperate concentration as you search for his pulse behind the blaring red of his collar. 

It’s a gradual pace, averaging twenty beats a minute and slowly rising. For anyone else, you’d immediately rush them to the hospital. For Xavier, that number is a relief. 

You hold your hand to your pounding heart, practicing deep measured inhales to calm it. It appears he fell asleep as soon as he entered the room, with only enough awareness to kick off his shoes at the door. 

It looks like your lecture will have to be postponed for another day. 

You’re thankful for all the training you had to take to become a hunter because it takes an enormous amount of effort to throw one of his arms over your shoulders and drag him to his bedroom. You make a mental note to never let him question your ability to carry him again as you sit him on the bed and shuffle off his uniform jacket, leaving him only in his pants. 

In a tender motion, you gently cup his face and examine him. Dirt cakes his face; and when you brush it away, there’s a small cut on his cheek. It hits you again just how reckless and secretive he can be, echoing with a bitter thought that he didn’t bring you again. The only bright spot is the little cut is his only injury this time. 

Laying him on his back, you leave for only a moment to get a warm washcloth and an adhesive from the bathroom. It’s a blue band-aid with a cartoonish pink bunny on it, something a kid would love and has probably been collecting dust in the drawer longer than you’ve been alive. 

It takes all the seriousness out of your body when you return, clean his face off, and place the colorful bandage on his cheek. It’s hard to believe this narcoleptic pretty boy was the strongest member of the Hunters Association. 

“I didn’t think when we moved in together I was going to become a babysitter,” you commented with a little huff and poke of his cheek. “You’re terrible at taking care of yourself. Can’t cook. Can’t stay awake. Can’t tell someone when you’re going out. I bet you didn’t even lock the door when you came in. …What if a Wanderer floated in after you and trampled all the flowers, or did you just not want to leave any for me tomorrow?”

You know your complaints are falling on deaf ears as he cuddles up to his pillow without a care in the world. But if you didn’t complain, you’d get depressed instead. Dropping to your knees, you sit on the floor and prop your elbow on the bed to get a better look at him. 

He looks so peaceful.

There’s no tension, no crease to his expression. It’d be easy to mistake him for a normal young man if it weren’t for the strong humming of his Evol tickling at the wall of your resonance.

“I’ll let you sleep, but you’re getting it in the morning! I expect answers. Otherwise, I won’t cook breakfast for you,” you attempt to sound threatening in your words with every poke to his cheek a not-so-silent promise to follow through. “I’ll take my missions with the new recruit all the ladies at work gossip about. And the next time I get a snack shipment, I’m letting Jeremiah have first pick!”

With one last prod to his face and no reaction otherwise, you stop your demands and sit back on your legs. 

Bit by bit, you feel your energy dissolving. It’s no use. It’s all empty threats. You’ll probably not cook for a few days, eat in front of him too, at least until he gives you those puppy eyes, and you’ll fold just like origami paper. You’ll still save him the snack you know he likes even if you allow Jeremiah first pick of the rest. And you’d never be interested in the new recruit or anyone else. 

Xavier can be distant and formal. For others, his hyper-independence was evident. Taking on missions alone and avoiding group settings is just the way Xavier’s personality works. He’s reliable and gets along with everyone at a surface level and he’s known to go out of his way to help others without seeking validation for it so it never ruffled any feathers when he goes off on his own or rejects an invitation to drink with the others after work. 

They didn’t see. They didn’t see how easy it was to care about him. They appreciate him but they weren’t aware of how intensely and passionately he could feel when he unfurls that independent nature. How he always quietly adjusts his dominant foot to point your direction whenever a Wanderer appears. How his voice drops and his touch becomes the smallest bit more graceful and careful when he sees you upset. How sweetly he looks when he sleeps.

It makes your resolve crumble and your heart squeeze, something only he can do without even being awake to know it. 

“You’re lucky I like you,” you mumble to him. 

As you lean closer, you easily ignore the stirring in your gut that tells you to stop. 

The bandage is a little rough against your lips as you seize the chance to kiss him. It’s a short and small thing, much more delicate than your prodding from earlier because you want to indulge the romantic in you. You want him to somehow sense the feelings cultivated in your heart over the past few months though impossible when he’s asleep.

You don’t let it last long. Instead, the desperate urge to feel his heat against you spurs you to rest your forehead against his cheek. It’s warm and soft, and the faint scent of pine trees of the no-hunt zone fills your nose. You savor being this close to him, allowing yourself to indulge in it until the heat on your skin starts to match his, and you finally let him have peace for the night.

With no need to remain in his room, you stand and pivot towards the door, wondering how you’ll manage to grasp any form of sleep tonight. However, you don’t make it two steps before there’s a tug at your arm.

You yelp as you’re pulled towards the bed while the shock has you stumbling forward into it. The hand leaving your arm in favor of grasping around your wrist stops you from falling completely but your knees have already buckled. You’re left nearly a head under him when he finally swings his legs over the side of the bed and shifts into a full sitting position. This position is oddly familiar. When you uncertainly force your eyes up to meet his face, this vulnerable angle becomes unmistakable.  

His voice is husked and rasped from sleep, sending a chill up your spine when paired with the swirling shadows darkening his blue eyes under his hooded lids and dark lashes. That’s the look of a predator, of the association’s strongest hunter, and you face the inkling realization that you’re the prey. 

Nervously, you begin to divert your eyes. He takes a page out of your own playbook and reaches under your chin to guide your sight back to him as you fight not to whimper at the pressure of his thumb pushing down as if he wants to part your lips. It isn’t until now that you notice how close you are to his lap and how another few inches would drop you to your knees.

“Why worry about Wanderers following me home when you’re so much scarier.”

“What do you mean?” 

Memory has never been your friend. This though is the first time you’ve forgotten how to breathe when his fingers completely close around your wrist. His hold is firm, preventing you from wringing your way out of his grasp, but it doesn’t hurt.

He might as well take that grasp and use it to squeeze your heart instead when he brings your hand to his face. You’re unsure what he’s planning; the awkwardness of the situation makes your fingers straighten and twitch away as he holds your hand closer to his face. Sensing your trepidation, he closes the last of the distance instead by tilting his head into your hand with the same affection as always as he lets your fingertip brush against the silly little bunny bandage. 

The familiarity of the motion puts your heart a little more at ease but not enough to bring your breathing back to you as he mumbles, “I don’t remember giving you permission to kiss me.”

Your lips part with a silent puff while your brows push forward, highlighting the confusion in your mind onto your face. He takes advantage of the moment to nuzzle your hand. It’s a notion you can’t appreciate as his words finally sink into your mind and reform into a horrifying conclusion.

“…You were awake the whole time.”

He chuckles so easily at the dry peep that echoes from you, the rivet of that warm sound collects in your palm and makes your face scalding hot. You didn’t face a burning heat like this even when fighting one of those flame dragons. All the while, Xavier was laughing at you…

“Not the whole time.”

With your head catching up, you find enough of yourself again to actually glare at him and smack his shoulder. “That’s not the point!”

With another display of strength, he locks your other wrist, pulls you up, and then snatches you into him. Luckily, you’re able to flatten your palms against his chest to brace yourself. His heart as well as his face is unnervingly calm compared to your own organ that’s currently orchestrating its escape from your chest, battering your ribcage even harder as you unconsciously stretch your fingers over his naked skin. 

You don’t like this. This bullying, which you only describe as such because you can’t think of a word more fitting for the way he’s treating you, is too one-sided. 

“It was on the cheek,” you argue with a steeled voice. You fake the confidence to stare him back down, choosing to trade your determination to confess to him tonight in exchange for preserving your pride. “It was friendly.”

To your satisfaction, your declaration of war makes him the one to pause this time. His eyes widen and there’s a quiver in those waves of blue that he hides by glancing down and away. 

“…Is that what it was?”

You nod. “I wasn’t…going to do anything else.”

Xavier smiles, shaking his head, and there’s a new determination in his eyes that causes your teeth to clench down on the inside of your cheek as he leans closer. 

“In that case, is it okay to return the favor?”

He doesn’t give you the time to answer. He’s already closing the distance, his dark lashes already fluttering, and his lips already puckering to kiss you as you’re squeezed flushed against him, only your palms stopping your chest from colliding with his. 

“Wait!”

Hearing your disapproval, he pauses, but that cheeky grin still doesn’t dissipate. 

“What's wrong?” he asks with a sigh. You’re sure it’s not a true question. “Am I not allowed to give you a friendly kiss as well.”

The implications make your stomach twist while your thighs squeeze together pathetically with the sudden throbbing of arousal that spikes through you as you tumble further and further into this rabbit’s trap.

“I—that’s!”

“So, you were misbehaving,” he concludes from your sheepishness. “I guess that means I need to punish you instead.” He breaks his hold around one of your wrists to ghost his fingertips along your cheek and down your neck until all you can do in response is breathe out a moan, much to his surprise given by the rise of his eyebrows and the slight dust of pink on his bewildered face. “…I didn’t think you were that sensitive there.”

Your mind swims with the traitorous thought of wanting to show him where you’re more sensitive dancing in your mind before you can sweep it away. When his fingers dance along your neck again, you whimper and hold in another moan.

“Don’t hold back on my account. You know my most sensitive spot after all, as hunting partners, it only makes sense for me to know yours, right?”

You can hardly think of a response to that. It’s true. You know his biggest weaknesses and as you come to terms with the situation you run your thumb over the plump inside of your thigh hesitantly. It takes you almost an entire minute to decide on what you want to say, and you don’t notice his hold on your wrist weakening.  

“My weakness—” 

Suddenly, your arm drops back to your side.

“I’m kidding,” Xavier states; the small smile he normally wears comes back to his face as you look up at him with wide eyes. “I was only curious as to what your reaction would be.”

The tension in the air wanes and buries itself in your heart. The embarrassment clings to every cell living in you, unshakeable as you try to keep a brave face. “You’re cruel.”

“Am I? You were the one touching me, all the while promising to run off with some rookie,” he reminds you. 

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t—you’re so frustrating,” you scream at him, and this is the first time he appears to take you seriously all night.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, with less teasing and more concern. He wraps an arm around your waist. His legs slot between yours, leaving your knees to collide with the plush of the bed as he hugs you tighter and tighter until you’re nearly seated in his lap. “Don’t be mad. I only thought—” 

“Xavier?”

“Did you really mean it then?” he redirects. He snakes his other arm around your waist, this time when he holds you it feels…weak, and his pursed lips and narrowed eyes hold back a troubled emotion. “That it was in a friendly way?”

Your breath hitches at the swirl of his thumbs nervously circling the small of your waist. Nervously, he waits for an answer you long lost in the rapids of the constantly changing tides of the last few minutes. 

“If you meant it…if you truly wanted to kiss me,” he pauses, trying to find his voice. The one to tell you that you’re all he thinks about. “Then you should have woken me up.” His face holds a serene glow that completely enraptures you as he looks up at you. “I wouldn’t have rejected you,” he swore.

He loved you so much it ached. Moving in together should have been enough to prove it. He guesses not; because when he thinks you want him back, you’re so hesitant to accept. Even now, you’re unable to respond. 

This cycle has become painful, even for someone as patient as himself, the wait when you’re this close to him is agonizing. So, he decides now to be the one to end this circle the two of you found yourself in with one decisive motion. 

He tests the waters, not knowing if he’ll swim or drown, but he has confidence in his ability to read your personality and actions as he cups the back of your head and pulls you in for a kiss. 

Your mind empties immediately, your body on autopilot when it registers the warm, silky skin of his lips on yours. Closing your eyes, you willingly tumble and fall into the taste of him, chasing after it when he breaks away. 

“There. We’re even,” he says, but to you, that’s far from the truth. You’re far from even after all the heartache and sleepless nights he’s been putting you through, after all the push and pull that left you aching and wanting both in your heart and between your thighs. 

The self-satisfied smile on his face quickly fades as you grope his shoulders, digging your nails in like you’re afraid he’ll escape. Your knees press to the top of the bed as you plant yourself more onto his lap. He braces his hands on your hips to catch you as you run your hand into his hair and crane his head back, so he has to look you in the eye.

His ears pinken at your sudden brazenness, but it doesn’t reflect in his voice as he smiles at you. “Are you trying to get more?” 

“Am I being too greedy?” you ask. He chuckles at the jut of your lips and the pleading eyes before you press another demanding kiss to the corner of his lips. 

Xavier moans from his throat as he latches onto your jaw to redirect your kisses to his lips. Kissing him is nearly maddening, the twitch of his muscular thighs under your ass making your mind hazy. With one hard squeeze at your hips, he catches up to the zealousness of your kisses. 

His tongue pokes and prods at your mouth. However, he doesn’t need much permission to keep going as you open your mouth wider. His mind skips and lags at just how quickly your mouth overtakes the slick appendage. It leaves him more than a little out of breath and flustered with the rate your mouths keep parting and meeting, tongues desperately searching and licking the inside your mouths as if this is the first meal you’ve had in weeks.

You’re hungry to memorize each other despite having all the time in the world now to do just that. When the two of you finally indulged enough and earned enough satisfaction, you’re able to calm down and readjust the pace. 

“I think we’re both greedy,” he jokes about the both of you before sliding his tongue back into your mouth. This time he’s slower as he presses down on your tongue, causing your teeth to lightly graze over the top of his.

There are too many sensations going on for you to keep up. The way your breasts hug his hard chest has you feeling sensitive while the heat seeping from his tongue stroking in your mouth has your stomach bundled in tight knots that won’t know release until he’s inside of you. 

Dreams were nothing compared to this. Nights filled with nothing but inappropriate thoughts of him turn into nightmares at the slim chance of having to face them again should this go wrong. 

Impatiently, his fingers curve into the hump of your ass to anchor you and encourage you to grind on his lap, or rather grind against the hard tent brazenly making its presence known with each hurried roll of your hips.

You whine from the separation of your sexes when he begins to lift you up, but your complaints quickly die in your throat. They’re replaced by a squeal as he flips you and your back bounces on the mattress.  

Xavier climbs over you, his face flushed, breath ragged, and overall, he’s just absolutely beautiful to you. Reaching up, you cup his cheek and play with the ends of his hair, unable to recall the last time you’ve felt this high. 

“Xavier,” you whisper breathlessly as you swoop his bangs back to see more of his handsome face and save it to memory. “What are we?”

Xavier tilts his head, furrowing his brow at your question, and there’s a second where a ray of doubt breaks through the clouds of lust in his irises. “We’re…whatever you want to be.”

“I want to be with you,” you say. Those words tumble out more effortlessly than you ever thought. 

Xavier overlaps your hand with his, holding on tight as if to prove a point. “You are with me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” he corrects. Then, he dazzles you as he always does, “I want you to tell me so there’s no mistake, and you can’t take it back later.”

You inwardly become embarrassed when it crosses your mind that this is the first time you’ve ever confessed to him without multiple drinks in your system. It’s too late to turn back now that you’ve crossed the Milky Way and landed on the other side. 

But why would you when you’re so close?

“I want to be with you always. Whenever and wherever you are. Whether that’s having fun together or fighting. I-I love you, and—”

“And I love you,” he answers. You’re not sure if you’re jealous or relieved that he can say those three words without hesitation.

“I don’t want anything to be between us. I don’t want any more secrets or hidden things. I’m tired of this. I just want to be real, more than partners or roommates or whatever other title that isn’t boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Okay,” Xavier agrees as easily as he agreed to be roommates with you in the first place. 

“Okay?”

“I want that too,” he agrees as he repositions himself on top of you and his lips curve into a small smirk, “girlfriend.”

You’re accustomed to the finicky organ known as your heart tightening with pain when you’re overwhelmed; this time when it skips a beat, it’s welcomed. Smiling, you gaze up at him as he releases a slow, strained breath. It’s validating to know he’s been just as nervous as you.

Everything suddenly becomes full force again when his knees move to either side of your legs while he pins your hands above your head in one tight fist. His teeth nip at your earlobe, and his free hand gropes at your breast, fingers outstretching to fully take it in his grasp. Wet kisses burn on your throat, each one firing off a rapid signal to arch your back. 

“Slow down,” you whine before cutting it off with a moan as he hits a particular delicate spot. The discovery spurs him on, like a pet with a new toy, and he bites your nape once again causing your hips to jerk. With a burning desire building in your stomach at every touch, you pitifully hug your thighs together to try to ease it. “I didn’t get a chance to absorb all that,” you tell him, mostly to get some time to catch up. It backfires wonderfully as he grips onto the bottom of your tank top.

“I have a better way to help you understand.”

The sheets shift with his movement, your lower half dipping towards him as if he holds his own gravitational field. He settles between your legs and strokes against you with one slow, languid rock. It instantly makes you throb. It’s painful how hard you clench over absolutely nothing, panties gathering the lust that’s dripping from you.  

You simultaneously hate and love him for causing this need that’s bubbling inside you. 

Large hands press your shirt further up your torso. “Arms up,” he demands softly, which you have no problem obeying, and he quickly lifts your shirt over your head.

He lowers his hands to hold at your waist, and they fall still on you as he takes in your naked skin. You’re not privy to his thoughts. The silence of the room feels defean-ing now that your needy gasps of air aren’t filling it.

He pauses, eyes taking you in as you raise your eyebrows at his hesitancy. Xavier smiles, mumbling out, “Just thinking where to start.”

Xavier smiles at you so tenderly. Everything about him is incredibly soft on first appearance. He has big blue puppy eyes, he prefers white, cozy clothes, and his voice is just as gentle as his appearance. Everything about him is soft except for his hands. 

Those are hardy and battle-honed, worn with calluses built up with every swing of the sword he’s taken since he was a child, enough of them to slay thousands of Wanderers over the years. 

They drag.

Oh, they drag so dangerously slow over your skin, dipping into the pudge of your stomach and highlighting a small circle in the warm, buzzing glow of his Evol. The rays shine gold over your flesh, shimmering brightly in the dark of the room. 

“Here,” he states before hunting down another spot on your torso. A beauty mark, like a beacon, earns the sharp eyes of a hunter. He zones in on the vulnerable location, creating a golden target. “Maybe here.”

You squirm with every mapped spot he creates. “Xavier.”

The residue of his power leaves your skin humming; you’re overly aware of each spot he highlights with his power. You like to think your senses would still be heightened regardless of this little game. After all, you’ve been wanting him to touch you forever.

Every night next to him felt like torture, being unable to touch him more than a hug when all you could feel on your back was his hard chest, his arm tight around your waist, and the outline of his cock against your ass as he sighed in your ear.

It runs through your head that he must have put more thought into touching you than you assumed as he continues to stripe lines over the top of your thighs right under your night shorts, making your breath heavy in your throat. You’re no longer sure if he’s marking you to tease you, to track what parts of your body he’s claimed for himself, or to simply make you laugh from the humming of his Evol tickling you like fuzzy static on an old tv screen. Even as he smiles at your shallow giggles, there’s no denying the aura of possession radiating from him that makes you antsy when he finally presses his finger to your sternum.

“Let’s start here,” he says followed by a soft hum as he tattoos a line straight between your breasts, leaving you highlighted in slowly fading graffiti.

“About time you decided,” you say with an playfully exaggerated roll of your eyes. He cocks his head at you with a sly smile.

“I can’t help if I want to touch all of you,” he murmurs. Any response you had ready dies when he licks the encircled zone of your shoulder then swiftly to the notch of your throat, drawing a moan out of you that you didn’t think you were capable of until you met him.

Tilting your head, you allow him more room to work as he kisses your chest. His warm tongue slips through the line he marked, his nose dragging against you as he litters your engorged skin with kisses. 

“More,” you beg. Who was he to keep you waiting any longer?

He slips a fingerpad over the tip of your nipple, gently pressing down and then rolling it. It does nothing to satiate you. Satisfaction keeps escaping your grasp, the goalpost of what’s enough moving further out of reach with every pinch and pull of your pebbling nipples. Chasing it makes you brash, and you give a hard push to the back of his head. 

Just as you want, he spoils you. He bites and nips the supple skin, drawing out soft pleas from your angelic lips. When he finally graces you with the slick, velvety lap of his tongue on your pert nipple, you mewl and arch. His lips are a little rough after being out all night, his hunger for you more palpable than ever as he gropes harder and sucks at your wet skin. 

Your aching pussy throbs with every brush of his clothed cock. Your patience drains more and more as you crave something to fill you. It isn’t until he switches sides and gently nips and suckles around your other teat that you realize he’s been fingerprinting you with his Evol, the polka dots slowly fade away each time he adjusts his hand to knead your breast.  

“You’re still being cruel,” you manage between moans. 

“I think I’m being very fair,” he reasons, recapturing your lips to silence your complaints, and it works as your mind keeps repeating when his tongue makes a temporary reservation back in the confines of your mouth. 

When he parts with you again, he cements it with a soft kiss then another. He keeps peppering them on you so fast that you almost miss the way his tongue darts over your bottom lip before his teeth bite down. 

Xavier sighs between his kisses, each one adding more pressure, turning from loving, adoration-filled into needy, heavy smooches.

“Wanted.”

Another kiss that leaves you whimpering.

“To.”

He fondles your chest again, alternating between rolling and pinching your sensitive, puffed nipple then grasping your bare tits in his hands, molding and kneading them.

“With you.”

With your thighs closing at his waist, you curve your back and meet the sloppy buck of his hips. There’s a rush of excitement leaking from you when his kisses trail back over your breasts, hitting the tiny ring of bite marks he seared on you before tracing across the targets of light decorating your belly. 

“So bad.”

Skin on fire, legs spread wide to accommodate his chest as he sinks lower to press wet kisses to your stomach, you call out to him. “Xavier, baby,” you whisper and brush his hair to get his attention. And does he give it to you when his eyes flick up to look at you from under the grey tuffs of his hair.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight. 

You bring your finger to your lips, not only to pry them open so you can speak but also because you need to bite on it. Otherwise, the surge of lust in you at the sight of his head so close to your cunt and the back of your thighs resting on his broad shoulders would cause you to cum right there. 

“My most sensitive spot…is my legs…”

It doesn’t take long for him to catch on, and he quirks his eyebrows up at you with false concern. He lowers his head to kiss your stomach again, this time noticeably closer to your mound. “Are you sure you want to tell me that in this situation? It isn’t wise for the prey to put themselves at a disadvantage.”

“I said no secrets,” you remind him, curling a finger to beckon him back up. Inwardly, you curse that he decides to bring your legs with him by keeping them propped up on his shoulders. Somehow, you manage to ignore his obvious teasing and poke at the cutesy adhesive still stuck on his face. “If you were listening, you should know you’re still in trouble for sneaking off so much without telling me.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he tells you, a layer of remorse riding his explanation. “I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere.”

Amused, you shake your head at how boyish he sounds as he defends himself while he pulls off that wide and pleading look to bolster his cause. Even with your amusement, you’re not willing to let him off just yet. Sternly, you tap his cheek again. 

“That’s not going to work this time.”

Pouting, Xavier holds onto your hand, stopping your playful jabs. “Please give me a chance to lighten my sentence, Miss Hunter, it was unintentional,” he negotiates with a kiss on your palm. The sincerity in his request eases your heart enough to allow him a little wiggle room, or perhaps it’s the slick trailing more between your folds. 

“You only got until morning to make a case for yourself.”

“I’ll make you forget by then.” He snatches up your ankle towards his face, a much more pleasant position than your last, as your muscles were starting to ache from having your knees pushed to your face. 

He caresses your ankle, pressing an airy kiss. The little bump of his nose against the ball of your ankle tickles, making a giggle cascade from your lips as you slide lower with the pull of your leg.  

“Silly,” he mumbles before shuffling off your shorts. Your underwear comes off with more of a fight, the stickiness soaked into it causing the dainty fabric to cling lewdly to your skin and outline to the shape of your cunt. 

You don’t often hear Xavier curse but that’s what happens along with his tongue rolling over his upper lip when he catches the image. He reaches out and his fingers twitch, threatening to curve against the spreading stain in your panties but he resists and hooks his fingers into the waistband. He takes his sweet time watching the doused material peeling from you with thin strands of cum sticking to it.

It takes him more effort than he’d like to admit to resist diving straight in. Instead, he keeps it slow, sensual, as much for his sake as yours as he skims his lips up your calf.

He does the same with your center, carefully pressing two fingers against you as he holds your leg up on his shoulder. His mouth stays on your inner thigh, but his eyes are entirely locked on his fingers and the way they effortlessly collect your cum and slip between your lips with barely a push. You can feel his breath shudder out against you before he forces it down with a bite of your thigh but that does nothing to hide the way his entire body tenses when his fingers slip from your clit all the way to your clenching hole. 

It does nothing good for your ego or your sanity to think how normally calm and collected Xavier is losing his composure just by touching you. How he’s so obviously turned on when you haven’t nearly returned as much as he’s been giving you. 

He presses his hands at the crook of your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, and quenches himself between your legs. His name leaves you in one low drawn-out sigh. Sure, you were baiting him when you told him your weakness, but you weren’t expecting him to abuse the knowledge so readily. 

He held your legs blood cuttingly tight to keep you from squirming away from his wriggling tongue, and by the moan that reverberates from his chest and the strong jerk against the mattress when your juices hit his tongue, you think he would only be satisfied if you crushed his head between your straining thighs. When he suckles your clit; when his voice, muffled, hits your pussy; when his biceps tighten around your legs as if encouraging you to do so, and when his eyes meet yours with a silent demand, you know that’s exactly what he wants.

At the plunging of his fingers in you, you break down, catch his head in a vice-like grip, and push him into you. Your heart flutters and the remaining butterflies in your stomach migrate away at the growl he lets out. Your walls happily clench around those thick fingers, your dripping hole making it easy and smooth work to pump in and out of you. You’re not sure when he decides he would rather feel your muscle tightening around his tongue instead, but you can only respond with the tilt of your head back into the sheets and the stroke of your heel on his bare back when it happens. 

The only thing better is his palm grinding down on your clit, alternating between slow rotations and rough sporadic grinding that has your toes curling and your eyes glossing with the buildup of tears.

“You’re too loud,” he comments yet he doesn’t stop, in fact, he presses down harder, making you whine. “You’re going to wake the neighbors.”

“Since when have you cared what the neighbors think?” you barely manage to whimper out. 

“I’m not worried about them. I just don’t want anyone else to hear what only I should,” he remarks, lapping up the juices spilling down your legs.

His confession is a surprise to you. You never took him to be so possessive. But if that possessiveness is what kept his tongue swirling on your swollen clit and an intense moan escaping your lips then you didn’t mind. 

However…

His fingers weren’t enough anymore. 

Choosing to surprise him, you decide to turn the tables on him. You jerk your legs, catching him off guard but not enough to tip him over. He looks at you with concern. It doesn’t stop you from trying again with extra force this time until you can weaken his grasp and force him down on his back. 

Having the world’s strongest hunter under you was only something you could dream of—first as a rival and now as a lover. The adrenaline has you tunnel-visioned as you straddle his stomach, your soaked cunt making a waterboard out of his abs, which Xavier has also picked up on if the dusky pink on his cheeks is anything to go by.

You grab his hands, gripping tight to regain his attention. Xavier looks taken back especially when your fingers interlock his and pin them back. Whether he’s shocked or curious you don’t know, and you also don’t ask to borrow his power. 

“You’ve been having too much fun,” you tell him as you check to make sure your finger is sufficiently coated with light. “For my turn, I’ll attack here and here,” you whisper, marking off his chest and drawing a line across his neck.

There’s a hint of worry finally when he sees you’re aiming for his weak spot. “If you’re trying to teach me the best spot to kill Wanderers, I already know.”

“More like the best spots to defeat a Xavier,” you remark, flattening your palm over his heart, finding your own thumping when you verify that you finally managed to raise his heart rate to the levels of a normal human.

“You’re pretty forward today.” Xavier reaches out to hold your hips and cocks his head at you with an inquisitive glance. “Are you always this easy to excite or is it because of me?” 

You feel your face heat at his question. As if he didn’t already know the answer. No one else could make you like this. Needy. Shy. Aroused. Flustered. Confused. Infatuated and in love more than you’ve ever been. 

Your eyes soften. “And if I said it was you?”

“Then, you can use me all you want,” he confesses and gently coaxes you back to sit on his hard cock. You smoothly slide your hands to his shoulders, rotating loving strokes into his fair skin before you stop to free his cock from his pants.

It springs readily into your palm, so responsive. You reward him by letting him have a little taste of you. He tries to hide the hitch of his breath as if he could hide any reaction from you right now. It’s so hard to get him to react to anything, and your brain won’t let you miss a single moment as you sit back onto his lap and grind.

His cock slides between your lips, so big that you can feel it stroking you fully, his swollen, dribbling head making you whimper whenever it bumps your clit. 

“You, you’re so—” he begins, his eyes flitting from the gentle shake of your tits to his cock glistening between your folds, but he loses his voice to a low whimper when you increase your pace. It’s not on purpose but you can’t help yourself; you’re aching for him just as much as he is for you. “Hah, please...” 

His cock is leaking onto him with each sleek thrust, a little pool of precum glistening on his belly as your hips buck. It makes your stomach twist and your insides twitch to see him so excited for you.

“Not yet,” you tell him, brushing fingers across the length of his throat. His mouth parts with a croak that plasters a crooked smile on your face.

His eyebrows knit, and he frowns as you decide to tease him a little by slowing your strokes while your nails continue to follow the thick vein protruding from his neck as he desperately holds down his whines. 

“And you call me the cruel one.”

He was gorgeous under you. Beautifully flushed and sheened with sweat. His lips were so close to quivering each time his swollen head was swallowed back under your heat. It’s strange how his pitiful expression actually excites you, leaving you wetter and funneling this cycle of him repeatedly scrunching his face before relaxing it with a moan. 

“Please,” he asks again, this time more politely, pleadingly, and downright cutely. He knows what he’s doing because you decide to take pity on him when he gazes at you. “Please let me have you?”

It takes only a second for you to reposition yourself and hover over him. There’s a split hesitation when it registers that you’re actually going to have sex with him and how large he actually is with his cock standing tall and the tip kissing at your entrance.  You press downward anyway.

The stretch is both painful and pleasurable, straining your nerves as you lower. The wince on your face is accompanied by a hiss on your lips. However, Xavier is there again to catch you.

“Let’s take our time,” he instructs.

You nod, slowly thrusting halfway onto him. Each rise and fall of your hips coating him with your cream little by little makes it a bit easier to sheath him each bounce. 

“Good girl,��� he whispers soothingly. Face constricting, he bites down on his lip to hold in a weak groan. It’s not your fault that the praise made your walls flutter and tighten.

When you finally suck him in completely, your eyes roll. 

“There you go,” he continues. He slides his hand into one of yours, encouraging you to hold onto it as you slowly and pointedly follow the curve of his cock, “Just like that,” he rasps out.    As you take him in fully, your pussy reaching his lap and pushing against his balls, you find it hard to concentrate on the exact words leaving him.

You take a minute to sit with him fully sheathed inside of you, allowing your stretched core to get more accustomed to his cock and also for the high of joining with him to cool off. Otherwise, you’d lose control.

You feel so full. It’s a wonderful sensation, and the pleasure increases tenfold when you lift your hips then have him stretch you again.

Rubbing your fingertips into the back of his palm, you lift and slam back onto him again, causing a ragged groan from you both that ricochets off the walls of the room. It isn’t until now that you recognize how bad you’ve been needing this.

Needed him. 

You’re still nowhere near understanding why this need is inside of you. Anyone can give you pleasure, and he’s not the first, but nothing quite matched the warmth overtaking you when his cock pistons and rubs against your nerves as you ride him. 

The thought that Xavier was right about fate being written in the stars barely breaks through the thick fog of arousal clouding your brain. The heat spurs you to bounce harder to meet his jerking thrusts. 

He sighs under you; the pressure on his lower half increases while your eyesight blurs and your head angles back. You’ll both be each other’s undoing at this rate, he thinks, as he watches the beads of sweat accumulating in little shiny droplets on your forehead and on your bouncing chest in a light sheen.

Chasing that desire to see you undone, he pulls you to a halt, burying himself deep inside of you, before pressing his hand to your mound, brushing past the patch of damp hair to zone in on your sticky, swollen clit. 

The instant whine of his name makes him dizzy. Centuries have gone by, and he’s never heard you say his name with such wanton desperation nor seen you grind onto him, stirring his cock in you as if your sanity depended on it.  

His certainly depended on you. Always has especially in the many decades he thought he’d never see you again. That need is even clearer from how sensitive yet eager his cock is to you squeezing around it as you shudder on top of him while keeping an unbearably tight hold on his hand. Your movements come to a near stop except for the occasional rut to prolong the rush of your orgasm. 

The sight of you breaking down on top of him threatens to make his eyes roll back as he squeezes onto your legs for grounding. Your strangled gasp followed by your muscles relaxing tells him that you’re coming down.  

“I take it you’ve finished,” Xavier says with a smirk, and you only have half the mind to swat at his chest like a lazy cat. Your legs burn, your chest unable to fill with enough oxygen to catch your breath. You think you’ll skip the gym tomorrow but Xavier has other plans.

“I’m not finished,” he reminds you. 

You look down at Xavier; you’d been so busy finding your own pleasure, you didn’t realize he hadn’t cum yet. You feel a lingering guilt but he swiftly takes the situation into his own hands.

You’re still too sensitive to fight back as he slides his cock out of you with a wet pop. It takes two swift movements for him to lift you off of him and roll you onto your stomach.

Your chest feels restricted, tight to the mattress as he presses on top of you, his grey-brown hair rubbing your shoulder as he cuddles your back. It’s an affectionate notion, distracting from the pressure in your lower half as he slides off the last of his clothes and thrusts his cock back inside of you. 

You thought you were filled to the brim the first time, yet this angle was different. It felt much tighter, and the slightest shift of his hips had you muffling moans into your arms. 

“I want to hear you,” he sweetly requests, yanking on your hips to raise your ass higher and pull you further away from the muffling effects of the bed. Your fracturing mewls mix into his grunts, both sounds washing out the sloppy, wet paps of his cock pounding into you. 

His hand swoops down your bending back in one long soothing stroke before his head collapses onto you. His grunts are loud, tumbling right into your ear along with the slapping sound of his hips meeting your ass. Your legs feel like jelly, and the rest of your body becomes weightless as your mind only focuses on his cock recklessly burning its way through you.

Xavier’s breath rolls against your back along with his forehead as he buries you under his weight; his grip on your thighs tightens to an unbearable degree, leaving you to wonder if you’ll have marks in the morning. 

You don’t really care if he does when he moans your name and heat fills you, spreading with each sporadic thrust until he finally bottoms out inside you one last time and holds until he completely empties. 

Taking his time to enjoy the sensation, he waits before pulling out of you, making you whimper with the sudden void. Shakily, you collapse back into the sheets and flip onto your back with a sigh. His eyes are still half-lidded as he watches you; he chews briefly on his bottom lip, reminding you of the look in his eyes earlier. 

“Xavier,” you question but he silences you with a kiss, which you tiredly return. His fingertips slide down from your knee to your thigh, and he teases your opening, the mixture of cum making it easy for him to stroke your still spasming pussy. 

Xavier sighs against your lips before moving his kisses to the swoop of your neck. “You’re so beautiful and all mine.”

Your mouth parts with a dry moan as he slides thick fingers over your clit. It starts to ache from his touch but it’s hard to deny him, even as he tortures you with his methodic and precise rotations over the bead.

His name is on your mouth, each syllable heavy on your tongue. You leave garbled gasps in his mouth as he makes out with you while your hand draws down his chest, attempting to make a mental map of every twitching muscle and healed wound on the way down.

Your heart jumps with the twitch of his cock when you wrap your hand around it. There’s going to be no trouble getting him to rebound, you think. He’s already thickening again with the warm strokes of your hand and tracing of your fingers over the slowly beating vein lining the underside of his shaft. 

Xavier doesn’t even let you finish exciting him before he rolls back on top of you and settles his head between your breasts. Between all the cum in between your legs and his half-hard cock, it isn’t as mind-numbing to have him inside you. What is different is to feel him twitching and growing inside you with his renewed thrusts. 

You’re hiccupping by the time he pushes your legs back and starts to hit deep inside of you, leaving the corner of your eyes tearing. You’re overwhelmed with everything. The uncharacteristic amount of energy he possesses as his hips snap into you. How each powerful rock leaves tingles aftershock-ing inside you, ruining your chances to recover before he does it again. The heavy scent of sex mixed with pine overwhelms your nose. His sweaty chest blocks out any light in the room, sealing any notion that you can be distracted by anything other than him as he pushes up your knee towards your chest.

You’re quickly working up to your second orgasm; the painful cramping in your foot tells you it’ll be bigger than the last. You’re right. When you come undone again, it’s with a shrill sob. You’re too out of it to even register when he finishes until he starts kissing your neck again.

He’s still inside you, you realize once your mind finally lands back on earth. His cock is resting in the heat inside you, waiting for him to work the two of you back up again. You know that’s the goal when his thumb gently brushes over one of your nipples again. Your sore insides constrict and strain. You don’t think you could survive a third round. 

“Xavier, please, no more.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice dry and husky in your ear as he kisses under it. 

“Too much,” you tell him, pushing on his chest to make some space between the two of you.  

“I didn’t catch that,” he coos defiantly. When he notices that you’re being serious, he obediently pulls out of you. His kisses become smoother as he pecks your lips. “What’s wrong? Is it aching?”

You nod then puff your cheeks in frustration when you see the amusement on his face.

“It’s not funny!” you say, holding onto that angry, childish pout until his smile turns sympathetic. 

“You’re right,” he agrees and shifts off you. Quickly, he locates his briefs on the corner of the bed. He steps out of bed and pulls them on. To your surprise, he leaves you, alone and cold.  

“Where are you going?”

Xavier disappears without answering you and only the sound of running water gives you any sort of hint of where he might’ve gone. When he returns, it’s with a rag dangled in his hand. 

“A boyfriend should help clean his girlfriend up after times like this,” he explains and leans over you; he presses the wet cloth between your legs; the rag is incredibly soothing on your bloated skin. It’s a blessing to your sore muscles as he starts to massage and clean you. “It feels better already, doesn’t it?”

“I guess,” you answer pitifully, grumbling a bit because the look on his face still seems like he’s teasing about your neediness. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s my fault you’re a little sore.” He’s definitely taunting you, but you don’t have the energy to fight about it. “All done,” he remarks, tossing the rag to a forgotten section of the dresser. He carefully climbs back on top of you, waiting for the moment your hand finds his bicep to guide him down next to you. 

It isn’t the first time he’s been this affectionate, and it won’t be the last time. However, this time feels more special than any time you’ve slept together, and not just because you can feel the stickiness of his sex-clad skin against your naked body. Well, that’s part of the reason.

“Something on your mind?”

“Nothing. I’m really happy,” you explain. 

“If it really makes you that happy, maybe we should do it more often,” he offers, and you pinch his unwounded cheek to punish him. Jumping back, he knocks your hand away and caresses his wounded face. “I’ll need another bandage if you keep doing that,” he complains weakly. 

“You only have yourself to blame!”

Xavier sighs. “You’re always right,” he concedes, more so that he can cuddle you without fighting rather than actually agreeing with you, you fear. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you really doubting your boyfriend?” he asks. Heartbeat skipped, you clamp your mouth shut as he unfolds the blankets over the two of you. 

It’s finally settling back into your mind that the two of you are a couple now. “I’m still…not used to it yet with you being that.”

“You will get used to it the longer we’re together. The same as I will.” Xavier sighs, happily so. “Although, we might run into the same problem again.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

Thoughtful, Xavier hums then explains, “First comes love then comes marriage as they say.”

He catches you off-guard once more. As always, Xavier is forever forging on ahead with little regard for convention. “Aren’t you thinking too far ahead?”

“Maybe,” he agrees but there’s no drop in his confidence as he smiles at you and draws his hand over your hairline. “But I loved you since we met.”

“Xavier, please,” you beg, finding your favorite place to hide your flustered face in the crook of his elbow. 

He can’t help but laugh at you as he curls his arm around you. “Especially that,” he confesses and places one more kiss on the top of your head before inviting you to go to sleep. 

You do, falling asleep against his chest less than thirty minutes later. For him, sleep is elusive for once as he mulls over the day’s events.

The word girlfriend on his tongue is sweet. The idea itself burns wonderfully in his chest, but it isn’t enough. He knows he still needs to wait a bit longer, take his time, your bashful response to his prodding was enough to tell him that it isn’t time yet. It’s hard not to rush when this is the closest he’s ever been to the one thing he truly wants. 

Xavier guesses he’ll still have to rely on his dreams for a little while longer. It’s okay, he tells himself, it’ll work out this time. He’ll find a place to settle with you and have a quiet life, a place where he can see stars. 

And this lifetime, when he asks you to marry him, he hopes you’ll say yes.

[taylorman2274]

Reverse Isekai Genshin Shenanigans #2

Characters: Venti, Kaeya, Diluc, Xingqiu, Zhongli

---------------------------------------------------------

"Is everything to your liking, Venti?" you asked.

"Oh none of that, [Y/N]," Venti responded with a small smile. "No need to be so formal around me."

The two of you were currently in the living room of your apartment. Since Venti was here, you had planned on showing him some of the stuff around your place. As for how Venti got here in the first place...

It's kind of a long story.

But to make that story short, Venti told you that Albedo and the Traveler had been working on a device that can establish a linked portal between Teyvat and Earth. From what you understand, it's kind of how you are able to access Teyvat on your computer, but this time it's the other way around.

It's honestly surprising how quickly it took them to reach you.

"However," Venti began, raising a finger. "Before you show me any more stuff, do you by chance happen to have any wine around? I am quite curious to see how your world's wine holds up to Mondstadt's."

You shook your head. "Nope. Sorry, I don't drink."

"You don't?!" Venti gasped. "Well that's no fun! Life is so much better when indulging in fabulous wine."

"My liver would say otherwise." you quipped.

Venti, ignoring you, continued. "It's unfortunate, really. And I was just beginning to get my hopes up high," he sighed. "But alas, I guess a bard's stomach will have to go empty for now."

You could tell that he was joking, but you still felt like helping him out. He was your guest, after all.

Luckily, your apartment was in the middle of a shopping complex.

"How about this. There's a wine store nearby. I can walk down and grab you something. Would that be alright?"

Venti's eyes are shining so bright you nearly covered your eyes to stop from going blind.

"Ohoho, really now?" he smirks, before giving a Knight of Favonius salute. "Lead the way then, [Y/N]. I shall be right behind you."

You sighed. "No, Venti. I can't risk you being seen by other people. Just tell me what you want and I'll go get it."

"Not a chance!" he happily exclaimed, skipping towards the door. "A decision of great importance should be trusted with an expert connoisseur such as myself."

He opened the door and gestured you towards the empty hallway. "After you, dear [Y/N]."

...

The God of Freedom has restrictions when it comes to purchasing wine apparently.

---------------------------------------------------------

"I must say, [Y/N]. Your place certainly is interesting. It's both familiar and exotic."

You raised a skeptical brow at the calvary captain. "Should I be taking that as a compliment or...?"

In response, Kaeya chuckled. "I simply mean that it's unique. Let's leave it at that."

You slowly nodded. Kaeya was a hard person to read, but you think he meant it as a complement.

...You think.

"However, before we continue, do you have any drinks on hand. I'm getting a bit thirsty."

You nodded politely. "Of course, I'll go get you something right away!"

You quickly walked to the kitchen and opened your fridge. "What would you like? I've got water, milk, juice, soda..."

Kaeya thought for a second. "Do you have any wine?"

...

Goddammit.

You loudly sighed. "First of all, I don't drink. Second of all, Venti made me spend nearly $100 at the wine store, and I didn't even get to keep any of it!"

Kaeya pondered in thought some more. "A wine store...?"

Oh no.

"No..." you warned. "Don't you even think about getting me to spend more money."

Kaeya merely brought a hand to his hip, "But I am a guest, am I not? It is common courtesy for the guest to be treated respectively after all."

...

You hate it when they're right.

You sighed again. "Fine..."

Kaeya softly smiled. "Excellent. I can't wait to see what they have to offer."

Thankfully, Kaeya was nice enough to settle for only one wine bottle.

---------------------------------------------------------

"I'm sorry if this isn't to your liking, Master Diluc."

"Please, [Y/N]. Just Diluc is fine. No need for formalities when we're not in Teyvat."

He began to look around at his surroundings.

"Though I am curious as to why you decided to bring me to a restaurant of all places."

"Because you didn't want to go to the wine store." you replied, deadpan. "Which honestly surprises me considering you own the biggest winery in Mondstadt."

Diluc did not look impressed. "I've seen enough wine in my life already, it does not make any difference if I go see anymore."

You shrugged your shoulders. "Suit yourself."

You looked back down at the menu in your hands, reading its contents for something good to order.

"...Is there another reason why you brought me here?"

You looked up at him. "...I mean yeah, there is, but it's nothing important."

Diluc crossed his arms. "Oh? What is it?"

You pointed to the top of his menu. "It's the name of the restaurant."

He looked down towards the menu and read the name. "Firebirds? What of it?"

You tilted your head. "...You don't get it?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Get what?"

"Ah, forget it," you waved a hand. "I just thought it was something funny."

---------------------------------------------------------

"Where are we heading, my liege?"

"Somewhere I think you'll really like."

The two of you walked through the front doors and stopped just a few steps afterward. To the naked eye, books upon books laid upon rows and rows of shelves.

As expected of a library.

You looked at Xingqiu and couldn't help but chuckle at the wide-eyed expression he was giving. His mouth also hung open comically.

"Easy now, Xingqiu, don't go drooling all over the floor now." You turned and pointed towards the front desk. "I figure that this place might be too big for you to handle so I trust that any questions you have you'll ask the librari- aaannnnnnnnnd he's gone."

...

You looked away for five seconds and you've already lost the book lover.

Is this how parents feel whenever they lose sight of their kids?

You couldn't help but chuckle as you shook your head. You suppose this was to be expected after all. When Xingqiu sets his sights on a book of choice, there's not much that will drag him away from it.

Knowing that he had no reason to leave the library, you began walking around the building searching for him.

You did find him after a few minutes. He had grabbed a seat on top of a beanbag and was nose deep in a book in his hands. Stacked next to him were a ton of other books that he presumably collected.

However, as you walked closer to him, you could see a troubled expression on his face.

"Is something wrong?" you questioned.

Xingqiu lowered the book from his face. "Sorry, my liege, I seem to be unable to read this. I can't understand any of the words."

...

Ah crap, you forgot about that.

"Do you think you could read this to me?" he asked, handing the book to you.

You nodded. "Sure, I can do that."

Book in hand, you plopped down on another beanbag next to him and started to read. You had no other plans for the day, so you were fine with hanging around the library for a little bit.

---------------------------------------------------------

You didn't feel like going out today. It didn't matter who asked, you were exhausted.

"Hmmm..."

Even if that someone was an over 6,000-year old retired Archon.

To be quite frank, you were terrified to be in Zhongli's presence. Sure, this isn't the first Archon you've met in person, but Venti does a superb job at hiding his status. Nobody can take a look at him and think that he's an Archon.

Zhongli on the other hand, has this imposing aura around him. How does Hu Tao not feel threatened by this man?

"So this is where you're able to guide us from?"

You nodded. "Yes sir."

After showing Zhongli around your apartment, he expressed an interest in seeing the device you use to guide them. Not thinking ahead, and because you were terrified of telling an Archon 'no', you agreed.

...Okay, you did try to tell Venti 'no', but that's different!

Now, you were frantically trying to piece together a convincing story about how your guidance is not part of a video game and everything that they've come to know was written, modeled, and designed by a company. Existential crisis are not fun to deal with.

However, Zhongli isn't stupid. There's a high percent chance he'll see through your lies.

...Basically, you're fucked.

You focused back on the computer. The main menu was playing. You sneaked a peak at Zhongli. He appeared to be lost in thought.

"Need me to explain anything?" you asked, hesitantly.

Zhongli nodded. "Please."

You sighed. Here goes nothing.

"So to start things off, there's this company called Hoyoverse. This company is responsible for maintaining a stable connection between here and Teyvat. That's why you saw their name appear on the screen earlier. This down here is the region that the connection is held. If I click on that, I'm able to change to another region. However, I'm gonna keep it on this one since I get the best connection from there."

"Then below that is my User ID. Going back to Hoyoverse for a moment, it's not just one connection they're responsible for. They're able to hold thousands of connections at once."

You saw Zhongli open his mouth so you stopped talking for a moment. "But I've never known anyone other than you guiding us. How can it be that there are multiple connections to the same place?"

You shook your head. "No, it's not multiple connections to one Teyvat. It's multiple connections to different Teyvats. Think of it as parallel universes if you will. Through this connection, I am able to guide people such as you. However, through another connection, someone else is able to guide another Zhongli. Does that make sense?"

You nearly breathed a sigh of relief when he nodded his head. "I see. Please, continue."

"Right. Next, you have these two buttons over here. If I click on the top one, you'll see ways to interact with other connection members as well as the company itself. Also, you have the fair use statement and terms of service. These are just the rules I need to follow while guiding you guys. If I break any of these rules, my access is revoked and the connection gets terminated."

Zhongli looks at the screen for a brief period before turning to you with his arms crossed. "You say these are rules."

You nodded. "Yes sir."

"...They sound more like contracts to me."

...

"I mean..." you scratched the back of your neck. "I wouldn't say contracts, per se. I guess you could call them... agreements?"

Zhongli raised an eyebrow. "So now they're agreements?"

...

Welp. It was a good run while it lasted.

You sighed heavily and lowered your head in shame. "No. You're right. They're contracts."

Zhongli nodded in agreement. "As I thought."

"Sorry." you apologized.

...

"Do you know what is listed in the contracts?"

You looked up at Zhongli. He still bore a curious expression on his face. There wasn't any anger nor frustration hinted anywhere.

"Ummm... Not really."

Zhongli was quick to furrow his eyebrows. Okay, now he's looking a bit mad. "You signed a contract without reading its contents?"

You scooched your chair a tiny bit away from Zhongli to give you some more space. "Well I mean, yeah, but I'm not the only one who does that. Everyone does! Nobody's got the time nor the patience to read all of that legal jargon."

Zhongli's eyebrows furrowed even further. You might be overexaggerating out of fear, but he looks absolutely pissed. Now would be the best time to make a smart life decision.

"Oh please, Rex Lapis," you pleaded, kneeling on the floor with your hands pressed together in prayer. "I beg for forgiveness, O merciful Archon."

"Spare me your theatrics."

You winced. That didn't work out as well as you hoped.

A couple of seconds passed by before Zhongli let out a deep sigh. "I don't know what you were thinking when you decided to blindly sign multiple contracts.

...

"However, I am willing to go through each contract for you and teach you of anything you should be aware of for now and for the foreseeable future."

...

"...Huh...?"

"You mean... I'm not gonna suffer the Wrath of the Rock?"

"The Wrath of the Rock??" Zhongli asks, flabbergasted. "Did you really think I was going to hurt you?"

...

"Yes..." you answered, meekly.

Zhongli's face softened before he placed a hand on your shoulder. "I would never harm you nor let anyone bring harm you, [Y/N]. I'd be a fool to do so after all that you have done for my friends, for Liyue, and for Teyvat."

He gave a soft smile. "I'm just letting you know that you should be more careful while signing any contracts in the future. You never know if you're getting a fair agreement if you never read its contents."

You nodded, smile also on your face. "Yes sir, I'll read every contract from now on, sir."

"Good. Now then, would you kindly read the contents of each contract to me. I'll stop you if I need to mention anything worth noting."

You spent the next couple of hours going over each contract, taking notes on anything Zhongli deemed worth remembering. You guess that showing him the actual game will come at a later time.

---------------------------------------------------------

Author Side Notes: Wow that Zhongli bit took up a lot of this. In all honesty, it could probably be it's own thing separate from all of the other shenanigans.

By the way, I imagine that Zhongli uses reading glasses. I don't know why I think that, but I feel like it suits him for some reason.

[chaotic-archaeologist]

https://nypost.com/2024/08/28/world-news/boy-4-accidentally-smashes-bronze-age-jar-that-was-at-least-3500-years-old/

Your thoughts?

Personally, I'm kinda sick of museums being required to cater to kids so much. If you're going to do this open air exhibit, kids who don't know how to keep their hands to themselves just shouldn't be allowed in. The glass is there for this very reason.

Actually, I'm with the museum on this one. Is it unfortunate that the vase was broken? Yes. Was the vase a valuable piece of the past? Also yes. But I think the museum did something very cool by not having the artifacts behind glass and are handling this with good grace and the sense to make this a learning opportunity.

Sometimes we overlook the fact that museums often attempt to arrest or freeze artifacts in time. They are kept in controlled conditions to prevent them from deteriorating and even treated to reverse damage. Many things on display on museums are elevated beyond their original value, alienated from their original purpose, and closed off from interaction.

It's incredible that this jar survived as long as it did—and its age is what makes it special—but at the end of the day, it is still a jar. It has now experienced the thing that happens to pretty much every jar that has been or will be. After all, decay is an extant form of life. (If you want to read a very well written and interesting take on decay and archaeology, check out this article by Caitlin DeSilvey.)

The article I linked above provides some important context and the update that the museum is planning on using this as an opportunity to teach about the conservation process. The jar's story is not over; it is being pieced back together and in this next chapter in its life it will be able to tell two stories: one of its life and the other of its rebirth. The museum's approach embraces that, exactly like the Japanese art of Kintsugi.

I also agree with the museum's decision not to punish the child or his family. Things go wrong in museums all the time despite their highly controlled environments, and this is why they have artifacts insured. Sometimes the thing that happens is a child, and by and large museums do not seek damages.

I would encourage you to rethink your stance on museums and children. Museums are for everyone. Children have a right to experience museums and what they have to offer just like anyone else. There are also many studies that discuss how going to museums benefits children.

In this case, perhaps the exhibit design was slightly flawed, but the four year old boy accidentally knocked the jar over because he was curious about what was inside and wanted to investigate. Curiosity is exactly what museums should be encouraging. In an ideal world that curiosity would have been channeled into some other kind of engagement, but the folks who work in museums have a lot on their plates and cannot plan everything perfectly all the time. Even if they could, they often do not have the resources to do so.

Finally, the AP article mentions that the boy and his family were visiting the museum to get away from Hezbollah rocket fire. Regardless of your opinions on the current conflict, everyone deserves to have a safe place to exist. That museums can serve as those spaces is an honor.

I commend the Hecht Museum and the people working there. They 1) successfully provided a place of learning and refuge, 2) opted not for a punitive approach—which is often the default Western model for justice—but a compassionate one, and 3) are using this twist of fate to create programming that will further engage the public.

@museeeuuuum and @museum-spaces would you care to comment?

-Reid

[barrenclan]

How do you decide on motifs? Like sleep being associated with death, roses being associated with death? And how did you go about assigning each motif to a character (especially more character specific ones)? Like I get that Rainhaze was seen as a coyote in omens because of his association with Ranger, but why is Nightberry associated with visions, why is Cootstorm associated with never changing, conservative ideals?

Here's a good way to think about this: PATFW is not coming out of nowhere. Seems obvious, right? But every decision made is one that I had to intentionally choose, with a goal in mind for what I wanted to do with them. So I don't have real animals, or real people - I have certain stories in mind, and the characters are tools that I use to express these ideas. Let's take two examples brought up here, and I'll show you what I mean.

Asphodelpaw's death. For this story, I wanted to have a big, climatic moment that really jerks around the story, much in the same way that Shellspring's reveal did in TDS. I know that I want Rainhaze to be an exploration of a character who starts out good and turns complicated, and that I want him to not be redeemed. Okay, so how do I make sure Rainhaze is beyond redemption? He'd have to do something really awful, like killing someone important. The rest of the Clan wouldn't be as impactful if he killed them, so it should be one of his family members, and someone we really care about. Okay, who do I want him to kill? Pinepaw is my narrator, so if I want him to keep narrating, I can't kill him. I want Slugpelt to feel the consequences of this murder Rainhaze makes, and I want her to later confront him about it, so he can't kill her. I can't quite get into why I want Daffodilpaw to live yet, because of spoilers, but I have a certain message I want to create with Daffodilpaw, and she can't die as part of it. So Asphodelpaw is the only one left. Okay, why would it be impactful for her to die? Because she just came into herself, and apologized to Pinepaw, and is on track to grow into a better person. So it's extra tragic - and extra irredeemable - of Rainhaze to kill her. There you go, that's the reasoning behind Asphodelpaw's death.

The sleep/death motif. I have suffered from personal difficulties surrounding death, specifically involved with intrusive thoughts before I go to sleep. So those two ideas are very linked in my mind, and because PATFW is a darker story, I wanted to explore it. Okay, how do I work it into the story? Rainhaze is a character who's disappeared, presumed dead, by the time the story starts. Alright, maybe I can work it in there. I used it for the first time in Issue 4, contrasting between Rainhaze and Slugpelt's views on what happens after death. Alright, so now I have a thematic parallel between their characters and their views. Okay, how does this affect the future plot? As Rainhaze gets further involved with Defiance, his views on killing change, and that strengthens this association with sleep. So later, when Slugpelt kills him, I can bring this thematic parallel back around and make it really resonate, because I've built up the connection over the whole story. There you go, that's how you create a motif.

I hope you found this interesting. Often I find that a lot of writing advice is vague and nonspecific, so I tried to make my reasoning behind these things as clear as possible. From the outside, it may seem like absolutely anything can happen in a story, but from an internal perspective there are only so many ways to get to a point I want to make, so those decisions have to lead to each other if I want to create a natural thread.

[hotchscoffeecup]

how do we carry on?

pairing: hotch x bau!reader

rating: m

word count: 4.8k

genre: angst, hurt no comfort

summary: emily was your confidant, your best friend. when she dies at the hands of ian doyle, you find comfort in your boyfriend, aaron. when you find out that she’s alive and that hotch had known all along, your world falls out from under you. can you and hotch come back from the decision he made for the good of the team?

*if this gains enough traction i might follow up with a pt.2 to give it a happy ending*

The criss-crossed lines of the tile floor blur together as you stare blankly between your feet. The tops of your thighs have gone numb from digging your elbows into them, using your cradled hands as a pillow for your forehead. You couldn’t go home, not until you knew.

Rossi had offered to go on a walk and get a coffee, but shitty lukewarm hospital coffee was the last thing you needed. You hadn’t meant to write him off, you just couldn’t justify doing anything to distract from the fact that she was on that operating table, that Emily’s life was literally hanging in the balance.

The rest of the team was no better off than you are right now. Penelope’s knitting needles clack relentlessly, the scarf inside of her purse growing as her hands keep busy so her mind doesn’t focus on how hard she’s trying not to cry. The last time you’d poked your head up, Derek hadn’t moved from the waiting room windowsill where he’d been standing still as a statue staring out at the cityscape. If Spencer didn’t stop shaking his leg, you feared he would wear a hole straight through the tile. JJ exits the waiting room as often as she returns, her liaising days quickly coming back, making her their only link to the operating room. Hotch’s behavior is no different. His cell rings every ten to fifteen minutes, no doubt the Bureau wanting to know how the hell this could happen. It’s the only sign that time is actually passing and you’re forced to accept that you’re not stuck in some fucked up purgatory-esque hellscape where time stands still, torturing you as your dear friend’s life teeters between worlds.

What you wanted, what you needed was for him to hold you; to place a kiss against your temple and tell you that everything would be alright. It had to be alright.

He couldn’t show favor to you though, not now. The team didn’t know about your relationship with him, though you believe a few have their suspicions. You’re all too observant for your own good. Not much goes unnoticed by anyone. So when JJ walks back into the waiting room, everyone shifts toward her to try and get a glimpse into her facial expression and body language for any sign of an update regarding Emily’s condition.

Instantly, you know something is wrong. JJ’s eyes flit from one person to the next, not lingering very long on anyone. Spencer is the first to stand and you follow suit. You close in, forming a small half circle. Behind JJ, Hotch stands in the doorway, brow straight as he folds his arms across his chest.

“JJ?” Her name is an anxious plea on Penelope’s lips.

JJ’s eyes drop to the floor as she presses her lips together. She takes a deep breath and lifts her eyes, yours the ones they land on as she speaks. “She never made it off the table.”

A choked sob echoes from Garcia as she falls into Derek’s arms, his features fixed as he stares ahead though his knuckles flush white as he holds tightly onto Penelope. Rossi pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as he mutters something to himself; a prayer, maybe. Spencer envelopes JJ in a desperate embrace, as if clinging to her will somehow make her words any less true. Afterall, how can they be? Emily can’t go down, not like this; not after all she’s survived.

Someone says your name. Your brow dips, but you don’t respond. You need to see Emily. Your feet move of their own accord, guiding you through the waiting room. Someone grabs your arm and you tug away from their grasp, set on pushing onward and finding the OR.

Someone repeats your name, and you can’t help but latch on to the deep tenor that belongs to Hotch. You halt in your tracks and close your eyes, tears leaking over your eyelids and down your cheeks.

“I need to talk to Emily,” you say, your voice small.

The way Hotch says your name is laced with pity and you hate the way it sounds on his tongue. He pulls gently on your arm in an attempt to reel you into him, but you resist. You bite your lip to still its trembling. Yanking your arm free, you press on into the hallway and stumble toward the double doors that read in bold letters: Authorized Personnel Only. Fuck that. You’ve got a badge, that’s authority enough. Before you can push through, firm hands twist around your arms.

You push back, but their grip tightens. “Stop,” Hotch urges authoritatively. You turn into him and pound your fist against his chest, a sob cracking free from your mouth. “She’s not gone,” you cry. “She’s not gone. She’s not—” Your legs tremble with the wave of grief that crashes over you and you can’t hold your weight as it does so. Falling to your knees, Hotch reacts. His arms fold around your waist, catching you as you collapse into the wide plane of his chest. Your ribs ache as your lungs inflate with each rapid, sobbing breath. Your vision turns fuzzy at the edges as you try and fail to slow your breathing. It feels like you’re dying as the waves of grief assail you over and over again, battering you, body and mind, in an unrelenting tumultuous current of sorrow and pain as the wicked reality sets in. Emily is dead. You barely feel Hotch’s hand in your hair cradling you against him. As he murmurs apologies and sympathies in your ear, you don’t see the weighted look he exchanges with JJ.

•

The funeral comes and goes. The day is too beautiful for Emily not to be there to see it. You sit on the porch at Hotch’s house, breathing in and out as you watch the daffodils dance in the afternoon breeze. You smooth the fabric of your dress down over your knees, the satin wrinkled from the way you clenched it during the service.

Your phone buzzes in your purse. The number of messages and phone calls you’d ignored continues to rise, but you can’t bring yourself to express any gratitude for their condolences. You can’t bring yourself to feel anything except the crushing weight of grief.

You picture Emily sitting beside you on the wooden porch swing. Last Summer, you’d sat here with her as the team gathered for a Fourth of July Barbecue. Jack had made invitations and delivered them to the team at the office. He’d been so excited and so were you. It was around then that you and Hotch had begun to toe the line between colleagues and something more; a morning coffee dropped off at your desk here, an extra visit to his office there. You’d sat here with Emily watching as Rossi backseat barbecued Hotch on the grill. She’d caught you smiling at him alongside the fondness in your gaze. She’d clocked you from a mile away.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad.” Her laugh had tinkled from lips, ringing like a morning bell.

“What are you talking about?” you’d asked, trying and failing to school your features into a mask of indifference.

“I’ll tell ya, it’s a big swing, but if you hit it, that’s a home run for sure.”

You’d nearly choked on your lemonade, coughing and gasping; drawing the attention of the others.

“Wrong pipe!” Emily had called while pointing at you and clapping a hand against your back. “She’s good!” In a low voice she’d added, “Though I’m sure with him, it’d be just the right pipe.”

You’d elbowed her in the ribs and bust out laughing together. For the longest time after that, she’d been the only person that you’d confided in about your burgeoning feelings and relationship with Aaron. Through that, she’d quickly become your closest friend on the team.

A couple of kids shout at one another, laughing, as they ride past the house on their bicycles; shattering the memory. You dip into your purse and withdraw your phone, pressing a button and powering it down. The screen door creaks on its hinges and Hotch steps down onto the porch, the planks shifting beneath his weight. He sits beside you and offers you a mug. The scent of coffee reaches your nose and you accept it, thanking him quietly. Aaron had taken his suit jacket off and loosened his tie. He stretches an arm around your shoulder and draws closer to you. He kisses the side of your face and stares out at the yard.

“It was a beautiful service,” he offers.

“Aaron, don’t.” You close your eyes and take a breath. You hold the coffee with both hands, rubbing your thumbs up and down the warm ceramic. “Please don’t make small talk with me about this like it’s all so fucking normal.”

He sighs and apologizes. “I just wish I could make all of your hurt go away.”

A shudder runs through you and you nestle in closer to him, taking a sip of your coffee as you do so. “I don’t think it’ll ever go away.”

•

Her brown eyes stare back at you, though the photo paper could never capture the light that flared within them when she was alive. Of all the faces you could have seen up on this wall, you’d never anticipated hers being one of them.

Every day you stop by her portrait on the wall of fallen heroes. People talk about her less and less around the office. The team doesn’t stop, though your conversations are stilted and often end in awkward silences; no one really knowing how to carry on once the conversation slows to a natural end. You speak often with Spencer about the ways in which you’ve been grieving, the sleepless nights and early mornings. Derek is reserved. He’s angry above anything else. He feels betrayed by Emily and a part of you understands that. She’d not told any of you after all. You’d be remiss if you’d not also spent some of your time grieving in anger. Of all the times you’d stayed late after work, gotten together to hang out on weekends, or gone out for drinks, she had never indicated anything was wrong. You had told her everything, confided every one of your fears and hopes into her and you’d thought that the street had been going both ways. God, you’d never been so wrong.

“Conference room in fifteen,” Aaron says as he walks past you, hand grazing your back as he does so.

You smile tightly and nod, glancing once more at Emily’s photo before making your way to your desk in the bullpen, ignoring the fact hers still sits empty and unoccupied beside yours. How has it been three months already?

•

“Emily!”

Your eyes dart around the room frantically searching as your heart thunders in your ears. You feel the organ pounding against your ribcage, threatening to break free of it. It only takes a second for you to realize it had been a dream.

Aaron rolls over and sits up, threading an arm around your back and rubbing your hip with his fingers. “Another nightmare?” he asks, words tinged with sleepiness.

You nod, yawning as you rub your eyes. The dreams are further apart, but at least every other week her face haunts your subconscious. You can’t help but wonder if it’s some sort of self-punishment as life goes on and the days get easier.

In reality, you don’t know if it’s easier or if you’ve just forced yourself to become numb to it all, compartmentalizing the pain of losing your best friend because if you didn’t you don’t think you’d be able to leave the house and do what you do day after day.

“Are the appointments with the therapist helping?” he asks.

Another question you don’t know the answer to. On some level, yes. Talking to someone who knows nothing about you or her or anyone else on the team is good. You don’t have to walk on eggshells, worried you're going to dig open a wound the others are equally fighting to heal by talking about her or how much you miss her or wish she was here. On another level, you don’t open up fully to the doctor. There are some layers of this injury you don’t want to see heal and scar over. If you do that, it’s like you’re telling Emily that you’re over her death, as if it’s something as easy as that, something you just get over. No, some things need to stay fresh, to serve as a reminder that Ian Doyle is still out there. The man who took your best friend away from you and your BAU family is breathing and she’s not. You clench your fists, the sheets balling up in your hands as your resentment burns deep inside you. Yes, that’s it, the idea of him walking around thinking he’s gotten away with this is enough to stoke the flames simmering deep inside you.

You take a deep breath, mentally imagining the flames subsiding, and they do. They dial down, but they don’t disappear. You glance down at Aaron, who snores softly beside you. His fingers still curl around your hip and a faint smile graces your lips. He tries, you know he does, but this is exhausting for everyone. He bears the brunt of it at the office. He fought to be the one to meet with the team and conduct the grief interviews, not wanting a stranger to come in and sift through your friends’ and colleagues’ pain over what happened. God knows how much bureaucratic red tape he had gotten tangled in right after the fact, the higher ups demanding how such a blunder could occur right under their noses. Aaron had put out the fires though, as he always did. Reaching around his back, you withdraw his hand from your hip and tuck it by his side, not before pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

You glance at the clock before lying back down. 4:15AM blinks back at you on the digital clock face. In forty five minutes the alarm will go off and it’ll be another day at the office. Settling down into the pillows, you press your back into Aaron’s body, yours molding against the planes of his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His arms slinks around your waist and pulls you in as if you can get any closer than you already are. He tucks his chin over your shoulder and his lips brush against your jawline.

“I love you,” he whispers and you relax into the safety of his embrace.

“I love you, too, Aaron.”

•

Nights are hard when Aaron is gone. Pakistan is nine hours ahead and all Hotch has to communicate with anyone is a satellite phone, the number for which you don’t have access to. Whenever Hotch calls, the caller ID flashes the word ‘Unknown’ across your screen. There have been several times you’ve missed him due to being asleep or at work. Each call missed feels like being sucker punched. Every time you talk, a part of you worries it’ll be the last time. You didn’t use to have this fear, not until Emily. Despite staring death in the face on a week by week basis, most of the time playing Russian Roulette with the Grim Reaper himself in each unsub you cross paths with, somehow you never thought he’d actually take someone you love from you; that he’d take down one of the team. You never thought there’d be a last conversation with Emily, and now she’s dead.

Dead. The word is a heavy stone, sinking from the cusps of your mind to the pit of your stomach. It sits there, a persistent ache idling deep inside of you. It never relents and it never allows you to forget.

There are nights you dream that Aaron is dead too, that somewhere far away and beyond your control, he’s dying on the ground, bleeding out, and no one knows. You don’t even know what he’s working on and he can’t say; despite your relationship there are still levels in which Hotch’s clearance supersedes your own and the need-to-know red tape keeps you out. Afraid to close your eyes and dream of his unseeing, you stare at the blades of the ceiling fan whirling lazily overhead of the bed you usually share with him.

“I miss you,” you whisper to no one; and you don’t know who you’re talking to anymore.

•

“He’s back?” your heart flutters in your chest, equal parts excited and anxious at the prospect of Aaron’s sudden return. You push off your desk and swivel in your chair to stand, rushing down the hall and leaving Reid behind as you make your way hastily to the conference room.

The door is cracked and a gleeful sound eeks past your lips as his tall frame comes into view. You slip in before anyone else arrives and throw your arms around you. Inhaling deeply, his familiar teakwood scent envelopes you just as his arms do. You move to pull away, but his arms tighten around you.

“A second more,” he whispers, and there’s an edge to his voice.

You write it off to jet lag and sink into his embrace, though you notice how slight he feels against you. Finally, you pull back and cup his face in your hands. The scruff of his beard is prickly and you laugh as you take in his rugged appearance. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with this much facial hair.” You swipe your thumbs over the hair on his lip and he tilts his head, kissing the inside of your hand. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before lifting them to meet yours. It's then you realize how tired he looks. The bags under his eyes are puffy and purple, almost as if they’re bruised. His forehead is creased, brow furrowed; definitely not how you pictured him upon reuniting.

“Aaron is everything ok—”

“I need you to know I would never hurt you,” he says quickly, interrupting you.

You purse your lips, brow pinching at the sudden admission. As your lips part to speak he directs a pointed look at you, the depths of his brown eyes wavering. “I love you,” his voice cracks, “so much.” He swallows, his throat bobbing as he does so. “Please remember that.”

There’s a hollow feeling in your gut, a chasm opening wide where every anxious and painful thought that you’ve tried to keep buried since he’s been gone begins to claw their way out as a thousand different outcomes play out in front of you. “Aaron, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer your question as the rest of the team trickles into the room, sitting at the round table or standing as suspense fills the space. It’s tangible. Everyone’s posture is rigid and tense in anticipation of whatever it is he has to say.

“Seven months ago I made a decision that impacted everyone on this team,” he begins, eyes firm.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably beside you. Rossi leans forward, fingers steepled under his chin.

“As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood,” Hotch continues and your ears prick at the sound of her name. Why would he bring her up? No less, her condition the day you all lost her. You all know this.

“…the doctor’s were able to stabilize her.”

Your lips part but no sound comes out as you raise your eyes to meet his. They meet yours for the briefest of seconds before flitting on to the others.The next words to leave his mouth sound far away, interrupted by the blood now pounding in your eardrums. “She stayed there until she was well enough to travel…given identities…”

There’s a lump in your throat and you feel as though you may choke on it. Air doesn’t seem to be able to bypass it and you have to remind yourself that you can breathe even though it feels like all the oxygen has vacated your lungs.

Penelope is the first to speak. “She’s alive?”

Spencer’s brow quirks as he tries to rationalize what’s being said to him. “We buried her.”

You did. You helped carry the casket. You felt the weight of her dead body and watched it sink into the earth. If that wasn’t her, what the fuck or who the fuck did you actually put in the ground?”

“As I said I take full responsibility for this decision,” Hotch continues, eyes downcast. “If anyone has any issues they should be directed towards me.”

The blood pounding in your ears is deafening. When Hotch looks up, you search his eyes and can’t help wondering if you know him at all. All of the nights you literally made yourself sick from crying and he held your hair back as you dry heaved over the toilet and your body spasmed from the grief of losing your best friend, he’d known that she was alive. For a moment, you think you may be sick right there at the round table at the thought of it all. Derek is speaking, his voice tight with anger but you don’t hear him. Heads turn and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as a haunting feeling creeps up the back of your spine.

Turning around in your chair, everyone else stands but not you. If you do, you know your knees will buckle and fall out from under you. Spencer and Penelope are on their feet, moving briskly to greet the ghost of Emily.

Except she’s not a ghost. Her skin is not the cold blue-gray pallor of death, but pink and bright, the blood beneath her flesh very much pumping through a heart that’s beating. Her dark brown hair is sleek and shining, her bangs grown out and styled; her part now to the right. You watch her arms fold around Spencer and the way he squeezes her in turn. Penelope follows suit, tears streaming down her cheeks as she smiles widely. Derek stares on, features fixed in a cross between anger and shock. Emily approaches him with apprehension. An apology leaves her lips as she draws him in for a hug and his arms tentatively wrap around her. When she turns to you, your muscles tense. Those deep brown irises flicker back and forth across your face, searching for a reaction. You don’t give her one. Instead, you push past her, avoiding any and all physical contact with her, and dip out of the conference room.

You hear Garcia call your name and Derek shouts about having a case. You don’t care. You bypass your desk, not even bothering to get your purse. Your keys are hanging on a carabiner on your belt loop. Ignoring the elevator, you shove your way through the entrance to the stairs and move down them so quickly you’re surprised you don’t lose your footing and tumble down them. Down and around you go, your footsteps echoing as your heart slams against your ribcage. You slap your badge against the keypad that lets you exit the building, ignoring the greeting from the security guard at the front. As you push through the front doors of the office building, you barely make it to the bushes before you fall to your knees and retch.

•

A car door slams followed by the double beep which locks them. You close your eyes and inhale deeply as you prepare to face him, hands clenching around the sweater you were packing. A tear slips free from your eye as you breathe out and look toward the ceiling, as if the answers to why all of this had to happen are written up there. This is not how your reunion is supposed to be. You’d pictured his homecoming for weeks; thought about the outfit you’d wear to dinner and the lingerie you’d bought to wear just for him when you both got home, opened a bottle of wine, and made up for all of the time lost while he was away. That is how tonight is supposed to go.

Now you’re leaving, and you don’t know if you’ll be coming back.

The lock on the front door jiggles before the gears click into place. It squeaks on its hinges as it swings open. Five beeps follow and you can picture his fingers pressing against each button on the alarm system. His keys clatter as he drops them on the table. As his footsteps edge closer to your bedroom, you count each one. The sound that usually means safety and security, now sends a shiver of anxiety throughout your body.

He appears in the doorway, eyes rife with exhaustion and the bags beneath them puffy and swollen. His cheeks are flushed and his nose is pink, as if he’d been crying. Maybe he had been, god knows you had. His eyes flit between you and the bag you’re packing. His lips part and a small sound of desperation slips past them.

“Baby, please—”

You hold up a hand, curling your fingers into a fist. Your lip curls as you speak. “Don’t,” you breathe. You swallow the lump that quickly forms in your throat as you drop your hand, zipping the bag shut.

The inner corners of his brow draw upward and you can hardly stand to look into his pleading gaze.

“You have to understand—”

“Understand, what? Aaron?” You ask sharply, struggling to hold back the thick hot tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

He places a hand on his hip, fingers tucking back the fold of his unbuttoned shirt as his thumb hooks into his belt; a gesture you’re all too familiar with as he does the same thing with all of his suits. His other hand rises to pinch the bridge of his nose. He pauses, inhaling as he tries to find the words. After a moment, he scrubs a hand over his face and turns his gaze to yours.

“I wanted to tell you so badly,” he says. When he looks at you there are tears in his eyes. “I hated myself, watching the agony this decision put you and the team through. I wanted to tell you and take away your hurt, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to the team. Just because you’re my girlfriend, I can’t—” He turns his hand and slams his hand against the doorframe causing you to flinch. “Dammit!”

Your voice is soft, but sure when you speak. “You can’t bend the rules.”

It’s what you’ve always worried about, both of you. You always knew the job could come first, especially with him being the Unit Chief. You always understood that that meant no preferential treatment and that is something you never would’ve asked him to do. You just never anticipated it happening like this, a complete and total life altering mind fuck.

Aaron drops his hand and it slaps against his thigh in defeat as it falls to his side. “What was I supposed to do?”

You cross your arms over your chest, fingers curling over your biceps to try and still your shaking hair. You hang your head and a curtain of hair falls across your face, “I don’t know, Aaron.”

He kicks off the doorway, moving towards you with his hands outstretched. It happens without thinking, the way you flinch away. Pain flashes in his eyes and you feel as though you’ve been punched in the stomach the way it’s suddenly hard to breathe.

His hip is close to yours, his body angled away from you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your shoulder as he looks down. “Don’t do this,” he whispers.

Your lip quivers, chin wobbling in response to the tears you’re trying so desperately to hold back. “I have vacation I’d been saving.” You pick up your bag and throw it over your shoulder, not daring to look up at him because you know if you do you’ll shatter into a thousand shards of glass at his feet.

As you move toward the door, you pause. For a split second, you entertain the thought of dropping your bag, running across the room he’d chased you around so many times before, and throwing yourself around him. You consider all the things you want to say and scream and cry about; all of your anger, sadness, betrayal, grief, and love. You crave him so terribly in that moment because his have always been the arms you’ve run to when things become too much to bear.

Instead, your chin dips toward your shoulder as you speak, but you don’t raise your eyes to meet his. If you do, you don’t think you’ll be able to leave. “My gun and badge are in the safe.”

As you make your way down the hallway, you have to bite your knuckles to stifle a sob just as you hear one leave his lips from the bedroom.

You don’t turn back.

[dreaming-of-lu]

An emergency request for someone. They wanted Wild, Time and Legend comfort from an ex-boyfriend. I hope you are safe and is in a safe environment, do take good care 💚💚 may the days be better for you. Apologies for taking so long to get to this. CW: brief mentions of past abuse, slight blood

Legend

It was hard to keep himself in check. He tried to hold back the urge to march right back to punch that arrogant, smug bastard, but he had to be smart about this. He wouldn’t dare put you in harm’s way or even threaten the chain’s rupee bag. He knows the chain would back him up either way, but you were more important than giving that slime a hint of what he obviously wanted.

How could anyone dare to lay their hands on you or the thought of them doing so, made his blood boiled like lava under his skin. You were wonderful in so many ways that it made his heart pound and hands clammy. You, who was patient, free-spirited, kind and sweet to little ol’ grumpy, soft him. The vet, who holds and guard his heart close with a dagger held out in front of him, lets you in easily. 

“-end,” you that grabbed his attention with gentle motions, sharing many quiet companies with him in the dead of night. Blood and heart pounded in his ears, keeping his eyes focused on the path leading back to camp. That stupid ba- “Link!”

He snapped out of his daze, looking back irritable before it melts away in worry at the sight of your meek gaze. His mouth gapes when you winced, giving a short glance down at your hand. He quickly drops it as if it stung him like hot iron to uncovered skin.

“I-I’m so sorr-”

“It’s okay-” “No! It’s not!” He slapped a hand over his mouth, brows furrowing in shame; he shared a grimace with you at the sudden volume he spoke in. He felt worthless when those anxious eyes stared at him; he doesn’t want to be stared at like that, though he cannot blame you, he can only blame the person who was horrible to you.

“I...I’m sorry, I don’t- No, that was not right of me to raise my voice at your or...hold your hand so tight.” 

“...can I...hold it again?”

“I jus-”

“Please? I feel safer with you.” “...of course.”

Time

“Old man! What are you doing?!” 

His brain was working in overdrive. It all happened too fast for him. Always having to keep a calm, collected head on his shoulders as the leader. Making rational decisions that kept everybody safe and alive on the journey, yet it reared it’s ugly side quick. He knew something was wrong when arriving in this Hyrule; he always too good at figuring things out quickly, especially when it came to you.

You were so giddy earlier, giggling and sharing jests with the boys and him. Though, as soon as the group went through and arrived here, you turned into a hollowed shell. Meek, nervous yet scared looks being thrown over your shoulder as if you were afraid something or someone was there, looking for you. He cursed the damn portal for dropping them off here when he now knew of the issue.

Bastard showed his face with a leer and something in him snapped at the sight. 

He wasn’t sure what happened, it blanked quickly. First, he was at the front of the group and now he’s here. Standing over the fallen, knocked-out body of the man; his chest heaving, ears ringing, knuckles throbbing with a bit of blood dripping from his gauntlet. He’s being harshly pulled away from the male; upset blues stared into his,  “What the hell are you doing?!”  Warriors hissed with such venom it made Time feel like that little kid all over again. Guilt flooded his veins at the memory striking him, he would get himself into such trouble that the captain had to come running out of his tent to save his behind from punishment. He would apologize for his behavior for stressing him out, but this situation? He couldn’t bring himself to do so.

“I-” He began, only to be cut off by Twilight’s worried tone, “Whatever it is, save it, we got company.” Guards began marching their way over to them. Okay, this part is something he will apologize later for. 

Wild

“And where did this scar come from?” 

His curiosity made him want to curse out his idiocy as you flinched and hid swiftly under the blankets. He stared wide eyed when you curled into a ball, scooting bits away from him while avoiding his gaze.

“It’s...It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it, please.”

Something bloomed in his chest, a feeling roaring out in despair that something happened to you. Wild wanted to know, but he knows not to push boundaries when faced with a stone wall in front of him. You were shutting him off, pushing him away, rejecting his touch, almost as if...you were ashamed of yourself or rather-

“Did...”

A weak sniffled graced his ears, the soft sound making his heart clench,

“I’m sorry,” your frail whine had him slowly and gently placing a careful hand on your shoulder, “I didn’t mean to-” “No, no, don’t apologize, okay? I’m not going to get mad or push you for something that is obviously a hurtful memory to you. I know that feeling in a way.”

“But-” “Wildberry,” he breathes, “it’s okay to feel, whoever taught you otherwise is a sad person. It’s okay to get upset, to cry when hurt.”

“...Thank you.”

He pressed a chaste kiss against your shoulder, “anything for my wildberry.”

[imfinereallyy]

Tattooed Steve, pt. 2

Part 1 here

Soooo I ended up writing more tattooed Steve. I couldn’t resist. I also realized that Eddie would be the first person to find out but like…other than Robin. But I didn’t count her because Steve and Robin are the same person honestly at this point. Anyway I hope you like it! Pt. 1 is linked above.

—-

It’s two weeks after Vecna when he gets his first one. It’s unexpected, impulsive even, but Steve needs to feel something. He has just spent the past week and half waiting for Eddie to wake up, staring at his pale form, wishing away the anxiety with every beep, beep, beep that comes from the heart monitor. Begging for this stupid, stupid man to wake up.

He isn’t really sure why he wanted Eddie to wake up. Sure the ruggrats love him, and there is the general sense of not wanting any innocent person to die on his watch, but Steve knows deep down it’s about something else. Or more like the potential of something else. He tries not to think about it too hard.

So during that first week and half of watching a comatose Eddie, Steve takes his time studying the man. Learning every curve, and every scar. And eventually, every visible tattoo he can see. They are interesting, not all of them good, but all very Eddie. It somehow makes them better. Some of them are messed up from the bat bites (ironically the bat tattoos remain untouched), but they add to his aesthetic if Steve is being honest with himself.

When Eddie wakes up after that week and a half, groggy and confused (especially towards the fact that Harrington is practically holding vigil at his bedside), the first thing Steve says to him is “Oh thank god you’re awake.” The second is “What the hell were you thinking?” Before Eddie proceeds to pass out again.

Later, when all of the doctors and family and friends have had their time with him, the third thing Steve says to Eddie is, “Tell me about your tattoos.”

And despite the fact half of them are mangled, Steve doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone light up that bright in his life. And when Eddie starts waving his hands in excitement, Steve can’t help but think that he’s never been so close to the sun before.

So, two weeks after Vecna, Steve makes a decision. Or again, if he’s being honest, an impulse. He finds old books in the library about tattoos (which aren’t very helpful), and finds zines hidden between the pages (much more helpful) on stick and pokes.

Steve shows up with supplies from Melvad’s (for a probably very dangerous tattoo kit) at Robin’s doorstep. “Robs, I need you to give me a tattoo.” Then she proceeds to spit all of her morning tea on him.

After a lot of shouting “Did you hit your head again dingus? Oh my god did you get into another fight? Are you having a break down? SPEAK STEVE.”

And a lot of convincing, “Robin I’m fine. No I’m not having a breakdown. Robs, Robbie, Birdie, I swear nothing happen. I just want to do it.”

The end up on Robin’s bathroom floor (because of course all important things happen on the bathroom floor), with a look of deep concentration on her face. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this, with only twenty minutes from a zine you smuggled out of Hawkins Library. I can’t believe they even have zines.”

“I don’t think they were aware of it honestly.” Steve snorts. His shirt was off, a patch hair already shaved off right where is heart is placed.

“Do you know what you want?” Robin asks, head tilted.

“No, not really. I was hoping you would help.”

Robin hums, like she’s resisting the urge to point out how impulsive he’s being. Like she knows he needs to do this. “Tell me what made you decide to want one.”

So Steve does. He tell her about waiting for Eddie to wake up. Wondering why Eddie got them. Wanting to own himself again, to actually like something new on his body. Put something there he had control of. His curiosity of if it were painful. His interest behind the stories of Eddies tattoos. How Eddie lit up so bright when asked. Wanting to feel like that. Wanting to be close to the sun again.

Robin mercifully didn’t look too deeply (or at least didn’t push on it) about the interest in Eddie himself. “Okay, I think I got it. Just…hold still.”

Twenty minutes later, after three passes with pen ink and a needle, Robin disinfects his tattoo. Before she covers up, she asks “Do you want to see it?”

Steve nods his head eagerly. The tattoo had painful, more painful than he expected, but he found it sort of grounding. Something to keep him aware of himself, almost as if he was able to grasp parts of himself he wasn’t conscious of before.

When Steve stands up to look in the mirror, there he sees off center on his chest, a wonky little sun. It was something a preschooler could have drawn, but it was one of the most beautiful things Steve had ever seen, and it was made by one of the most important people in his life.

Robin says shyly at Steve’s speechless state, “You said you wanted to be close to the sun again.”

Steve scoops Robin up in an instant, ignoring the stinging both on the outside and inside of his chest. “Thank you Birdie.” Which translates, you are the only person I ever need etched in me forever.

���Always, Stevie.” Which means, you’re never getting rid of me anyway.

They pull away with tearful smiles, and silent promises. Steve can start to feel maybe not much like his old self, but somewhere on the way to who he truly is.

Then Robin says, “Okay, me next.”

————

okay I wasn’t sure if really anyone wanted more, or if I was going to do it but I actually really enjoyed where this ended up. Also I apologize for any tense changes. I quite literally type this on my phone and say screw it, without looking it over. Let me know if you want more maybe? Send me prompts even. Thanks for reading :)

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 28

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 25, part 26, part 27

It is a lot easier for Wayne to find Steve than he thought it would be. He had the vision of tires screeching out of the parking lot. Speeding down the road to his house or somewhere worse. But here Steve is, sitting on the curb outside the hospital doors. An unlit cigarette in his hands. Looking like he’s debating the world.

Wayne’s not sure why he followed him. He has every right to yell. Every right to question what that was. Why he came at Eddie with so much anger? Lashing out as decisions that had already been set in stone. Already dealt with.

After all this talk of telling Dustin that he can’t change what Eddie did, how he got hurt, Wayne thought that Steve was over it. That whatever happened between them was in the past. And all of them were ready to move forward and try to forget the pain.

But as he looks at Steve, the way his shoulders hunch and his arm wraps around his knees, the pain isn’t forgotten. Just hidden under the surface of someone trying to keep everything together. To be the strong one while the world falls apart. The bandage that keeps the dam from breaking.

Wayns sighs. Sitting down next to Steve and extending that olive branch. Telling Steve that he didn’t come here to scold him, or break whatever trust they’ve formed in these past few weeks. But here to be a person who will listen without judgement. The same way that Steve has for him.

“You know you’re supposed to light those.”

Steve stares at his hand, giving the cigarette a gentle flick. “I haven’t smoked in years. Don’t even know why I have it to begin with.”

“Because it’s familiar, doesn’t matter how long you’ve gone without them. Or how long you smoked them to begin with.”

There’s a long break of silence. Wayne waiting for Steve to open up. Explain himself. Or maybe just get ready to put the mask back on whenever Dustin finds them. Either way, Wayne will be here next to him. Attempting to understand whatever is going on in his head. Be the sturdy post that Steve needs in this moment. Giving him the permission to crack.

Steve eventually hands Wayne the cigarette, giving up on trying to smoke it. Wayne takes it, feeling the weight he’s so familiar with rest in his hand. Finding his lighter and holding it up to the end. Not letting it go to waste.

After a shorter silence, Steve takes a deep breath. “Barb Holland, Billy Hargrove, Jim Hopper, Max Mayfield, and Eddie Munson. Those are all the people that either died or got hurt while I could do nothing to stop it.”

Wayne can’t find the right words to respond to that. He doesn’t have to, Steve still has more to say.

“I didn’t really know some of them well. And some of them, I didn’t really care about that much. But I knew people that did, and I see what they all left behind. And each of them could have been me. It could have been me that died or got hurt. But somehow, no matter how many times I’ve almost died, no matter what I’ve done, the universe keeps picking me to save.”

“And it makes you feel guilty.” It’s an obvious statement, Wayne knows that. But he can’t seem to find the words to say. Trying to find something comforting without minimizing how Steve feels. Knowing that whatever he says isn’t going to stick.

Steve’s nod is full of guilt. Like he’s the reason all of this happened. That everyone got hurt because of him. And maybe they did, Wayne doesn’t know the full story. But what he does know is that Steve is still a victim in this. The scars are only a proof of that. Whatever’s going on with his head is proof of that. The way he’s feeling right now is proof of that.

“I’m still in the dark about most of what’s happened in this town, apparently. I only know what you’ve told me, and I know that was only a partial story. But I can’t imagine that these people blame you at all. I know Eddie doesn’t. I can guess that Jim doesn’t. And Max. It seems like the only one who blames you, is you.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Steve tries to correct.

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. That doesn’t matter right now. Right now, all that matters is that you think that your life is worth less than theirs. I can tell you right now that isn’t the case.”

Steve’s huff is full of self-deprecation. Refusing to believe that what Wayne is saying is true. It breaks Wayne a little bit. Finally seeing the cracks beneath the hard exterior Steve presents himself in. He's what, a year younger than Eddie? Barely an adult and holding himself to an unreachable standard. Pining for perfection that isn’t wanted.

“You don’t know me that well,” he says. Like that makes some kind of point. “I don’t think you can make that call.”

He has a point. Wayne doesn’t know Steve that well. But he knows enough. He knows that this kid will do anything and everything for the people he loves. Fight the unfightable just to protect them. Shelter them with everything he has. Even if it breaks him in the process.

He drives Dustin to and from the hospital day after day, no matter how he’s feeling. He sat with Max while she was still here, and with the kids while they were dealing with everything. He sat out in the waiting room while Wayne wouldn’t let him in Eddie’s room, just to show that he was there. That he wasn’t leaving them behind. Not again, or never at all. Wayne’s not sure.

What he is sure of, is that these people care about him more than Steve realizes. He sees it in the way Dustin trusts him. In the way all the kids trust him. Even in the way Eddie lights up every time he enters the damn room. In the way Eddie’s voice broke when calling out to Steve to stay.

Wayne can see how much Steve is loved while knowing so little about him. It crushes him that Steve can’t see that for himself.

“I don’t need to know you to know that your life is worth something.”

Steve shakes his head like he still can’t believe what Wayne’s saying.

“How old were you when this all started,” Wayne asks, trying a new approach.

“Seventeen,” Steve answers in a whisper.

Wayne has to bite his tongue to keep himself from cursing. Trying to keep this conversation in the place it is, instead of his own shock. “You were just a kid yourself, how could you have made the right decisions?”

“I still could have made better ones. I was a dick back then. Kinda still am.” He says this like it’s an excuse. It's not.

“I’ve heard the stories, so I’m not going to fight you on that. But who you were doesn’t decide who you have to be. Or what punishment you think you deserve. Yeah, you might regret the actions you’ve made, I do the same thing. But it’s that regret that shows you that you are a good person. Bad people don’t regret their decisions. The fact that you do tells me a lot about you.”

Steve shakes his head gently. Almost forcing the words to bounce off whatever wall he’s built up. The disbelief in it’s mortar refusing to break. But Wayne can see how he hasn’t said a word out loud to dispute it. He’s still listening.

“I can tell you right now that those kids don’t believe a word of what you’ve said right here. They still want you here. And that girl, Robin, that you hang out with all the time. She does too.”

Wayne’s just trying to make the point stick. Not quite sure where the words are coming from, or how effective they are. But something about them seems right, so they continue.

“Eddie wants you here. Hell, I do too. You mean more to these people than you know. Your life is worth something to them. Don’t let it mean nothing to you.”

The tension in Steve’s shoulders starts to break. Loosening from the ball he’s curled himself into. For the first time, Steve turns his head and looks Wayne in the eye. A wealth of sadness and hurt hiding behind his eyes. Something that can’t be built in a few years, but a lifetime.

Whatever this feeling is, it runs deeper that what he’s saying.

“You really mean that?”

“I do,” Wayne says with a nod. Nothing but truth in his words.

There’s nothing but silence after that. Steve going back to staring at the concrete. But looking less troubled than before. Something knew ruminating in his mind.

He eventually stands, wiping off the palms of his hands on his thigh. Wayne takes a second before following, feeling the regret of sitting on nothing but a curb for this long.

“I’m going to go-.” Steve motions to the hospital doors. “You know, apologize.”

“You sure? You’ve been through a lot today. I don’t think he would mind if you waited a day.”

That’s a lie, he would mind. Probably would spend the night thinking about it. But right now, Wayne can lie. He can lie to give someone who’s gone through so much grief some peace of mind. Even if it’s just for a moment.

Steve shakes his head. “No. I think it might make us both feel better if I do.”

Wayne watches him walk back into the hospital doors. Leaning against the wall and pulling a new cigarette from his pocket. Stands out there as the wind starts to chill and afternoon turns to evening.

Eddie wouldn’t mind one day without him saying goodbye. Not since he’s in there talking it out with Steve. Probably on to something else at this point. With that glint in his eye that tells Wayne there’s about to be a whole new problem.

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 12: And I'm Just The Boy Who's Had Too Many Chances]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), snack time for Sunfyre, dream sequences, murder, sad sad children, the return of an old friend, a road trip (boat trip??)! 🥰

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “A Little Less Sixteen Candles, a Little More Touch Me” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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Only 1 chapter left! ��💜

She is the third prisoner you have visited in the dwindling hours of their life, as if you are a dark omen, a giver of last rites, the Stranger. Otto was resigned. Baela was overconfident, unsuspecting. But the woman behind the iron bars now—the one the people of Westeros are calling the half-year queen—is restless and pacing like a trapped animal. Her gown is black velvet with gore-scarlet accents. Her long silver hair hangs tangled and limp. You reach into her cell to place two items on the stone floor: a piece of bread, a cup of tea.

“Poison?” Rhaenyra says, sharp, derisive.

“No,” you answer truthfully.

“Why not?”

“Because that would be painless. And I want you to suffer.”

“What happened to you?” she whispers, stunned.

I lived, I died, I was resurrected. “I’m a different person now. We all are.”

“You have aligned yourself with the Usurper. You must have, you would not be permitted to visit me alone otherwise. You have betrayed me. You have betrayed House Celtigar. How could you? I remember how gentle you once were, how kind. I remember your father telling me how you begged him to let you serve in the war as a healer. You just wanted to stop people’s agony. You would tend to men of any allegiance. You were harmless. You were a saint, an angel.”

“The world clipped my wings, it seems.”

“Where is my son?” Rhaenyra demands.

“Wherever the king wishes for him to be.”

It leaps into Rhaenyra’s face: terror, helplessness, desperation. She rushes towards you and grabs for your hands, her arms jutting through the spaces between the iron bars until the metal digs into her shoulders, until the rust leaves stains on her gown. You rip away from her, feeling no mercy at all. “Please,” Rhaenyra whimpers. “Please. Don’t harm my son.”

“It is not my decision to make.”

“He’s all I have left.” She is weeping; she is lurking in the doorway between reason and insanity. “The people turned against me. They killed Syrax, they killed Joffrey. The Dragonpit is gone. My family is gone. Daemon is gone. The prince is all I have left now. Please, please…”

“You could have stopped this,” you say, cold like a blade. “When your father died, you refused to yield the throne. When you captured King’s Landing, you refused Alicent’s proposal to split the realm between you and Aegon. And even now—hated by the smallfolk, staring death in the face—you refuse to surrender. You refuse to kneel to Aegon and send the Stark men back to the North and end the slaughter. Every drop of blood spilled in this war is on your hands. You are filthy with it, you are nothing but red. You took them all from us. Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto, Helaena, Autumn’s baby, Everett, Criston, Daeron, Aemond. I charge you with their deaths. Your life is the only possible repayment for the debt.”

“Help me and I will give you anything you want,” Rhaenyra pleads. “Free me. Assist me and my son in escaping Dragonstone. I will go to Cregan Stark, he will shelter me, and when he has won the war for us I will lay the world at your feet. I will give House Celtigar dominion over all the Crownlands, you will be second only to the Targaryens in regard. I will appoint Clement to my Queensguard and name you the head of your house. You can spend your wealth as you see fit. You can marry anyone, or no one, or marry a man and push him from a cliff and then marry again. None of it matters to me. Help me now, and I will make you free forever.”

“I won’t help you murder Aegon.”

“He’s dead either way. Only Aemond and Vhagar could stop the Northmen, and they’re gone.”

That’s not true. That can’t be true. “Enjoy your last meal, dragon queen,” you tell Rhaenyra as you turn away. “The king has a fitting end planned for you.”

When you cross through the dungeons into the main castle—your gown fluttering around your ankles, vivid red velvet like fire, like blood—Lord Larys Strong is waiting. He trots after you as quickly as he can, his cane striking loudly against the stone floor. “Your Grace, I must implore you to beseech the king to spare the boy’s life.”

“It’s for Aegon to decide what to do with him.” Presently, Rhaenyra’s last remaining child is locked up in the bedchamber once claimed by Prince Aemond. He is young, afraid, watchful, old far beyond his years…but he is unharmed. Two servants and two guards have been assigned to the boy to ensure his needs are attended to and that he cannot escape. The small entourage that Rhaenyra landed on Dragonstone with—expecting to be greeted by Baela and Moondancer, and swiftly disappointed—was executed immediately.

“He is an invaluable asset to our cause,” Larys insists. “The king needs an heir. Jaehaera, as a girl, cannot inherit. But if she was married to Aegon the Younger, they could unite the warring factions and end any enduring ill-will. Their union could pave the way for peace that will last generations.”

“And that’s what we fought for, so little girls could go on being traded like horses and shoved into whichever marriage bed promises the rest of us the greatest advantage.”

Larys is hurt; you have chastised him for something he has no control over. “That is the way of the world, Your Grace. Marriages are arranged. Women are bartered with. The poor die for the rich and cripples are overlooked entirely. There is no changing any of this, it is madness to try.”

“Oh, are any of us not mad yet?” you quip back, sweeping into Aegon’s bedchamber. Larys breaks away, leaving you and the king alone.

Aegon is standing in front of his mirror. He wears all black, his sword and dagger at his belt, his scars on his face, the Conqueror’s crown glinting with rubies. He rubs at his lower back and winces without realizing he’s doing it. His kidneys, you think with dismay. Aegon says as he stares at his reflection, only half-joking: “Who is that?”

You go to him, lay two fingers on the line of his jaw and turn his face to yours, kiss the rough red scar tissue of his right cheek and then his lips, wet with wine. “I think you should spare the boy.”

“So he can marry Jaehaera someday?” Aegon replies cynically.

“No.” You touch your forehead to his and close your eyes. “Because mercy is increasingly rare, and once the last of it is gone what made us ourselves will be too. He’s just a child.”

“So were Jaehaerys and Maelor. So was Autumn’s son. The Blacks murder children.”

“Yes. But you don’t have to.”

Now Aegon is quiet, gentle. “Show me your hand.”

You give it to him, hastily scrubbed and bandaged the night before. He unwraps the linen and examines your palm, split down the center with a shallow gash surrounded by rusty smudges of dried blood. Aegon presses your hand to his face and inhales deeply, then cleans the maroon stains from your skin with his tongue. He grins, dazed with wine and milk of the poppy. “I can’t waste a drop of you.” And when he kisses your lips he tastes like copper and dreams and the ancient salt of the ocean that breaks against the rocks outside.

Aegon staggers around his room collecting items you once used to save his life: linen, vinegar, rose oil. He wants to take care of you this time, he wants to mend the flesh that once patched his back together. He remembers the steps, you observe; he reenacts them with reverent care.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away last night,” Aegon says as he tends to your hand. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I’m sorry.”

“You were in shock. You were grieving.”

“What did the witch tell you? You said that’s why you harmed yourself.”

Horrible things. Unbelievable things. “She swore she didn’t know what would happen to Aemond. And that their son will become a knight of House Whent.”

“House Whent? I must have slept through that lesson.”

“For once, your educational apathy is not at fault. It doesn’t exist. Not yet, anyway.”

“I’ll scorch the rubble of Harrenhal,” he says, dark and low. “I’ll have her tortured to death. She took Aemond from us.”

You reply softly: “Killing Alys won’t bring him back.” And if her son is real, he is the only piece of Aemond we have left.

Now there are tears in Aegon’s eyes; he blinks them away so he can see well enough to finish bandaging your hand. “He was there when I was burned. He was there when I broke my legs. He was there for me when I had nothing to give him in return. He shouldered the burdens of ruling without ever trying to take the throne.”

“Yes, he did.”

“I never told him what he meant to me.”

“But he still knew.”

Your hand is your own again. You braid a lock of Aegon’s short silver hair, remembering the first time you ever did: he was a dying adversary, you were a Black loyalist destined to marry Cregan Stark. “The boy can live,” Aegon decides. “But he must learn the price of treason.”

Down on the beach, the guards have driven a stake deep into the sand. The midday sky is thick and tumultuous with dark clouds; the waves of the Narrow Sea thrash and roil, lethal undercurrents, surging riptides. Aegon insists on descending the craggy stone staircase himself, not like an invalid but like a king. He moves haltingly, clutching at the wall for support. By the time he reaches the shore, Aegon’s legs are trembling wildly and his face is flushed, agonized, drenched with sweat despite the metallic chill of winter in the air. One of the maesters fetches Aegon a cup of milk of the poppy and he gulps it down so urgently that opalescent beads of liquid escape to roll down his chin. Lord Larys appears to stand beside him, both hands laced over the handle of his cane.

Now the guards are roping Rhaenyra to the stake. She wears the same gown she arrived in: filthy, ripped, ruined from travelling. She does not fight them; she only asks: “Where is my son? Where is the prince?”

And then she spots him. His tiny hands are clasped by guards. The wind rakes at his silver hair. He is confused, frightened, peering around with huge glistening eyes that are a murky blue like the king’s. He must be about five years old now. He has been led to the beach to watch his mother die. You glance uneasily at Aegon. He does not notice; he attention is fixed on Rhaenyra.

“How did it feel, sister?” Aegon calls out to her. Something glows fierce and mindless behind his eyes, something devours ravenously like fire.

Rhaenyra watches him warily, not understanding. At the edge of the beach, curled in on himself and breathing in slow rattling heaves, Sunfyre glares at the half-year queen.

“My father’s love. I never knew it.” Aegon lurches closer, grinning without any humor, baring his teeth like an animal. “I knew other things, sure. I knew his indifference. I knew his fury. I knew his boots and his contempt. But I never knew his love. Neither did Aemond, though he worked for it, worked himself bloody. Neither did Helaena or Daeron or my mother. Did it keep you warm, Rhaenyra? Did you spend your childhood so instinctively aware that there were always hands waiting to catch you?”

“I had my trials too, brother,” Rhaenyra says, her head held high and defiant. “I lost people. I was compelled marry against my wishes.”

“And you found solace in the arms of others, the same as I did!” Aegon roars. “And Father defended you! He saw proof of your failings—obvious, indelible proof—and he didn’t just forgive it, he erased it, he made it a crime to mention it, your sons cut out Aemond’s eye and still all Father could bring himself to care about was your honor, your wellbeing! Well, he’s gone now, Rhaenyra. Your protector is ashes but I’m still here. The throne is mine. The retribution is mine. And your life is mine too.”

“You will not live a month after me!” she hisses into bitingly cold wind. “The wolves are closing in. Winter is coming. Cregan Stark is the Kingmaker now, it is a title he wears with great pride. He will not pardon your treason. He will have the Boltons flay you alive.”

Aegon cackles; he is toying with her. “Why would the wolves want my skin? It is not so handsome now. Shall I tell you what it was like when Meleys burned me at Rook’s Rest? It was the worst pain imaginable. I begged to die. But I didn’t. An angel brought me back from the dead. And now it’s your turn to burn.” Aegon shouts something to Sunfyre in High Valyrian. Sluggishly, the dragon uncoils himself and ventures towards Rhaenyra, sniffling, salivating. His claws sink into the wet sand; his belly drags on the ground. His golden eyes glint with wounded reptilian wrath.

“Mama!” her son wails, struggling against his captors.

“No, no, don’t cry,” she soothes. She is beginning to sob. “Don’t look, baby. Close your eyes. Don’t cry. Mama isn’t scared. Mama loves you. Now close your eyes and don’t open them no matter what you hear—”

“It’s such a shame that our uncle Daemon is at the bottom of the Gods Eye,” Aegon taunts Rhaenyra. “You two were made for each other. Treacherous, grasping, scheming, beloved by Father in measure that far exceeds your worthiness. What a fated romance. You built such an infamous legacy together. You should have been set ablaze together.”

“Mama!” the little boy screams.

“Dracarys,” Aegon commands Sunfyre. The beast growls at Rhaenyra but does no more than that. He is weak, he is dying. Aegon tries again, almost manic with pain: “Dracarys!”

You lay your bandaged palm on Aegon’s forearm to calm him. “Let Sunfyre smell her blood,” you murmur, and with trembling hands he gives you the dagger that he uses to cut his hair, that you opened your flesh with to summon Alys Rivers and her terrible prophesies. You cross the sand to meet the Black Queen.

“Don’t hurt her!” Rhaenyra’s son shrieks. “Mama! Mama!”

Rhaenyra is bound around her legs, waist, and shoulders; her lower arms hang free and useless. You take her left hand, turn it over, and press the point of the dagger to her wrist. You have done this once before, when you tested Baela for a pulse; now it comes just as easily. As you glide the blade down Rhaenyra’s wrist and open her veins, Rhaenyra says, hushed and venomous: “You have sold your soul, Lady Celtigar. And in the service of a dead man. I hope it was worth it.”

Still gripping the dripping dagger, you leave her and go to her son. Behind you, you can hear Sunfyre snarling and Rhaenyra moaning in dread. As the boy bawls, you wave the guards away and pull him to you, embracing him, shielding him. “Don’t look,” you whisper; and he clutches you like you once held onto Aemond on this beach after Aegon’s legs were shattered, not because he wants to but because you are here, and because you understand the weight of horror like this, the poison that replicates in the marrow of your bones, the debt that can never be paid.

There is heat, a blistering inferno, and a scream that Rhaenyra cannot bite back. You squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in the sickeningly sweet miasma of seared human flesh, and suddenly you are back at Rook’s Rest as Aemond dragged you through the burning woods where embers fell like snow, into the tent of green canvas, to the table where Aegon writhed and suffered and pleaded for death. There are sounds of tearing and crushing. There are dry snaps that can only be Rhaenyra’s charred bones splitting between Sunfyre’s jaws. The dead woman’s son clings to you, and you look across the beach at Aegon. He gazes back, and something flits across his eyes, glassy with pain and exhaustion and wine and milk of the poppy, and he knows he’s done wrong. There is shame. There is an apology, not to the boy but to you. To all the bright, benevolent mercy that his war has carved out of you. Then the king collapses, drained and unconscious on the cold sand.

Aegon is carried to his rooms. The child—in shock, in hysterics—is dosed with a few drops of essence of nightshade by the maesters and put to bed. You go to the castle library and pour over books searching for how to cure ailments of the kidneys, for any scrap of wisdom you might have missed before. You read until you fall asleep with your cheek resting against pages chronicling the signs of doom: paleness, weakness, no appetite, swelling in the hands and feet, pain in the lower back, blood in the urine. Night descends like a wave that pulls you under. Candles flicker on the table. Lord Larys leaves you bread and wine and a bowl of crab soup in case you wake hungry before dawn.

You don’t know that by the time you rise in the morning, the Master of Whisperers will have received word that Borros Baratheon’s army seized the capital for Aegon and sent out calls for the king in hiding to return to the city. It’s time to sail across Blackwater Bay to King’s Landing. It’s time for Aegon to go home.

~~~~~~~~~~

On your last night in the gloomy, beast-haunted walls of Dragonstone, you dream of Alicent’s youngest child Daeron. You are walking on the beach outside, and you know this isn’t real because the sand is warm and golden, and the sky is a cloudless blue, and winter is nowhere to be found, it is summer now and it will be tomorrow and it will be forever after that as well. Daeron soars down to where the serene crystalline waves meet the shore on Tessarion, and the swanlike Blue Queen waits patiently in the frothing surf as her rider strides over to meet you. He stands tall and proud; his long white-blond hair whips in the sunlit wind; he is beaming. His cape billows out behind him like the sails of a ship. He is clothed in bright cheerful seafoam green, just like he was on the day he died.

“I’m so sorry, Daeron,” you say as the sunshine beats down like heavy rain. “You were too young. You deserved more time.”

But Daeron just grins, crooked and cocky. “Do not mourn for me, sister. I was blessed with a hero’s death. There is no better way to leave this earth than in battle. And I roasted as many of those bastards as I could before the end.”

“Why have you come back?”

“I have a favor to ask,” he says; and only now do his large blue eyes go soft and misty. “When you return my cape to Mother, ask her to burn it. She will want to bury it in accordance with the funeral customs of the Faith of the Seven, but I want to be laid to rest as a true Targaryen. There’s no chance for my body. Your wolf threw me into a mass grave.”

“I don’t belong to Cregan Stark.”

“Someone should tell him that.” Daeron sighs. “I miss Aegon. We all do. Things are clearer where I am now. Things like disappointment and bitterness are just words; we’ve forgotten how to feel them. But we do know absence. And we see how he suffers.”

“What can I do to heal him?” you ask, you plead. “I’ll do anything. What can I do?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Daeron says. Then he treks back to Tessarion and they vanish together into a clear summer sky, a fleeting glimmer of ethereal blue like a comet.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon is kneeling by Sunfyre, his hand on the dragon’s clever, angular face. The beast is dead. He ceased his labored, clattering breathing in the night and was gone long before the king struggled out of his nest of blankets; Aegon is always cold now. Sunfyre is at peace, he is reunited with the fallen creatures of his kind, Tessarion and Vhagar and Dreamfyre…but the world has so much less magic in it than it did before.

“Your Grace, we must leave now,” Larys nudges, sympathetic yet insistent. At the end of the pier, a small ship bobs in rough slate-grey waves. Everyone else is already aboard, the servants, the guards, the maesters, the captive child. You touch Aegon’s shoulder, knowing what he is thinking: Everything I own, everything I’m given…it is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people.

“He can’t be gone,” Aegon says numbly. “I don’t know how to live without him. I can’t remember a time before he was mine.”

“He held on as long as he could for you,” you tell Aegon. “He saved your life more than once. He lived and died in your service.”

“I want monuments built for him,” Aegon says, sniffling and swiping away tears. His ring—gold wings, jade eyes—flashes under scant beams of muted sunlight. “And for my brothers, and for Helaena, and for Criston and Otto and the children. Daeron’s statues should be laughing, and Aemond’s should be fierce, and…and…”

“Anything you want, Your Grace,” Larys agrees. “But first we must go home.”

There are jubilant crowds waiting to welcome Aegon into King’s Landing, and not just Baratheon soldiers whose fortunes are staked upon his victory but bakers, butchers, blacksmiths, tailors, potters, drunks, orphans, widows, actors and madams and whores. They do not flinch away when they see his dragonfire scars or his slow, painful gait. They only cheer more deafeningly. They see in him what they all have known: the feeling of being broken, the hope of being resurrected as something greater. They believe he can win the war for them. They believe he can keep the wolves at bay. Meanwhile, Larys smuggles Rhaenyra’s child into the city in an enclosed carriage; he does not want the masses to rip the Blacks’ heir apart piece by piece.

In the Red Keep, Alicent flies through the corridors to rush into the unsteady arms of her last living child, her only son. She is skin and bones, an auburn-haired ghost with translucent skin and fingers knobby with arthritis. She kisses his face and weeps and spills out a litany of mourning for Helaena, Daeron, Aemond, Criston. Aegon tries to soothe her, but he doesn’t know what to say. There are no clocks to turn back or nightmares to startle awake from. This is the world now, there is no escaping it, what is lost will forever remain ashes or earth or bones at the bottom of the Gods Eye.

Along with Alicent emerges Jaehaera, much the same as you remember her, a bit taller, grave for someone so young, but still with Aegon’s oceanic eyes and high cheekbones and the gentleness that he used to have so much more of. The girl does not seem to have much interest in her father—if she recognizes him at all—but smiles and waves timidly at you from behind the skirts of her protector. And this is a face you remember too: a wry smirk, hazel eyes, skin milky and freckled, framed by long coppery ringlets.

“I’m glad you’re still alive, my lady,” Autumn says. “Have you bought me a castle yet?”

~~~~~~~~~~

When you dream of Helaena, she is sitting on the rim of a fountain in the gardens of the Red Keep. Her gown is a soft butter yellow and her hands are crawling with butterflies. They perch on her fingers like rings: ruby, sapphire, amethyst, moonstone, emerald, gold. It is warm, it is summer. It is always summer in the land of ghosts. You join Helaena, and butterflies form a kaleidoscopic blizzard in the air. The water spouting from the fountain trickles cool and clear.

“I didn’t know you were going to jump,” you tell her. “I would have stopped you. I’m sorry I was too late. I’m sorry I looked away.”

“Things are better where I am now,” Helaena says. “It’s miles and miles of gardens. Jaehaerys and Maelor are there. Daeron and Aemond are there. Grandsire is there too, and we all eat supper together each night, and no one ever argues. Everett is there with Autumn’s baby. He is a joyful little thing, he sleeps and smiles and never cries. Everett carries the baby as he walks through the gardens. At night, Everett reads to us. He loves to read. He and Aemond have struck up quite the rapport. And there is no killing. Everyone is already dead.”

You watch her, a tenderhearted sunlit spirit. “What do you need from me, Helaena? Why have you come back?”

“I was not able to be a good mother in life. But now I see my children as they truly are.” She gazes at you with urgency in her eyes like rainwater, orchids, aquamarines. “Jaehaera is so young, so vulnerable. To be a woman at the mercy of men is a terrible thing. She will require a champion in high places.”

And you picture her: the little girl who looks so much like Aegon, the child who is sweet and compliant and forever trying so hard to be brave. “I’ll always do what I can to protect her.”

“You must whisper into the right ears. You are believed to be merciful; you must be seen to act out of mercy, not for love of who her father was.”

Who her father was, not is. Was. “Helaena—”

“If she is seen as a rival, she will be put to death. Please don’t let them kill her. Please let one of my babies grow up.”

“I promise I’ll help Jaehaera, but Helaena—”

She leans in and grabs your face with her right hand, butterflies still gleaming on her fingers like jewels. “It’s time to wake up now.”

And you fall backwards into the fountain that turns from water to air to the feather mattress of Aegon’s bedchamber.

~~~~~~~~~~

“After Rhaenyra killed my boy, I knew where I had to go.”

When the Baratheons took the city and freed Alicent, she arranged for Helaena’s old rooms to be given to Autumn. You sit by the crackling fire with her as Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger play with wooden blocks across the bedchamber, speaking to each other in tentative, bashful murmurs. They do not comprehend that their families slaughtered each other. They are two lonely, profoundly wounded children, building kinship out of loss and ignorance. Rhaenyra’s son has swiftly become attached to Autumn; he trails after her everywhere, clutches at her skirts, reaches up to ask her to hold him. She has lost one silver-haired child, yes, brutally, horribly; but she has gained two.

“Everett helped arrange for me to escape to Storm’s End,” Autumn continues, sipping hot apple cider to warm her as winter bears down upon the Crownlands. You have a cup too; steam curls up from the amber brew like smoke from a dragon’s jaws. What dragon? you think. They’re nearly all dead now. Autumn looks at you with sad, shining eyes. “You have to believe me when I say that I never loved the king. But I grew to love the baby we made together. And when he was taken from me…when he was dragged out of my arms, still wet with blood from the womb, I…I…” She shakes her head, swallows down the longing that will never quite leave her. “I felt that if I could not be with my own child, at least I could be with his sister, a girl who was so alone in the world.” Now Autumn smiles. “I know I called her an inbred little freak before. That was cruel of me. She isn’t so bad. I love her to death, actually. I would break bones for that kid. She never complains. She tries her best at everything. It’s not her fault she’s inbred.”

“Borros Baratheon let you stay in Storm’s End?” you ask; he is not known to be a generous or trusting man.

Autumn shrugs. “Jaehaera recognized me. She was able to confirm that I had been a handmaiden to the Greens. Lord Borros took some convincing, but…no harm was done. We came to an agreement.”

“I’m so sorry, Autumn,” you say solemnly. “I wish I could have done more for you. But things are different now. You’ll never have to sell your body again.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The wolves will be knocking on our doors within the week. Whichever way it goes, I intend to survive. I always have, I always will. Whatever it takes.” She peers through the window at dim grey skies, at bare tree limbs. “You heard about what happened to Everett?”

Alys’ vision flares in your skull like lightning, like dragonfire. “Yes.”

“I can’t even blame the people,” Autumn says. “They hated Rhaenyra, and rightly. They hated her for Helaena, for Jaehaerys and Maelor, for my son. They didn’t know the difference. They thought one Celtigar man was just as guilty as the next. Now Everett is dead, his body parts squirreled away in a hundred different households as souvenirs, and from what I understand when Rhaenyra was driven from the city Clement rode north to join Cregan Stark.”

“Of course he did,” you mutter bleakly.

“Angel, the king…he’s…he’s not well, is he? He doesn’t look well. He looks like a dead man. He’s so pale, so slow when he walks, and his eyes are sunken way down in their sockets—”

“He’s healing,” you say, and Autumn just stares at you. “He’s been through suffering, terrible suffering, but when the war is over he’ll finally be able to rest. He’ll get better. He has to get better.”

“Of course,” Autumn agrees; but she bites her lip and takes your hand and holds it so tightly it hurts.

That night as Aegon crawls into bed—the same bed that was his when you were first brought to King’s Landing, the bed where you healed his burns and massaged rose oil into his scar tissue and ensured that the milk of the poppy he received was enough to kill his pain but not his body, the same bed where you fell in love with him—he gathers you into his arms and draws you closer, closer, your head against his scarred chest, his heartbeat slow and drumming beneath your fingerprints.

Aegon says: “Someone finally remembered that Corlys Velaryon was locked up down in the dungeons and set him loose. He has joined my cause in exchange for our assurance that Rhaena will never be mistreated. I’ve told Corlys that Daeron killed Baela and Moondancer. He has accepted this as one of the many tragedies of the war, and he harbors no resentment towards you. And don’t think that I’ve slandered Daeron. He would gladly take the credit if he was here.”

“I’ve done so many unforgiveable things,” you marvel.

“Yes, for me. Only for me. I bear the weight of those sins, not you. Now let me distract you from them.”

But he can’t do it, not any of it; he’s too weak, he’s bloodless, he’s empty. He’s panting out apologies and calling himself useless. You’re trying to console him. You kiss his face, his throat, his chest, all the ruined pieces of him. You tell him you’re not disappointed, that you can try again later.

“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”

“Shh, shh. It’s alright, Aegon.”

“It’s not,” he moans, eyes closed, already plummeting into unconsciousness. “But I don’t have a choice.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond is in the rookery of the Red Keep, scrawling letters at the writing desk. Ravens squawk and paw at the bars of their cages. He wears a deep ancient green that makes you think of pine trees, swamps, snakes, lizard-lions. His silver hair is tied back in a single thick braid, as if he might be hurrying off to ride Vhagar into battle soon, as if he might roast the Northmen in their armor. But of course, Aemond can do no such thing. Not anymore.

“It’s cold at the bottom of the Gods Eye,” he says without looking at you.

“You’re still there?”

“I’m everywhere and I’m nowhere. It’s strange. Sometimes I’m in the water. Sometimes I’m in the gardens. Sometimes I’m watching Alys. Sometimes I’m watching you.” He turns around, and you see that he is grinning. His eyepatch is gone and his sapphire glittering, just like it was that night on Dragonstone. “But perhaps that is not so welcome a thought.”

“I wish you would have listened to us,” you say, not with anger but with deep, desperate sorrow. “I wish you could have understood the worth you had and stopped chasing phantoms.”

“I believed that by redeeming myself, I could save my family. You think if you take enough lives Aegon will get to keep his. We’ve all made mistakes. But now the debts have been called in. And there’s nowhere for us to go but down.”

I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to imagine it. “What do you need from me, Aemond? You need something. Everyone does.”

“Please do not harm Alys,” Aemond says, calm, courteous. “She was good to me. She loved me, and I loved her, even if that love was woven of dark, destructive threads. And my son…” Aemond smiles, proud and wistful. “He will have a part to play in what comes next.”

“I miss you,” you say, almost like an apology. “More than I thought I would.”

“I did not always treat you fairly. I did not always conduct myself in the most honorable manner. It is a regret of mine.”

“I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I know,” he says with his sly, taunting smirk. Then he stands and crosses the rookery, and just as he strikes out to catch your forearm you startle awake in a cold, dark room. You roll over, move closer to Aegon, watch his chest so you can tell if he’s still breathing.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Aegon wakes up alone. This is not unusual; he sleeps at least twelve hours a day now, and when you rise you go about your tasks until he catches up with you. He fumbles for the cup of milk of the poppy that you left for him on the bedside table and takes a swig. It’s enough to bring the pain in his legs and his back and his soul down to an ache, but he is never rid of it. He wonders, as he twirls the drained cup between his fingers, just how much it would take to kill someone. He wonders how much you gave to Baela in the dungeons of Dragonstone.

Aegon tries to climb out of bed but ends up stumbling to the floor instead. He tries to stand and can’t manage it. Groaning, hating himself, he scrabbles around under the bed for the porcelain chamber pot. He grabs it just as the situation is about to get even more mortifying, kneels on the floor, and relieves himself, sighing deeply. He yanks back up his cotton sleeping trousers and ties them snugly around his ever-shrinking waist. Then he looks down.

“Oh fuck,” he exhales in a whisper, hidden like a crime. The chamber pot is full of blood.

I have to throw it somewhere. I can’t let her see it. He peers around frantically. Out the window?? Into a potted plant??

He doesn’t want the servants to deal with it; they might gossip, she might hear them. Aegon is still thinking—no simple undertaking through the haze of milk of the poppy—when he hears footsteps in the doorway.

“Seven hells,” Autumn gasps. Her horrified gaze darts from the bloody chamber pot to the king and back to the porcelain bowl of blood, a bright and unmistakable and murderous red. “I’m sorry, Your Grace…I was looking for extra blankets…the children have never known a winter before and they are cold, and I…” Her eyes snag on the blood again like a fish on a hook. “Oh. Oh gods.”

“Don’t tell her,” Aegon pleads. “She can’t cope with it. She doesn’t want to believe it. I haven’t figured out how to tell her yet. Please don’t say anything.”

“Of course I won’t,” Autumn replies, tenderly now, tears brimming in her small hazel eyes. She knows exactly what it feels like to lose the man you love. “Here,” she says, pointing to the chamber pot. “Let me help you get rid of that.”

[slut4thebroken]

Chapter one: Trophy

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Arkham Knight/Jason Todd x Bruce’s daughter!reader

Summary | The Arkham Knight kidnapped you, but not for the reason you originally thought.

Warnings | Angst, fluff, a sprinkle of sexual tension, kidnapping, use of r word.

Words | 2.3 k

Notes | The wait is over!! I hope y’all like it. If it makes you happy, sad, or horny then consider commenting or reblogging :) Enjoy <3

Ao3 link | <3

Fic Masterlist

Main Masterlist

You weren’t a vigilante. No, you’d decided very early on that spending your nights fighting crime wasn’t something you really wanted to do. However, that didn’t stop your father from teaching you self defense and other important skills, even if you weren’t going to use them. He always wanted you to be prepared in case one day someone makes the connection and somehow finds out you’re Batman’s daughter. 

Unfortunately, they did find out. 

Your father had told you to leave Gotham, but you’re stubborn. Especially after Barbara was taken, you knew he was going to need more help. So you stayed, taking up Oracle’s position in the watchtower. The second he heard your voice, you were sure he was about to come here and drag you out of Gotham himself. The only reason he didn’t was because he got held up with another one of Gotham's villains causing chaos on the streets. You weren’t there long before glass was being broken and men were swarming the room, Arkham Knight included. 

“I knew I’d find you here after I got rid of Oracle.” You narrowed your eyes at him and tried backing away to the panic button on the desk, but he stopped you. “Push that and Oracle’s dead. You don’t want that on your conscience do you?” You froze, furrowing your brows, wondering how he knew about it. He slowly stalked toward you and you eyed the men surrounding the room. Their guns were angled to the floor, but they still had their fingers on the triggers. 

“You went through all the trouble of taking Oracle just so you could come back and take me?” You scoffed. This time when you started moving backwards, it was because of how close he was getting. 

“That and she was becoming a bit of a thorn in my side.” He all but shrugged. Stopping right in front of you, you watched his helmet just barely tilt down before making its way back up, angled at your face. 

“What do you want?” You spat, leaning your torso back after your legs met the desk. 

“You.” 

“Why?” 

“Hedonism,” He shrugged, “self indulgence… spite.” You didn’t have time to ask what that meant. “Are you going to come willingly or am I going to have to make you?” Even though it didn’t seem like he had any intention of hurting you, you still tried to think of a way out of this. 

You made the stupid, impulsive decision to reach for the panic button and you actually managed to press it before he grabbed your wrist. He spun you around, then pushed your torso against the desk with your arm twisted uncomfortably behind you. Stepping forward, he pressed his hips flush with your ass, making your cheeks grow warm from the compromising position. Suddenly the screen lit up, showing Batman. 

When you started trying to speak, he lifted your body, one hand wrapping over your stomach and arms, the other covering your mouth. 

“It’s a shame you raised such an independent, altruistic daughter. If you hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here right now.” 

“What do you want? Do you want me to turn myself in? I will- just let her go.” His voice was laced with poorly concealed desperation and fear. 

“This isn’t part of the main plan, it’s a personal thing. A trophy of sorts.” His hand started rubbing up and down your side, each time making its way closer to your breast and your pants. “See, people think you don’t have any fears, but you do. Something happening to your little girl is your biggest fear. But don’t worry, Dark Knight,” His hand made its way up your chest to your neck and he squeezed as he pulled you against his body, making you release a muffled whimper. “I’m going to take real good care of her.” He released you and pushed you against the desk again. 

“Dad, don’t-“ Before you could finish, the man behind you was turning off the feed. He tied your wrists behind your back, then pulled you up again. 

“Just like old times, isn’t it?” He said quietly, next to your ear, making you furrow your brows in confusion. Pulling you back, he spun both of you around and pushed you toward the men. 

“He’ll kill you.” You said lowly, turning back to face him. 

“Someone put a gag on her. Anyone hurts her… they’re a dead man.” He said, walking back to the desk and typing something into the computer. You didn’t get to see what he was doing before someone grabbed you from behind. You yanked yourself out of their grip, then turned around and kicked the man in the stomach, continuing like that. Anyone who approached you got a kick to the legs, stomach, or groin. Despite your bound hands, you still had an advantage because of the order they were given. 

When you swung your leg at someone’s side, he grabbed it and pulled, making you land flat on your back with a grunt. The man froze and all eyes were either on him or the Arkham Knight. He sighed, then pulled out a gun and shot the man in the head. 

“I’ll do it myself then.” He swiftly walked toward you and you backed away from him, still on the floor. Before you knew it, you were being gagged and pulled up, then dragged outside to a car. You weren’t sure why, but after getting in the vehicle, he removed the gag. Why did he go through all of that trouble just to immediately take it off once you were alone? You thought. After a few minutes of silence you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Why did you kill that man?”

“He had orders. He didn’t follow them.” He said simply. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“Somewhere safe. Which reminds me,” He got out a black hood and moved toward you, making you lean back. “Either you let me put it on or you die. Up to you.” 

“You seriously expect me to believe you’re going to kill me after all the trouble you went through?” You scoffed. 

“No, I won’t be killing you. But I’m sure Scarecrow would love to have a chat with Batman’s daughter.” You debated it for a moment, then leaned back closer to him, letting him out the hood over your head.

After another few minutes of driving, he stopped and you heard his door open and close, then your door open before he was grabbing your arm and pulling you out, leading you somewhere. When he finally took the hood off, you saw what looked like an apartment, but it didn’t have any windows. 

“Where are we?” You asked, turning to him. 

“Safe house.” Was the only reply you got so you continued. 

“Why did you take me?”

“It wasn’t safe. Especially if Crane found out you were helping your dad.” That made your brows furrow in confusion. He went through all of that just to take you somewhere safe?

“Then why did you say all of that stuff to him?” You asked, growing more nervous when you remembered his words. 

“You didn’t actually think I brought you here to rape you, did you?” He scoffed. You didn’t respond, so he continued with a shrug, “It had to be believable.” When he started walking away, you moved forward and called out to him. He whipped around and put a hand on your neck to push you backwards until he had you against the wall. Your breath hitched at the second compromising position of the night. 

“I’m done answering your questions. Either sit down and stay quiet or I’ll gag you again.” 

“How am I supposed to sit if you’re pinning me to the wall?” You raised your brows, not bothering to hide the sass in your tone. 

“Still have that fire in you.” He chuckled, making your brows furrow. 

“Why are you doing that? Talking like you know me.” You asked quietly. 

“Because I do know you. Better than most.” You just stared at him, waiting for him to answer your question. “I could give you a hint, princess…” He said lowly, trailing his freehand down your waist to your hip. Your eyes widened at the nickname- only one person has ever called you that. “Show you that I can still easily make you fall apart with just my fingers.” Because your hands were still bound, you couldn’t push his hand away, so you squirmed under him, trying to free yourself. 

“Tone down the creepiness, perv.” You spat and he was silent for a moment. 

“I figured you’d be in denial, but I didn’t think it would be this hard to convince you.” He said quietly, almost as if to himself. “Either that or you’ve just completely forgotten about me.” There was only one person he could be talking about. But he’s dead. 

“I’ve never fucking met you before.” You spat. He didn’t respond as he reached a hand up to his helmet. 

“Stop.” You said harshly, making his hand freeze. Despite your hard exterior, you were terrified that the Arkham Knight might be who you think. You had just finally started healing. You don't break down crying every single day anymore, you’re finally able to let yourself fall asleep, only a few nights a week having nightmares that your subconscious created since you didn’t truly know what happened to him- your father refused to show you. Which was probably for the best. 

But even with your words, he continued, until the front part of his helmet was lifting. You squeezed your eyes shut before you could see him and his hand moved from your neck to cup your cheek.

“Princess.” He whispered. 

“No- no,” You shook your head, still refusing to open your eyes even though his voice made it obvious. “I- I can’t… No.”

“Baby, look at me.” He uttered softly and you let out a choked sob. His other hand cupped your cheek as well, using his thumb to wipe the tear that had fallen. “Please.” You wanted to do what he said because you were so damn curious, but you were scared of what you’d find. Even with that fear though, you couldn’t stop your eyes from fluttering open. You took in his face, he looked older, that much was obvious, but still looked like your Jason. The only difference was the large J scar on his cheek. 

“Jason,” You sobbed, feeling too many emotions at once. Happiness filled your chest knowing that he’s alive and came back for you, but nausea filled your stomach as your brain started to imagine all the ways he could’ve gotten that scar. “I-I don’t understand.” You whimpered, wishing your hands were free so you could feel him, make sure you weren’t just imagining this. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” He said softly, pulling you into a hug. As your head laid on his chest, you noticed that he smelled different. But he still had that hint of Jason. 

“He told me you were dead,” You cut yourself off as your crying intensified. When Jason stiffened, you pulled back to look at him. “What?” You croaked. He just let out a dry chuckle. 

“I knew you wouldn’t stop looking for me. Figures he would’ve told you that.” He scoffed 

“What? Jay, I don’t understand.” You sniffled, looking at him with furrowed brows. 

“The only way to get you to stop was if you believed I was dead so that’s what he did.” He said simply. 

“W- no! There was a video- Joker sent him the video of your death.” You vividly remember the day your father told you about it. 

“Did he show you it?” 

“He… No, he didn’t want me to see it.” He looked at you knowingly and you furrowed your brows in confusion. “He wouldn’t make that up, he wouldn’t do that.” 

“You don’t know him as well as you think you do.” 

“No! He- he wouldn’t…” Would he? You were in the batcave almost 24 hours a day, looking for him. You barely ate, you didn’t sleep, the only breaks you allowed yourself were going to the bathroom and when you couldn’t hold in the crying anymore. 

“No, he wouldn’t do that to me- to you.” Shaking your head, you didn’t let yourself believe it. Your father spent months looking for him too. 

“I didn’t want to believe it at first either, but that’s just who he is. He uses people, then leaves them for dead when they need his help.” You've never heard him sound so vindictive before. “I’m sure he was more than happy to get rid of the guy who was screwing his little girl.” He sneered, making you frown. “He never did approve of us, did he?” 

“That’s not true.” 

“No?”

“No! He knew you loved me and I loved you. He was just worried about my safety since I was the daughter and girlfriend of two vigilantes.” 

“It wasn’t that.” He let out an unnerving chuckle before elaborating. “He had a talk with me, you know. He didn’t want me defiling his precious angel. Pretty ironic given your overly sexual nature.” That made you frown. He didn’t exactly say it like it was a bad thing, but it didn’t sound like a compliment either. “He disapproved from the start and things never truly went back to normal between us. But he played the part in front of you.”

“That doesn’t- He… Is that why you said those things to him?” His gaze hardened and you waited anxiously for his response. When he stepped away from you, you immediately missed his warmth. 

“He deserves so much worse than thinking that someone kidnapped and raped his daughter. This is just the start.” When he started walking toward the door you pushed yourself off the wall.

“Jason, wait!” You called out, but he was already almost out the door. 

“Don’t bother trying to escape.” 

Chapter two

———

Tag list lol

@igotanidea

[ireadwithmyears]

Looking Out For You: (Part 2)

Pairing: Commander Fox/fem reader 

Part 1 |Visually impaired reader masterlist

Word count: 3.8 K

Tags/warnings: visually impaired reader, light angst, mild hurt/comfort, implied/referenced abduction’s(not pertaining to the reader personally), discussion of disability/service dog related discrimination, referenced ableism, don’t worry there’s still fluff

Tagging: @tazmbc1

Summary: After a gruelling overnight shift at the Senate building, all you want to do is get home and curl up in bed. The galaxy, in combination with the shitty selection of rideshare drivers, conspire and work against your much desired plans. But hey, you end up treating the grumpy but also soft clone commander Fox to breakfast, on what is most certainly not a date. Or at least, that’s what you both tell yourselves. Hell, you’re so sleep deprived, you might actually believe it.

Authors note: we’re back, and though this one still contains a handful of angst, my hope is that it also contains the cosy coffee shop vibes that we are all craving this time of year. If you enjoy, please consider dropping a reblog, as they really help boost engagement more than notes do, though all are appreciated around here😁

The second time it happens, you’re so tired that Fox nearly scares you out of your skin when he appears behind you, helmet tucked beneath his arm.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be out here on your own right now.

His voice is dry, tone slightly bemused as he raises an eyebrow and looks down at you. Okay, so, he’s right. A memo had been sent out late last week to warn staff of certain abductions that had been taking place near and around the Senate buildings, often targeting younger, less experienced senatorial staff to be held as hostages or to be used as bargaining chips. You weren’t totally clear on the details.

But what you did know was that these abductions seemed to be occurring in close proximity to Senator Organa’s faction, and though you and the rest of his staff had never been targeted directly, you had heard of aides from both Mothma and Amidala’s staff having experienced certain disquieting encounters that seemed to be linked. It was disconcerting, you had thought. The risk of being taken as some Separatist sympathizer’s hostage was becoming an increasingly normal risk of your job, and admittedly you should have been more worried about it happening to you than you actually were.

But it was late. Well, late or early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it. Senator Organa had been dragged into an overtime meeting with a subsection of his committee, and, from your vantage point typing up notes from where you sat perched in a corner, you could tell that it was both urgent and tense. By the end of it, everyone was snappy, tired, and desperately wanted to go home.

You didn’t want to delay that for any of the colleagues who you would usually ask to wait with you outside, so, sleep deprived and good decision-making skills severely depleted, you had ventured out on your own. 

And, of course—because the Coruscant Guard had increased patrols in hopes of neutralizing the threat—you had been caught.

“Trooper?” You spin to face him, your voice exiting your lips in a rather undignified squeak. Easily startled, you think—a very common side effect of ingesting too much caffeine. Not that it can be helped now. Mandalore, who seems to possess an endless amount of energy, probably because she was fortunate enough to be able to curl up and sleep at your feet through the entire committee meeting, gets to her feet as well, turning with you and wagging her tail in recognition.

“It’s Fox,” he says, voice softening slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You’re good. It’s fine. I mean, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be out here. It’s just been, well—” you wave your hand in front of your face, unsure of why you keep rambling.

To your surprise, he lets out a low chuckle as he steps forward, gently touching your arm and silencing you before you can dig yourself into a deeper hole of embarrassment. 

“Rough night?” he asks, tilting his head, and you nod, letting out a soft breath.

“Yeah,” you mutter, ducking your head. If you close your eyes, you can still hear the sounds of Senators Pamlo and Mothma speaking in increasingly sharp and clipped tones as the long night wore on and the committee drifted further and further away from reaching any kind of solution or accord. “You could say that.”

“Well, if you’re waiting for a ride, given the present circumstances, I think it’s best if I wait with you, just in case,” Fox says, and you nod, wondering if he’s suddenly thinking of the same scenario that’s been quietly plaguing—and repeatedly pushing with increasing force—to the back of your head for the past two weeks. 

If a bounty hunter, for whatever reason, wanted to get to you, disguising themselves as your driver—with you having no way to verify their license plates—would make it a pretty easy job for them to fulfill, and you shiver, subconsciously stepping closer to Fox, unable to deny the way you feel just a bit safer when he’s within reaching distance.

“Are you cold?” he asks, glancing down at you with concern. “We can wait inside.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, brushing away the small ripple of anxiety, knowing that your sleep-deprived brain would probably feast on the dark line of thoughts your mind wants to take, thriving on your worries and making your ability to actually rest before you have to return to the Senate next to impossible. “My ride should be here soon. It would have been here sooner, but the first driver canceled.”

“Oh, well, can I see the details so I know what to look out for?” he asks and you oblige, showing him, and Fox turns his eyes to the parking lot, watchful of any speeders that peel by that match the one that’s pictured on your comm.

When the first speeder drives by without stopping, he raises an eyebrow but shrugs it off, wondering if there was some last-minute emergency that caused them to cancel on you.

When it happens a second time, after the next speeder slows, approaches, and then abruptly accelerates and disappears back into the flow of air traffic despite the fact that he’s waving to get their attention, he becomes suspicious.

“I don’t understand,” Fox murmurs to you, after he observes this happen a third time. When he turns to you, his expression is perplexed, with a deep furrow between his eyebrows and a tone reading genuine confusion. “You seem to be having bad luck with last-minute cancellations tonight.”

“That’s not it,” you say, letting out an exhausted sigh as you slump back against the wall. “Well, not totally, anyways.”

“What do you mean?” He frowns, both suspicious and concerned by your sudden change in demeanor. When he gets a good look at your face, you look both knowing and defeated, and he instantly doesn’t like it.

“Some people don’t like taking people who travel with service dogs,” you say, glancing down at Mandalore who’s laying on the ground and staring intently at a fly as it cautiously makes its way towards her. “So they cancel and drive away so they don’t have to deal with confronting me about it.” 

You grimace adding, “It helps that I can’t get a good look at their speeder until they’re up close, so a lot of the time I won’t know they’ve cancelled until they’ve driven off and Speedershare notifies me about it.”

“But that’s illegal,” Fox says, his voice an indignant burst of frustration. “They can’t do that. There are certain laws that have been put into place to protect you. They can be sued.”

“You think I don’t know that?” you snap before you can stop yourself, your fatigue and frustration at this whole situation rising to the surface, not truly directed at him but needing somewhere to go. You’re too far beyond tired to put a tether on it, so it just comes flooding out. “Fox, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have anything that would actually prove it. And even if I did, the most I’ve seen any of these apps hand down as far as consequences go is little more than a slap on the wrist. I-I just want to go home.”

You’re both embarrassed and ashamed to find that your voice breaks and your lip begins to tremble. Fox, undeterred by your raised voice and outburst of frustration, takes in a long, controlled breath before seeming to soften all at once as he steps towards you. 

“Hey,” he says, voice both quiet and carrying a note of urgency as he sees the glimmer of tears in your eyes. He dips his head, trying to catch your gaze, but stubbornly, your head remains lowered, too ashamed by your impulsive urge to take your frustration out on him to meet his eyes. You turn away, trying to extricate yourself from his space.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, eyes still trained on the ground. “I didn’t…I shouldn’t have. I know it’s not your fault I’m just—”

“You’re tired,” he states, easily turning you to face him once more as a gloved hand gently presses against your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you get out in barely a whisper, your throat suddenly tight. You have no energy to fight the urge to lean into the touch, and you can feel the warmth of his hand through the material of his glove.

Being disabled just means that you are, in one way or another, tired all the time. Tired of having to be an advocate, of having to educate others on a daily basis. You’re tired of having to summon the extra energy it takes to exist in a world that is not made for you and tired of constantly having to push at each of those barriers with all of your weight to even see the smallest bit of change.

“Come on,” Fox murmurs, voice quiet and seeming to be non-judgmental of your tears as he gently wipes them away before offering out an arm. He smoothly guides your hand through to rest at the crook of his elbow. “It’s already cold, and it’s going to start snowing. Let’s get you inside, and then we’ll figure something out.”

His free hand remains lightly rested over yours as he walks, and despite this being a standard position for you to be in when being guided by a sighted person, with Fox this feels more intimate. The press of his hand is warm, keeping your own secure against the plastoid that covers his forearm, and he keeps you close, tucked just at his side as he steers the two of you, your other hand loosely holding your guide dog’s leash as she trots beside you at a heel.

You tell yourself that the reason you don’t object is because, quite frankly, you’re too tired to—the unexpected overtime and working a full night shift with barely any breaks having finally caught up and taken its toll on you. But secretly, as he guides you back into the Senate building and you feel the warm air hit your skin as you step through the door, you think you would let him take you anywhere.

So, despite the fact that you have no idea where you’re going, that’s exactly what you do. 

*

“I know that caffeine is probably the last thing you actually need right now.”

Fox says this as he carefully sets a steaming mug of caf down on the table in front of you, sliding it closer to you as he sits down.

“But I’d also wager it’s probably the one thing that you want.”

You snort, lips tilting upward into a barely perceptible smile as you instinctively reach for the mug, because he’s right. He’s absolutely right. As soon as he had guided you into the quiet and out of the way caf shop somewhere on the lower levels of the Senate building, the smell of freshly brewed caf had your mouth watering against your will. And well, if he wants to indulge in this particular line of poor decision making when instead you should hypothetically be making wiser preparations before heading off to bed and getting some sleep before your next shift, this time you decide to let him without comment.

“Careful,” he says, laying a hand over top of yours before it can snatch the handle of the mug and lift it from the table to your lips. “It’s still pretty hot.”

There’s a moment—quiet and filled with the distant noises of dishes clanking together as they’re cleaned, server droids whizzing around behind counters, and the soft, ambient music of the shop—where you just sit there feeling the slightly rough warm material of his glove over your hand lightly pinned against the table.

Then the spell is broken, and he belatedly pulls his hand away. 

“I’m sorry,” you both manage to say at the same time before identical eyebrows are raised and you both lean back, surveying each other with confusion.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, voice stronger this time as you shake your head frowning. “I was rude when I spoke to you outside, and I shouldn’t have reacted…” you wave a hand at the faint, mostly dry tear tracks on your cheeks. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know it’s just something that happens, and I’ve been blind my whole life. So, I should be used to it by now and should be able to deal with it with grace but sometimes, I—”

“Now, hold on,” Fox cuts in, his voice subdued. He glances down, finds that your fingers are tapping against the table in a nervous rhythm, probably to mask the shaking, and his heart twists. He hates this. He hates that you think you have to handle the discrimination and ignorance of others by playing nice, that the challenges you face do to them is just something you have to “get over and deal with,” all with a smile and an “it could be a lot worse” outlook on it all. 

He reaches out, lightly taking your hand in his before gently resting it against the side of the mug, wrapping your fingers around it and gently, in a manner that he hopes to be comforting, he presses his fingers against yours, looking into your eyes before letting his hand fall away, observing as you pull the mug closer, cradling it in both hands, eyes closing as the heat seeps into your fingertips.

“I am the one who should be apologizing,” he says, voice quiet and vulnerable in a way that you haven’t heard before. “I’m ashamed of how little I actually know, and you had every right to call me out for my ignorance.”

“Still, I could have been nicer about it,” you mutter, eyes resolutely fixed on the table.

“Maybe I liked how you didn’t feel the need to be,” he counters, a soft chuckle in his voice as he leans back, giving his head a small shake.

“I’m still sorry,” you say stubbornly and he huffs, resting his folded arms against the table

“And I’m telling you, you don’t have to be,” he says, enunciating each word. “What will it take for you to let it go?”

You tilt your head, considering as your stomach begins to growl, the lack of a full meal since yesterday‘s lunch finally prompting it to protest. 

“You could let me get you breakfast,” you decide, already rising to your feet, tapping your leg to summon Mandalore to stand.

“I shouldn’t,” Fox says hesitantly, glancing away. “I’m still technically on shift and—”

But his own traitorous stomach, much louder in its protestations and clearly not sated by the ration bar he had scarfed down last night, can be heard over the quiet din of noise and you turn, hands resolutely placed on your hips.

“And you’re hungry,” you state, exasperated as you point at him before pointing back to yourself. “I’m also hungry, and I would feel even more guilty if I just got food for myself and you had to sit there and watch me eat it. So, if you want to make me feel better, you’ll be good and let me buy you breakfast.”

Your cheeks begin to prickle with a blush as soon as the words leave your mouth. You hadn’t really meant to say them and certainly hadn’t intended for your tone to come out so bold, but here you were, scolding and pointing fingers at a highly competent clone commander who’s at least a full head taller than you, so hey, might as well fully commit to the bit or go home.

There’s a beat of silence. Fox, eyes widening as his jaw goes momentarily slack, is quiet before slowly getting to his feet and tucking his helmet beneath an arm, looking down. When he speaks, his voice is slightly gravelly, and he looks to be trying his best but failing to hide the amusement that’s laced within his tone.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, soft, warm, and with a teasing smirk pulling at the corners of his lips as he gazes down at you.

You have to preoccupy yourself with kneeling down and pretending to untangle Mandalore’s leash from around her foot so that he doesn’t see how easily he’s turned your cheeks into nothing but blushing, heated flame.

*

“Oh.”

Fox sighs in surprised delight as he gets his first mouthful of crêpe. The batter is warm and gooey, the maple spread that’s folded inside sweet and combined with the savory topped bits of meat so complementary that it’s almost overwhelming to his underexposed taste buds.

“Have you never had a crêpe before?” you ask with curiosity, your voice pitched upward with amusement as you watch him take his first bite.

He shakes his head, glancing down. It’s sweet to see you smiling again, especially when that look is directed his way when he feels it is undeserved. Even though you’ve told him he doesn’t need to apologize, he knows in his bones that this guilt is justified. His line of questioning had been well-meant, but it was ignorant at best and had done nothing to help you when you had already displayed signs of exhaustion and emotional fatigue. 

All he can do now is try and do his best to make up for it, and he vows to start educating himself on issues that disabled Coruscanti citizens face, because that at least might be something he can attempt to minimize, even just a little from his position in the Guard.

“I’ve never had any of this before,” he admits, and at your surprised silence, he elaborates. “Clones are raised on strictly regulated ration cubes. They taste about as good as dirt but give you just enough required nutrients to keep yourself going for long periods of time.”

“No way,” you say, genuinely sounding baffled as you set your napkin down. “You’re telling me that the finest troopers—who are out on the front lines or here defending us every day—only have access to food that hasn’t even been altered to taste appealing?”

“It isn’t so bad,” he says with a small shake of his head, even as he savors the next bite of his food.

“You’re only saying that because you don’t know what you’ve been missing,” you counter, pausing to take a bite as your mind already begins planning. “Feel free to take what I can’t finish,” you continue. Sensing his protest before it can even escape, you raise a hand, cutting him off. “I assure you, restaurants always give you more than you can actually eat, and it never tastes as good reheated. So please, if you still have room after you’re finished with your portion, eat what’s left of mine, because I can promise you right now that I won’t.”

You look down at your own crêpes and sausage links, your stomach feeling so certain right now that you’ll be able to devour every bite, but your brain logically knowing that you won’t. Time passes, and you both eat in companionable silence. When Fox next speaks, it’s both quiet and hesitant.

“When you said earlier that whenever you report drivers, they usually get away with a slap on the wrist, what did you mean?” Fox asks cautiously, glancing up at you as he lays down his fork. “Does anything happen to them?”

“Not really,” you admit, picking at your food. “The few times I’ve actually had the energy to report them, I’ve had to go through a customer service call where I had to explain the specifics of the access denial, and the only thing I’ve seen come about it is the service will send a warning to the driver not to do it again.”

Fox barely stifles a snort, rolling his eyes in disgust. Unbeknownst to you, he’s memorized the plates of the last three drivers who cancelled on you, recording them approaching then backing out and quickly speeding away through his HUD, and he’ll make sure that they receive more than just a simple warning.

“Like that will ever actually deter anyone,” Fox grumbles, leaning against the table. 

“It really doesn’t,” you agree, nodding your head. “Even just a small fine, or a short operating suspension of their account would at least be some form of actual consequence, to show that this kind of behaviour won’t be tolerated.”

Fox nods in agreement, already thinking along similar veins. He watches you as you’re eating slows and your cheek eventually drifts to your hand, elbow propped against the table as you let it rest there.

All the steam you had summoned to keep going through the long night was gone, the caffeine only giving you a short burst of prolonged energy. That, combined with the food now settling in your stomach, has made your exhaustion hit you—only this time, it’s 10 times harder than before, and your eyes are closed when you feel a gentle hand lightly squeezing your shoulder. You look behind you to find Fox standing there, expression softened and voice quiet as he offers an arm out.

“Come on,” he says quietly, helping you to your feet and quickly swiping what’s left on your plate to enjoy for himself. “Let’s get you home before you faceplant into the table.”

“I’ll book the ride,” you say around a yawn, and when he moves from guiding you by the elbow to his arm loosely drifting around your shoulder as you lean against him, you don’t object.

“It’s already taken care of,” he says smoothly, bending down to pick up Mandalore’s leash, guiding it between your fingers before straightening. “I called in a favor with a senator who owes me. One of their drivers is waiting to take you home whenever you’re ready.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, finding that you lack the energy to protest this arrangement as you lean against him while he walks with you. “Alright then.”

Fox leads you outside, and sure enough, there’s a polished, clean black speeder waiting out front for you. Fox speaks with the driver, exchanging some sort of security code to verify who it is before he opens the door for you, helping you climb into the back. Before the door closes, he says something to you. His voice is soft, the words seeming to come almost without conscious thought. They also don’t fully register in your mind until you’ve regained your energy. Several hours later, you’re making a fresh cup of caf, when all of a sudden, his parting words hit you out of the blue, and you pause, thrown completely for a loop.

“Sleep well, Cyar’ika.”

“Huh...you’re only now realizing that you have absolutely no idea what that last word even means. But, curiosity now sparked, you fully intend to find out.

•Thank you to @strangergraphics-archive for these adorable puppy dividers

[luxaryllis]

A Decision You Won't Regret: Azul Ashengrotto

Note: Sorry heh it's not a request in here but here's another fic for @twst-charity! It's a Twisted Wonderland-themed charity drive for Palestine. I highly encourage everyone to go to support them and the charity drive, such as spreading word around for it, and donating and sending in requests. Their pinned post and blog in general has a lot of information, and they also have contributor sign-ups open as well! I really hope you guys can support in any way you can!

Here's the link to donate and send in requests, which can also be found in their pinned post and the blog as well! You just have to give a proof of donation and send in your request there.

I had so much fun writing this fic hehe, as Azul is one of my personal fav characters! The donor requested for a Hurt/Comfort platonic fic with Azul and Yuu. This Yuu is completely gender neutral and uses they/them pronouns, and there aren't any specific warnings here!

Anyway, I do hope to do more fics for the charity drive, as well as the many number of requests in my own inbox soon, since it is summer break for me now and I know how long some of you have been waiting hehe!

"You and your tender disposition will only be taken advantage of here. If you ever feel like you've drawn the short straw, come see me. You won't regret it.”

Azul told Yuu that once, after they had helped him out for what felt like the nth time since they became “friends” (in Yuu’s standards). At the time, they had shrugged it off as nothing; they were careful, after all. 

“I’ll be fine, Azul.” They told him, waving his words off with an easy-going smile. “I’ve been a student in NRC for months now. I know how the students here work, plus I know my boundaries and what I don’t want to do. Trust me.”

Azul held back a scoff, knowing how untrue that statement was. He knew Yuu well enough to be able to tell that their kindness would be their downfall. He still remembered how, deep in desperation, they recklessly made a deal with him simply to save their friends (who were paying the price for their own actions). Yuu was too kind. Too compassionate. Too selfless. While Azul had seen them scolding their friends for their foolish actions, he knew that Yuu would never betray or leave them behind. No matter what happened to them, Yuu’s altruism would always make them such an easy target. Pure benevolence will never come rewarded unless you get something in return. And a life of selflessness is simply signing your soul off to all sorts of pain and cruelty.

No world has a place for someone who blindly offers up themself to help others. Azul learned that when he was just a child. And he can see where Yuu’s path will bring them; straight to a time of despair in the hands of the people they wrongly chose to trust. And Azul will be there, to grant them comfort and a way to stop the pain. He will be their saving grace in a time of need. All for a simple price, of course. Unlike Yuu, Azul knows how the world works, and he knows that all it takes for such a kind-hearted person to lose their strong spirit is just a couple of betrayals and misunderstandings. Weakened people are always the easiest people to wring a profit out of too.

A profit, nothing more than business, was all Azul thought of his “friendship” with Yuu. Every time Yuu would help him, he would find a way to make up for it; be it through study guides, notes, some extra help gathering ingredients for Alchemy class, or simply managing to convince Sam to lower prices for groceries they were planning to buy, Azul would always pay back his debt, even if Yuu didn’t know it was him in the first place. 

Any debt that hasn’t been paid, Azul kept note of. He had a list, ready to pull out should the opportunity arise. To Azul, this was all just a transactional business; while it was obvious that Yuu had no such intentions, Azul was ready to pounce, should the opportunity arise. Yuu has the heart of gold, and Azul has a mind that greeds for gold. And a true businessman would never let any opportunity pass him by. Even if that means the downfall of someone else.

That was Azul’s mindset as he spent more time with Yuu. Every gift and act of goodness he offers, he justifies it as him “paying back his debt”. And yet, slowly, he’s stopped looking for ways to force Yuu to do favors for him in return for his “kindness”. He still thought he saw this whole thing as a transaction; it was just him getting used to their constant presence in his life. No, he’s not getting attached to them; he invited them for lunch to learn more about what makes them tick. Surely, he could find something he can take advantage of. He’ll use the information he gets for a way to have another leg up on someone else.

So why does he feel strings tug at his heart as he watches them sob and wail at his feet, begging him for help. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? The Ramshackle prefect is right there, deeper in despair than Azul had ever seen before. Yuu is completely open and vulnerable for the taking, like an unsuspecting bubble approaching a spike, waiting to pop it. And yet, Azul finds himself feeling the exact opposite of relief. He feels worried, even a little angry at the thought of someone taking advantage of his friend.

Wait. His… friend? Since when does Azul think of Yuu as his friend? Are they even true friends? A small voice in Azul’s mind shouts, “No! You thought of taking advantage of them multiple times! True friends don’t do that.” And the second-year most certainly agrees, trying to ignore the sting in his chest at the thought of being such a terrible friend to someone who trusts him enough to come to him for help. What a rubbish excuse of a friend Azul is, if he thinks he can be Yuu’s friend, after everything he’s done to them.

“Prefect… tell me what happened. Every detail, please.” Azul musters up the strength to speak, and he realizes that he no longer needs to try pretending that he cares. It’s like it’s instinctive to want to know who made tears marr the Ramshackle prefect’s face. He's sure to make sure that whoever did shall pay a dear price, and he's even more certain that Jade and Floyd would be happy to help get to the bottom of this. 

The moment he finds out the truth, Azul starts to scheme in his mind. Taking advantage of the prefect, his… friend, like this is considered a slight against Azul himself. At least, that's what he tells himself as he plans the perpetrator's downfall. It's what he tells himself as he brings Yuu into the Mostro Lounge, personally making a drink for them and getting them some snacks. 

It's simple revenge, Azul tells himself as he learns the identity of Yuu's perpetrators and begins to think of ways to ruin their life. Night Raven College is a dog-eat-dog school, after all. Azul can't blame others for finding it easy to take advantage of the Ramshackle prefect's kindness, but he can most certainly blame others for taking advantage of his friend.

It feels weird to call Yuu his friend, Azul thinks to himself as he makes idle and (hopefully) comforting chatter with the prefect. After what he's done to them, it feels almost hypocritical and wrong to be friends with them. Azul knows that getting revenge on their behalf still won't make him a worthy friend, but perhaps it will help ease his unease about being a horrible friend to the prefect.

For now, though, Azul will focus on making sure that Yuu is comforted and feels better. “Please, make yourself at home here in the Mostro Lounge. The drinks and food are on the house.” He tells them, watching with a fond smile as they slowly start to calm down from their crying fit.

“Worry not, prefect. Jade, Floyd and I will make sure that they will pay dearly for what they've done.”

As Azul escorts the prefect out of Mostro Lounge, he stops them for a bit, and hesitantly tries to speak what he truly feels. “Thank you, Yuu. Thank you for trusting me enough to come to me.” He gives them a soft smile, and hopes that the prefect understands how grateful he is at the surplus amount of trust they've put in him.

Azul has long grown used to losing people's trust in him, especially after he's wrung them out for his advantage. He's always prepared to let go of his “clients” after they lose use to him. It's gone to a point where barely anyone can place their full trust in Azul, no matter how hard he genuinely tries to take back such faith in him. The Ramshackle prefect having so much trust in Azul is… a nice change. A foolish decision on the prefect's part for sure, but Azul promises himself it won't be one they regret.

[daizedndconfused]

linked

characters - cole x reader

type - fluff??

warning - kidnapping and mild violence

synopsis - your father is one of the wealthiest men in the city, however the countless ceremonies in his name get quite boring. your decision to sneak away for a few moments may not have been the best, but don’t worry the earth ninja is close behind.

a/n - lowkey might do a part 2 cause this was kinda long and i wrote it at like 1 am BUT I PERSONALLY LOVE HOW IT TURNED OUT. and if you’re a fan of rio and dance of thieves THIS IS FOR YOU!! yw ;)

“There you have it ladies and gentlemen, I’d call the grand opening of Axis Point an unqualified success.” The bubbly reported chirped from the stage below.

It wasn’t like you weren’t proud of your dad, of course you were, but the sun beating down on you wasn’t making the two hour all outdoor ceremony any more bearable. Letting out an internal groan, you tipped your head back taking a deep breath.

A blur of black had you hesitating. Your father, the wealthy innovative man he is, required nothing but the best security, hence the ninja tiptoeing around the surrounding rooftops.

This wasn’t the first time they’d been at one of your fathers events–hell you’d even met them. Briefly, but it happened all the same. Brief enough to know you had a small crush on the Earth Ninja. You may have gotten carried away with the staring, but he wasn’t all innocent either.

By the time speeches had been over and done with, your evening was only halfway over by the time the banquet started. People watching only kept you entertained for a short period of time. Ninja-watching was slightly better. It was sort of mesmerizing how they hopped from building to building with ease.

You drew the line when the sun finally went down and the city lights came up. Rolling your shoulders, you thought a little walk never hurt anyone. Right?

You slipped between drunk people stumbling and others who decided they were too good for the dance floor. Eventually you made it to a clearing.

Fresh air at last, you thought.

Though the ‘fresh air’ in this case being an alleyway. It didn’t matter, anywhere was better than that boring party. Maybe you should have told someone where you were going–especially considering the events that followed.

The last thing you remembered was reaching to pull out your phone from the side of your mini purse. You barely had time to register the arms around your torso, and across your mouth with a cloth before your vision went dark.

However, when you finally regained consciousness, you weren’t alone. It took a while for the spinning in your head to stop and your vision to clear. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you noticed the alert form of the Earth Ninja sitting across from you in what looked like the back of a cramped van. Your only source of light being extremely tinted windows above you.

“What–?” Your voice came out hoarse and scratchy.

The ninja’s eyes snapped to yours, his hood abandoned, sporting a split lip and bleeding temple. Immediately his expression softened, “Are you hurt?”

You pondered for a moment, other than the numb and overall drowsiness you were still experiencing there were no other casualties.

“No,” you shook your head. “No, I’m okay.” You felt a little exposed in the simple party dress you wore, and attempted to fold your feet below the fabric, when the clanking of a chain caught your attention.

There, clamped on your ankle was a mid length chain. On the other end was the leg of the Earth Ninja. You had been attached at the foot.

He must have noticed the fear in your eyes after seeing the chain, the gravity of your situation weighing down on you.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. All you wanted was a breather–you didn’t expect to get kidnapped.

Calloused hands wrapped gently around your wrists, pulling your hands down from your face. The Earth Ninja’s reassuring hazel eyes found yours.

“Trust me, nothing will happen to you while I’m here,” he said. “They might have thought they were being smart when they chained us together, but they’ll have to pry me off you if they even raise a hand to you. Okay?”

The breath caught in your chest at his words. There were worse people to be chained together with than a ninja. At least he’d go down fighting for you rather than throwing you to the wolves to save his own hide.

“Okay.” You smoothed your hair down in an attempt to calm yourself. “Did…Did you see what they looked like? Or hear why they took me?”

He looked towards the closed doors of the van before answering. “Masked. But the two drivers aren’t the only ones we have to worry about. There’s a car in front and a car in back following us.” His eyes found mine again. “Didn’t hear the reason behind taking you. If I had to guess it’d be ransom.”

Ransom. Made sense. Your father was one of the wealthiest men in Ninjago afterall. But you thought if criminals were going to go after someone it would be the man himself, not his insignificant daughter.

“How’d they get you?” You asked meekly, still hesitant to look at him. You couldn’t help but feel a bit responsible for his presence here with you.

“Got me in the air,” he rolled his eyes with an annoyed look. “Saw you sneak off and thought it was best someone followed you. Found three guys on the roof beside you–got a bit banged up getting rid of them. But by that point someone had already grabbed you. I ran off the edge of the building.” He scoffed, probably at his own stupidity. “Can’t do much in the air can I? I rely on the ground. Anyway, a sniper on the other roof shot me with a tranquilizer and woke up chained with vengestone next to you.”

You frowned. If only you had stayed within the safety of the park.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, drawing your knees to your chest, careful to keep the fabric covering you.

“Hey,” he said softly, “don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I’m with you. That way I can get us out of here, right?”

“I guess,” you shrugged. Even though you were with a ninja you were both clearly outnumbered. It was a group of guys against a powerless ninja chained to a girl who hasn’t thrown a punch a day in her life.

“What, you don’t trust me?” He joked, nudging your foot with his own.

“I do,” you argued, chewing your lip as another thought crossed your own. “How long were we out?”

The Earth Ninja frowned, “That I’m not sure. I guess we’ll find out when we stop.”

“Wait, we’re going to just let them take us to some random location?”

“That's all we can do at the moment,” he reasoned. “Chain won’t budge and we don’t have the key. Plus, jumping out of a moving vehicle on its own is difficult, but chained to someone? No question.”

That much was true. Even if he could somehow bust the door open and make a run for it, you’d only slow him down. That and the extra people surrounding you all in cars, they’d have you back as quickly as you got out.

You nodded, and the two of you spent the next what seemed like hours trying to keep calm. Well, more the Earth Ninja keeping you calm. You two talked quietly, and he even managed to get a few laughs out of you before the van came to a slowing stop.

Waiting a couple seconds, it felt like you were stopped for good. Footsteps thumped all around you and suddenly the doors to the van flew open.

The darkness didn’t allow you to see the guns pointed at you, but you did hear the barking orders to stand and get out of the van.

You heard the chain scuffle as the Earth Ninja rose to full height, just barely avoiding hitting his head on the ceiling of the van. He offered his hand to you, and you took it. The ninja pulled you to your feet as if you weighed nothing.

“Move!” One of the masked men demanded again.

The Earth Ninja clenched his jaw and muttered something under his breath before stepping toward the exit first. Being the gentleman he was, he snaked his arm around your waist and lifted you down in time with him.

As soon as your feet touched ground that wasn’t made of concrete, you knew you were in deeper trouble than you realized. All around you, instead of buildings, or even run down warehouses, were trees. Through the darkness you could see thousands of massive green trees surrounding your every direction.

One of the men jabbed at the Earth Ninja’s shoulder with the barrel of his gun, urging the two of you to start walking. You clung closer to the ninja as the two of you awkwardly maneuvered your way across the dirt path.

Walking while attached to something was harder than you originally thought, but you eventually got into a steady rhythm allowing for smoother movements.

After a small hike, you saw a run down warehouse in the distance on top of a hill. You were all sorts of uncomfortable–the dress you wore was not designed for comfort, nor hiking–and your shoes, while only a mini heel, were also not made for uneven surfaces.

The only bearable thing you had going was the weather. Not too hot but not too cold either.

As you drew closer to the base of the hill, your heel got caught in a jumble of weeds, causing you to stumble and almost fall over.

The ninja caught your arm quickly.

“Limp,” he said quietly.

Confusion adorned your face for a split second, but you quickly understood.

You winced, attempting to rise to full height. And when you tried to step forward you crumbled again into the ninja’s arms.

“What happened?” One of the guards demanded.

“Sprained her ankle,” the ninja said. “I can fix it.” His eyes darted around, waiting for our captors to object, but when none did he slowly sunk to the ground.

He reached for his arm, as though he were about to rip off the sleeve, but he reached quickly into a separate part of his gi. Just as quickly, he flicked his wrist, and smoke filled your vision.

Angry shouts erupted all around you, but you barely heard them as the Earth Ninja lifted you into his arms and took off running.

It took a while for you to clear the smoke, but once you did, he said, “We need to put as much distance between us and them as we can. If you take your shoes off can you run?”

“Yes,” you nodded. Fighting? Not so much, but running? Running was fair game. You leaned forward to undo the clasps of your shoes, holding them in one hand before the Earth Ninja set you down gently and the two of you quickly started running again.

The adrenaline rushing through your veins blocked out all the twigs and sharp burrs you were stepping on, but it beat running in heels. Hiking up the skirt of your dress, you calculated when to step so you’d be in time with the Earth Ninja.

You didn’t stop running until you came to a clearing beside a riverbank.

“We need to find a way to get this chain off,” the Earth Ninja said, though he was hardly out of breath.

You, on the other hand, were both sweating and gasping for air. Bracing both hands on your knees, you nodded, but without the key there was a slim chance of that happening.

“In the meantime, we’ll cross this river,” he told you. “It should slow down their cars if anything.”

“How do we know how deep it is?” You asked nervously. Due to the darkness, you couldn’t make head nor tail on the depth of the river beside you.

“We don’t,” he admitted. “You should go first. I’m taller–the more you start to sink the easier it’ll be for me to grab you. Think you can do it?”

It scared you–the idea of walking into water that could force you under in an instant, but it seemed to be a better fate than what the people who kidnapped you had in store.

Reluctantly you nodded, clutching your shoes tighter to your chest you walked into the frigid water, the Earth Ninja hot on your heels.

The current of the river rushed past your ankles, then your calves, thighs, stomach, and soon you were up to your chest struggling to stay upright. When your chin was about to go under, the Earth Ninja suddenly grabbed you.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he told you.

He didn’t need to tell you twice. Teeth chattering, you clung to the Earth Ninja like your life depended it on it–it kind of did.

The water soon became too deep for the ninja to stand, but he swam as though the current were only a flurry of butterflies against him.

Soon, the water became shallower and shallower, but you didn’t let go of him. At least not until his body was completely out of the water.

Shivering from head to toe, you touched down tentatively.

“Th-thank you,” you said through clattering teeth.

The Earth Ninja frowned at your condition, throwing a large arm around your shoulders and pulling you against his body to provide some extra body heat.

“Just a little further, then we’ll stop for the night.” He murmured as he started walking forwards once more.

You nodded, attempting to make yourself smaller to generate more body heat.

When the rushing of the water was long behind you, the Earth Ninja finally stopped.

“We’re gonna need to gather some wood for a fire,” he said, breath hot in your ear. “Up for it?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Once the two of you had a stable fire going, you spent the next few hours getting dry and warm. Furthermore, you didn’t argue when the ninja pulled you between his legs so you could rest against his chest.

Your eyelids grew heavier and heavier until you slumped back against the hard chest behind you.

Bright light, chirping birds, and someone’s arms around you were the first three things you noticed when you had started to wake.

Slowly blinking your eyes open, the sight of the forest surrounding you reminded you of the previous day's events. Internally groaning, you leaned your head back, slightly surprised that you hit something.

Soft exhales ruffled your still slightly damp hair, and you saw the arms around you belonged to the Earth Ninja.

Your heart hammered in your ribcage as you admired his sleeping figure. Damp black hair plastered across his forehead, and slightly flushed cheeks. When his eyelids started to flutter, you averted your eyes.

“Mornin’,” he groaned.

“Morning Mr. Earth Ninja,” you said, slithering out of his hold.

“Ugh, call me Cole,” he laughed. “Mr. Earth Ninja makes me sound old.”

“Okay. Cole.”

Cole smiled as he sat up and shook his hair off his head.

“Any ideas on how to get this thing off?” Cole asked, lifting the chain slightly.

Well it was too tight to slip off and you didn’t have to keys to unlock it. But, really the only issue with this thing was its material. If only it weren’t made of vengestone…

Then it hit you.

“I’ve got one,” you said skeptically.

“Yeah?” Cole cocked his head. “I’m all ears.”

“If I could isolate the vengestone, you’d be able to use your super strength to break it right?” You asked.

“I mean I think so,” he scratched the back of his head.

Nodding, you stood, Cole standing with you. The fire that you had lit last night was slowly dying out, but there were still a few embers you could use. Grabbing a less charred piece of wood, you blew on it softly to reignite the flame.

“Don’t move,” you told him before you began heating up the metal.

It took a while, but eventually you made progress. After a few moments, you determined it was hot enough.

Walking over to the nearest tree, you picked off a leaf, swiped some sap from the bark and lathered it across the chain.

“Okay hurry, it won’t last long.”

Cole didn’t need to be told twice. He physically felt his power returning as you applied the sap. He quickly snapped the chain off his ankle, rubbing the spot tenderly before he moved onto you.

He frowned at the rest mark across your skin, and the poor condition your feet were in after running barefoot across the forest floor.

“How did you do that?” He asked.

You nodded towards the tree. “We got lucky. That’s a Verona tree. Looks ordinary, but it’s got properties that cancel out vengestone when mixed with heat.”

Cole had never heard that before, and he voiced as much with pure admiration.

“We learned about it in organic chemistry,” you shrugged.

After the two of you had been freed, Cole didn’t waste any time before summoning his dragon and flying the two of you the hell out of there.

As the city became visible once more, you saw that your face had been plastered on many billboards.

‘Billionaire Heiress Missing?!’

You were too exhausted and sore to care about much at this point.

When Cole touched down in front of your house, he still didn’t leave your side. He didn’t let you walk either. You weren’t complaining, your feet were immensely scratched up.

The inside of your house was a shitshow. Cops everywhere, your mother crying into a handkerchief, and your father pacing furiously across the dining room.

Your father saw you first.

Cole barely had enough time to set you down before he rushed towards you, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug. Your mother followed soon after, her tears never ceased.

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” you tried to reassure them.

“Thank God you’re safe!” Your mother said before she caught sight of Cole. It didn’t take her long to tackle him into a hug, spewing thanks for saving her daughter.

Cole remained strictly professional as your father also expressed his gratitude.

You shot him a tired smile after answering the million questions your mother asked him. Which you both then had to repeat for the police.

By the time your testimony had been taken, the sun was just past its highest point in the sky.

Before he left, your father pulled Cole aside. Wrapped up in a blanket nursing a cup of tea in front of the fire, the two stole quick glances at you, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Once their conversation wrapped up, your father walked over to your spot on the couch. He took a seat beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, squeezing you briefly.

“Yeah, me too,” you admitted.

He was quiet for a moment, and then, “I spoke to the Earth Ninja. He agreed to be your personal security for all further public events.”

Your father’s words took a few moments to sink in. Once they did, you whipped your head to face him.

“I’d feel safer if someone like him was tailing you closely, that way he can keep you safe.” Your father reasoned. “Is that alright?”

You nodded meekly. “That’s fine.”

It didn’t really matter if it was, it would still be happening. You knew your father. However, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. You liked Cole, and it looked like the two of you would be spending a lot of time together in the future.

[none-shall-caricature-me]

What exactly is Albert's plan ? Why is there a picture of him and Monsieur M together ? Why does Albert seem to dislike M in it ? How are TWDAK and VTSOM lores linked ? What is the deep, thematic significance behind Albert's views on Vincent ? What exactly are the dream eaters ? Buckle up, this will be a multi - part analysis and we'll have to go in a sequence of steps.

Ok, recap of the basics first. Albert's dream therapy ability is basically some neuroscience - based technology that allows him to hijack people's brains for a while - that is how he is able to communicate with total strangers and influence his office environment, affect a monstrous appearance, give jumpscares and control his victims' fates in their dreams. It explains the bizarre, nightmarish feel of TWDAK.

Then what do the dream eaters do ? How are they made ? Let's go step - by - step into my explanation :

Albert very deliberately administers nightmares to his dream therapy candidates to select an 'army' for his grand plan to revive G2 district. Those who succumb to fear in the nightmare and blindly obey all his instructions perfectly as self - preservation essentially give up control of their fate. They let him decide their fate in their dream.

Now, dreams reflect a person's personality too - they are our memories and neural connections rehashed and mix - and - matched. Albert taps into a person's psychological wiring and instincts through the therapy.

Which means that the 'patients' who obey him out of pure fear are likely to be paranoid and passive when faced with unfamiliar dangers. Therefore, he can easily manipulate and control them using their fear. This could explain the dream eaters' lifeless, gloomy appearance and perpetual silence - it's like they're frozen in a constant state of fear. It's why they're perfect soldiers for his army- they won't rebel, and they are willing to 'eat' victims and follow orders to save their own selves.

You can't control a nightmare. Like any dream, it is formed by your random memories and instincts, random brain connections firing and combining. It's a situation where you're helpless to your psyche, to your subconscious. In Albert's therapy, it's a situation where you're helpless to HIM. How you react depends on your long - honed psyche, who you are deep down.

Think about your nightmares. To give my own example, I've had nightmares about being eaten alive by cannibals, being bombed, being unloved and alone, serial killers, my family and myself becoming evil and harming one another, etc. In some I remember fighting back. In others I was powerless and gave up.

Those like Taylor, who fight back despite being stuck in a horrifying situation they can't understand, show that they have a strong, hopeful outlook somewhere. They use logic as best as they can to do whatever they can. That's why they'll contribute to a G2 that has many pioneering, exceptional citizens.

Why do the dream eaters 'eat' victims ? Why are they 'hungry' ? Why do they need to 'eat' at all ? What happens to a victim who gets 'eaten' ? This is very meta - I think, since in the game everyone you get eaten Taylor urges you to try again and the game loops back, those who get 'eaten' get stuck in the nightmare. They're stuck until they either obey and become Albert's army members, or rebel and get spared. The purpose of dream eaters is to ensure the candidate can't escape till they prove their worth either way. That is Albert's plan for G2 - use the dream eaters to test people's worth, make them either useful to him as testers for other candidates, or leave the 'exceptional' ones be to hopefully improve G2.

What else do the dream eaters do besides acting as a test for candidates' worth ? Is it possible that Albert can do some Inception - style shit, influencing powerful people's decisions by implanting ideas into their psyche ? Is that how he plans to change G2 ?

Remember VTSOM ? Monsieur M's plan is to replace the 'inferior' human species with the much faster, smarter, stronger, modifiable cyborgs. That's his idea of improving life forms and the world. Whereas Albert's idea of improving G2 district is NOT by rejecting humanity but by finding and embracing its exceptional side. He taps into people's subconscious to find the brave, the fearless, those who can retain sense and logic under extreme stress. And that's why Albert dislikes M. M rejects humans totally, deriding them at many points in VTSOM. But Albert sees that humans can be pretty awesome, or atleast useful.

Now, the link between Albert and Vincent. Albert says that Vincent had great potential, but he saw him let it go to waste. Keep in mind the points above, and now remember - Vincent used to be someone who would rebel against society, accept loneliness because he wouldn't compromise on his principles and beliefs. He used to be brave. But then, he grew tired of loneliness. Which is all well and understandable to Albert, except that then Vincent, in his desire to belong and to be accepted at Myers, became a total slave to them. He committed atrocities he didn't want to commit, abandoned his principles and vision for change, because he was deathly scared of ending up alone and unsupported. He could've changed things, he had the aptitude and the attitude, but then he became just another brick in the wall of corporate selfishness. Another pawn for everything wrong with society. That's what Albert means when he says that Vincent wasted his potential. He gave into fear and lost himself. He had not a flight, not a fight, but a 'freeze' reaction to the threat of ostracision - blindly obey the very shady Monsieur M, hoping M would spare him because he licked his boots.

THIS IS MY ORIGINAL ANALYSIS / THEORY. DO NOT DARE TO COPY, REUPLOAD OR REPOST. REBLOGS ARE WELCOME.

[little-luna-llama]

When are we ever ready?

Custard (at least in my mind) is such a pitch perfect mix of pure vanilla and shadow milk, and a parallel to both of them.

It's analysis timeeee

Contains: my analysis of canon custard iii, a quick parallel between him and Dark Choco cookie, A quick analysis of what I think made shadow milk turn into a beast and why and finally the actual parallel between custard, Shadow and Vanilla. (Being ready to handle something)

Custard is a kind vanillian cookie kid with a persona that's basically his entire personality(being king). He speaks in a way that could be read as bratty, but comes off as performative and a little silly goofy.

He's trying to step into shoes that are wayyy to big for him right now that comes with decisions he's not ready to make or knowledge he's not ready to know. His fortune cookie says "Watch, listen, play! Your memories will shine brighter than a royal crown."

It's literally saying stop trying to grow up and enjoy the now. Because let's be real: growing up sucks when it actually happens. Custard is yet to realise that because he's a kid still looking at adulthood through rose coloured glasses like any kid would.

In a sense this also makes him a parallel to dark choco cookie, who from what we've seen had a very hopeful and positive outlook when he was younger, trying to do what is best for the kingdom but seeming to lack understanding in some of the details, which deepens the rift with his father and fuels his need to prove himself. Which as we know didn't end well...

Custard I don't think is in it to prove himself as a leader. If you've read the bluebell fics I've actually stated that I see the kingly persona as a sort of trauma response. He misses his dad and we don't know what happened to him, and most likely custard doesn't know either. Custard is very young, arguably the youngest of the cast behind snapdragon who's a literal baby, I say about 7/8 years old and loosing your parents at that age definitely doesn't help you develop healthy states of mind or coping mechanisms because there's no supervision.

Custard knows he's of noble vanillian lineage, he heard stories of pure vanilla, this beloved King who was loved by all that grandpa was close to, he was powerful and navigated life's struggles with such ease and gentleness. A kid hears that and thinks "wow he had a lot of friends because he was King! If I'm King then everyone will want to be my friend and I won't be lonely anymore! And I can make the rules!" It's a very young mindset. It also puts him above the others so if they leave him, he can get the last word in and they aren't leaving him, he's banished them. He's in charge, he doesn't want to be friends with them and they should feel sorry about it.

I don't think it's intentionally toxic or anything, it's just the mind of a kid rationalising something to protect themselves from the trauma they've experienced. It's really common for childhood trauma to manifest a coping mechanism like this; finding a source of inspiration and power to project onto, to call on for emotional support. In certain cases it with even go as far as to manifest as d.i.d, but that's not relevant to custard. This also happens in adults as well.

This links to Shadow milk however: shadow has one of the starkest transformations in theme from ancient to beast from what we've seen. Eternal hardly changed, mystic seems to have simply hidden themselves behind a veil, burning spice hardly changed, and it seems silent salt simply put on their helmet.

Shadow milk however was clearly a scholar/Wizard archetype. Fits with his virtue being knowledge, much like how eternal hardly changing fits with their sloth, burning spices silhouette getting bigger fits with the overwhelming power of destruction, mystic hiding themselves away behind their veil to appear unfeeling/apathetic and like a god to their followers (its a literal separation) and silent hiding their face entirely so not even their expressions could communicate their feelings.

So why is did shadow go from a prim and proper scholar to a jester? I think it's all to do with knowledge.

All the beasts had to experience some great trauma, that one moment that solidified their descent into darkness(I have theories for all of them.) Something that, to them, justifies their actions (or lack thereof). Shadow Milks power is that of knowledge, and knowledge doesn't discriminate between the good and evil. Shadow would most likely be hyper aware of everything, to the point of near omniscience before creating dark moon magic. He would see the world and his friends suffering and want to stop it all, and he finds a way:

Using mind magic and trickery. It starts innocent but it builds and builds and it becomes addictive, then it becomes second nature.

Innocently making someone forget the horrors they've experienced, or filling someone's mind with fake positive memories to turn them away from committing atrocities. Perhaps he does it to his friends: maybe he sees them falling and every time he fills their heads with sweet lies to buy them a few more months.

He's overloaded by taking on everyone's troubles while he was still coming to grips with his power, he has no one to turn to because of his spiderweb of lies. He's alone and he doesn't know how to cope. Just like custard

And just like custard he adopts a front: instead of feeling remorse or trying to reverse what he's done and accept that he made a mistake he just leans into it harder, forging a new identity to pick up the pieces and figure something out, unchained by the lies of his past because he is the director the playwright, the producer, he gets to make the decisions and nobody can question him.

(Obviously the first thing he would do would be to lift the lies from his friends and have them fall too.)

Vanilla also sort of does this with healer cookie, but he has amnesia at that point in the story. Healer cookie is more like the truest reflection of pure vanilla cookie, unburdened by the horrors of his life. I bet shadow milk watched healer cookie and seethed inside. For Custard though, I think it was something he had to see even if it hasn't paid off yet. He got to know pure vanilla completely outside of his idealised version without bias because he didn't know.

In the crumbs of content we do have both from in game and twitter we have seen Custards attitude change a little. He's mellowed out a little in the dark cacao episodes and by the time stories by the campfire rolls around he's much more an excited child who happens to like his prince costume and playing prince than a 7 year omd trying to actually be in a position of power with no help or guidance.

Since pure vanilla and shadow are supposed to be opposites I think custard is actually supposed to help convey what makes them the same and what makes them different. They share the acting performative parts of their character with shadow milk, but with vani we see custard genuinely trying to impress him because he wants to be like the vanilla he heard about in his bedtime stories. However custard currently runs the risk of stumbling into something that he's not ready for, which is something I think vani and shadow share. Vanilla wasn't ready to receive the light of truth and its responsibility, and shadow wasn't really ready to weild all of that knowledge alone.

This is also partly why I made the bluebell au. Shadow definitely smelt a kindred spirit but also "hey the kids connected to vani this will make good angst." And also In the fic I have custard adopting a few variations of his prince persona partly to make more people like him.