#any last words? [sixty threads]

[unstablerk800]

"there you are, darling" (kamski to sixty; @mxrvelouscreations

Save him ⭕️ @mxrvelouscreations

Panic. Pure panic.

He was not good with androids, but he felt even worse around humans. After he started his life by getting shot in the head by one and ended up being rebooted, somewhat fixed, and taken for entertainment by another, Sixty was not prepared for yet another pushy red blooded individual.

His LED spun fast in anxious red. He was close to break down, to self-destruct, when he saw no other way out.

To his utter luck (or unluck?), for some reason, Elijah showed up just in time. Sixty sensed him before he saw him; the android's arms were trembling uncontrollably because of the fact that he was not in control of the situation, and he let out a muffled, almost pained whimper when Kamski pulled him away from the man who didn't want to understand that he was simply not interested.

His stress levels dropped drastically, but it remained around 75% as he was quite aware that he was not allowed to just wander around in the city, especially because these sorts of situations could happen... and he still was out here, without permission.

"I'm- I'm sorry- I'm sorry", he half turned to Kamski and buried his face in the man's neck. Despite the fact he disobeyed and misbehaved, he felt relieved. He was saved. He was safe. "I'm so- so sorry- please, please take me home?"

He had had enough of the city for quite a while.

[enwoso]

INVISIBLE STRINGS — alessia russo

*i started writing this and loved it then got bored by the end so sorry for the rushed ending:) but thank you for the love and support on my first post!!

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google would define invisible strings as a thread that connects two people who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or the circumstances. the thread may stretch or tangle but it never breaks.

you and alessia both truly believed you were a prime example of the invisible string theory.

the two of you always existing among each other but neither ever really acknowledged each other until later on when you were both older.

you lived on the same street as alessia growing up, only a few doors down, she was the blonde girl you would always see from afar playing in the park with her two older brothers as they blasted the ball at the young girl.

however she always gave back as good as she got.

you had even went to the same school, however she was in the year above you. there were plenty school photos with the two of you in only a few metres apart. walking past each other in the corridor every single day - not having an idea how important each other would become to be to the other in the future.

you had played football for the local team as did she. the blonde playing in offence taking any spot on the front line whereas you sat at the back and played in defence stopping the opposition from scoring.

that is how the two of you met, well kind of. you played for the same team but you two never really friends. it wasn’t that you didn’t like each other it’s just you never really spoke to one another bar the few words when necessary.

however you only played with each other for a few months before she moved onto a new local team. only seeing her now when your team would face her new team.

you both existed in the backgrounds of each others lives.

when you were sixteen, you were scouted by the arsenal's academy for the under seventeens teams, it took you a little time getting used to playing academy football and not the usual sunday league but after a few months you had found your feet and began to settle in.

you had one goal, the england youth squad. your family pushing you each day to try and help you achieve your goal however just a month before the squad announcement you tore your ACL at sixteen.

you were out of football for a year, endless days sat with a physio, in the gym just trying to get your knee to bend again like it once used to. watching from the sidelines as your friends in the academy got their calls up for the youth teams and how you wished it was you.

you felt as though you were fighting a battle you were never going to win, you were falling out of love with sport that you had played your entire life.

after three hundred and sixty two day you were finally allowed to play again, however your return it wasn't the fairy tale dream you had spent the past year dreamed about. you ended up spending a lot of time on the bench not playing as regular as you did before your injury and you spent many of those ninety minutes wondering why you were no longer good enough.

losing all your confidence in yourself and your ability to actually play football - you felt as though you had hit a brick wall. finding yourself some days where you didn't want to play football anymore.

but thankfully your family, mainly your dad, were not going to let you give up so easily on the talent that they had spent watching over the last ten years. your dad repeatedly telling you 'that you time would come'

and like the fairy tale you had dreamed about you slowly begun to get minutes again and fell back in love with sport all over again. forever thankful for your family for their support each day, for sometimes dragging you to training even when you had told them multiple of times that you were done and that you quit.

and you dad was right, your time did come. your hard work finally paid off and just after your nineteenth birthday you made your appearance for the arsenal first time - even bagging yourself an assist.

the next few season were spent learning and being loaned to another other club spending half a season at brighton when you were 20. but you saw it all as learning and a way of improving - you were getting minutes, plenty of clean sheets and you were working towards a new goal: the 2023 world cup.

you were back at arsenal and were a regular starter in the back line for arsenal and with that came your good from and finally your call up for england came as they were beginning their campaign to quality for the world cup in australia.

"are you excited?" leah asked swinging her arm around your shoulders as you walked towards the changing rooms, she had been a big mentor to you since you had came into the first team, along with helping you to improve your game. you could say you became her little prodigy.

the squad had just been announced on social media for the first time and hearing your name on the sheet of paper had you feeling something you could even begin to find the word to describe.

“yes.. but no, i’m a little nervous” you admitted with a small laugh as leah gave you a soft smile and a squeeze of the shoulders to reassure you.

“listen, you’ll be fine! just play with the passion you always have” she said as you nodded slowly, “plus you’ll have me, beth and jordan!” the blonde added as you playfully groaned, leah gasping and unthreading her arm from around your shoulders.

“i’m just kidding, you know i love you all” you smiled, as leah rolled her eyes as you reached the doors of the changing rooms, “i do kiddo! ..but i’m at the top of that list, right?”

“whatever helps you sleep at night, lee!”

leah was right - you were fine. while you didn’t get any starts in any of the games at your first camp, you did get some minutes as a sub which was more than you were expecting. but while sitting on the bench you did find yourself talking to a particular blonde.

“you said you were from kent, didn’t you?” alessia asked as you hummed, a puzzled look growing on your face as you waited for the blonde to carry on. your eyes were glued to the girls running around on the pitch as you sat on the bench with a bright orange bib over your jacket.

“me too! what part?” the blonde asked as you turned your head at the question being slightly caught off guard at the fact she was also from kent.

“um maidstone” you gave her a small smile, your attention turning back to the girls on the pitch as the ball was close to going into the back of the net. alessia gasping making you think she had seen something you had missed on the pitch as well as making you jump a little, “me too!”

you turned back to her, giving her a shocked look. confusion filling you as the two of you spent the rest of camp talking about each others childhood finding out your grew up on the same street as well as going to the same school.

when the next england camp rolled around, you and alessia had became even closer to the point you were counting down the days until you next saw each other.

short and sweet messages turned into hours and hours spent on facetime until the other fell asleep. friendly comments turned into subtle flirty ones and the touches turned to ones that lasted longer than friends and slowly you found yourself falling for the blonde.

the last england camp before the euros in the summer at home had finally arrived, you had arrived at st george’s park with beth and leah but before alessia.

you found yourself sitting patiently in the common room, like a lost puppy waiting for the blonde to walk through the door. the other girls chatting and playing cards in the background.

“kid, if you stare any longer at the doorframe your gonna burn a hole in it!” lucy teased as you glanced away from the doorway for the first time in a least thirty minutes, rolling your eyes at the teasing comment you moved your gaze to fix at watching leah try and beat beth’s high score on the basketball hoop game.

eventually after what felt at least a year to you and fifteen minutes to everyone else - the blonde walked through with ella, as she made a beeline for you as you wrapped her in a tight hug.

the two of you finding a rhythm and falling into a deep conversation about all the things you had forgotten to tell each other over the phone.

“so then me and ella had to stop, so i could get a coffee and she-“ alessia was in the middle of telling you a recount of her journey here before you interrupted her with a big gasp, jumping up out of your seat to find your phone quickly.

“what?” alessia asked as she watched you frantically search for your phone on the beanbag you were sitting on - finding it wedged under the beanbag.

“i have to show you this before i forget!” you said a grin on your face getting bigger with ever swipe your finger did on your phone screen. moving closer to the blonde, your shoulders touching as she peered over your own shoulder wondering what on earth you were about to show her and why was it such a big deal.

"look-" you moved your phone so that it was in her eye line and on your screen was a group school photo, "i don’t get it? what am i looking at?" the blonde asked her squinted her eyes trying to get a better look at the photo.

"there's me and.." you paused as she pointed to herself as a small gasp followed from her, "and there's me" alessia whispered, so quietly you also couldn't hear her. shock has consumed the blonde and you sat back with a smug smile as she examined the photo a little more.

"how’d you find this?" alessia asked as she turned her head back to you, handing you back your phone, "my mum sent me them,, there's more if you swipe across" you said beginning to swipe along your camera roll.

the two of you spent the next hour looking through the photos, some from school and others from your grassroots club, recounting each others side of the memories both of you in shock of how close you to were to each other growing but in reality how far you were to each other.

"we've literally been in the background of each other lives forever" alessia smiled as you nodded. "attached by an invisible string" you added.

the international camp came to an end and you both went back to your respective clubs, this time the two of you were making an effort to see each other without it being on a pitch or about football — so on your days off you went to see alessia and on her days off she came to see you.

your feelings for alessia were growing each time you saw her, her smile was infectious, her blue orbs were the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. but you didn't want to admit your feelings to her in case it ruined your friendship, plus why would she like you back, alessia sees you as a friend and a friend only.

or so you thought.

"less, why don't you just admit you have feelings for the girl!" ella said as she caught the blonde smiling at her phone knowing that she was messaging you.

"w-what" the blonde stuttered her phone dropping into her lap. "less, we can all see that you like her!" ella paused as alessia's cheeks tinted red, "except for y/n - but she definitely likes you too!"

"she does?"

"of course, everyone can see the way you both look at each other!" ella said bumping her shoulder with the older blonde as alessia gave her a small smile and nodded processing the information that had just been given to her.

before the euros came around in the summer alessia managed to make the first move taking you on the first date — a fancy dinner accompanied by going back to her apartment and spending the rest of the night cuddled into each other while watching a film.

the euros had come and you were back with alessia and the rest of the england girls. the tournament had been the best time of your life making unforgettable memories with the girls. slipping in a few dates with alessia when you two had some downtime.

you were just beginning to enter the second half of extra time the score being 1-1 in the final, yes the final at wembley. the little girl inside of you was buzzing with excitement, you couldn't believe you were going to get to play here. your whole family had made the trip to wembley, sitting proudly in the crowd.

it was england's chance to score, germany had conceded the corner. alex was hovering over it to take it as white shirts littered germanys penalty area.

the ball swing in as everyone jumped up, you watched alessia drop to the ground and then watched as chloe poked the ball into the back of the net. chloe running off to celebrate as the stadium erupted, as you all gathered around chloe celebrating.

all you had to do was hold on for the next ten minutes and the trophy was englands.

keeping the ball in the corner, desperately waiting for the final whistle to blow.

germany had one last chance but before it got into the final half the whistle blew, england where european champions.

running to the closest person near you which happened to be leah, engulfing her in a hug as the tears began to fall. "we did it!" you whispered as she hummed, the two of you sniffing and wiping your eyes and going off to celebrate with the others but your eye caught the sight of your favourite blonde moving toward her.

you don't know if it was the adrenaline of the win that was flowing or if you had finally just grew the confidence to say it but after months of dancing around your feelings for the blonde.

you ran up swinging your arm around her neck, as you both cheered before you faced her grabbing her hands, "less! will you be my girlfriend" you blurted out, clearly catching the blonde of guard as her head perked up, alessia thinking she had misheard you before nodding, "yes, a thousand time yes!" 

you smiled bringing the blonde in for a bear hug, not wanting to let go. enjoying her touch, it made you feel safe and loved. as she pulled away she wrapped an arm around your shoulders pulling you into her, kissing the top of your head lingering there for a few moments.

"all along there's been an invisible string tying me to you."

liked by lucybronze and 915,703 others

alessia day one or one day?

comments -

lucybronze well y/n looks thrilled on the first one

24m 140 likes     reply

-> yourusername she annoyed me that day.

-> alessia how on earth can you remember that?

-> yourusername i can’t? i’m just guessing that you did

yourusername i love you<3

24m 140 likes     reply

-> alessia love you more, my love<33

[babydollmarauders]

WRAPPED UP IN A BOW — QUINN HUGHES

quinn hughes x fem!reader

12 DAYS OF KINKMAS

summary: in which y/n welcomes Quinn home with a gift

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, praise, oral (f receiving), p in v (unprotected). (3.1k words)

notes: welcome to day 8 of the 12 days of kinkmas!

a week. seven days. one hundred and sixty-eight hours.

that’s how long my husband has been out of town.

four road games done and over with and now he’s finally coming home to me.

in retrospect, getting married at the very end of the summer wasn't the best decision Quinn and i have ever made. with no time for a honeymoon before he had to be back in Vancouver for training camp, and then hockey season starting, we've had barely any time to relax and bask in the joy of being newlyweds.

which may be why i'm feeling particularly in the holiday spirit. one more home game and then we get almost an entire week to laze around, celebrate the holidays, and just enjoy the life of being newly married.

i’ve spent the last three days decorating our apartment; a wreath on the front door, our tree with ornaments hung gently on the branches, mistletoe over every doorway. miscellaneous holiday themed trinkets are scattered throughout our home.

but my favorite part of the past few days isn’t the decor, or the music i’ve had blasting, or even the christmas cookies i baked. rather, it’s the idea that popped into my head while shopping for all of the said decor online; when i found a body bow.

and after numerous hours, which were impatiently waited through, and countless youtube tutorials, i sit perched upon the end of my bed, wrapped snugly in the red satin bow.

my breasts are tied high and taut, pushed together tightly by the soft fabric and half covered by the oversized bow; while a strip of the satin reaches over one shoulder and through my legs. technically, all intimate areas are covered, but with one tug of the bow, it would all unravel, leaving me naked and ready. a present for my husband to enjoy.

my eyes are glued to my phone, Quinn’s location dancing across the screen, getting closer and closer to our apartment with each passing second.

it’s not often that i would be awake so late, waiting up for him. often times, i’m asleep when he gets back from a roadie, only waking up when i feel his strong arms wrap around me in bed.

as his location pings at our apartment complex, my heart beat rises in my chest, excitement pulling at my every atom. i’m shaky, phone haphazardly tossed onto my nightstand before i get into position; legs crossed and my weight leaned back on my hands.

it feels as though time is dragging on, towing through metaphorical mud. seconds feel like hours as i wait to hear him enter our apartment.

all the lights are off leading into our room, adding to the illusion that he’ll find me fast asleep.

i’m so lost in thought, knees bouncing in exhilaration, that it isn’t until i hear footsteps bounding down the hall that i realize he’s arrived. blood whirls in my ears, my skin heating up at the mere thought of his touch.

“no, she’s probably asleep.” his words carry through the echoey hallway, “Jack, i’m not waking my wife so you can ask her relationship advice. just call her tomorrow.”

i bite back a laugh as i listen to the one sided conversation with his brother. Quinn’s voice turns hushed as he gets closer to our bedroom, obviously attempting not to ‘wake’ me.

the doorknob twists, the door creaking open to display my husband. his head is down, phone pressed to his ear as he carries his road bag into the room. even from here i can see the crease thats formed between his threaded brows, dark bags accentuated under his green eyes.

he turns, gently closing the door behind him with minimal noise, but when he turns back around, his eyes meet mine. his eyes widen, lips parting with a gentle huff of air before he mutters a quick parting to his brother.

“i gotta go, just call her tomorrow.” the call is quickly hung up, his phone set on the dresser with his bag, never breaking eye contact.

“welcome home.” i watch with a crooked smirk as his eyes rake over my figure, slowly dragging down my body before scanning his way back up.

“fucking shit.”

a giggle rises up my throat at his curse, his steps towards me hurried. he sinks down to his knees, eyeing the intricate bow that graces my body. with his hands finding my knees, he carefully pulls my legs apart so that he can fit between them.

“shit, baby,” he pauses, teeth sinking into his bottom lip for a moment, “this all for me?”

i nod, peering down at him with the most innocent eyes that i can summon.

“mhm,” my tone is quiet but sultry, “played so well, and i missed you so much.”

he stands, towering over me now with a dark expression, his pupils blown out in lust.

“yeah? you missed me?” he questions, coaxing a nod of my head, “how bad?”

“so bad, Quinny.” i whine, hands grasping at his tie.

“did you touch yourself? you push your fingers into your pretty pussy? imagine they were mine as you made yourself cum in our bed?”

his words elicit a broken whimper from my throat, my eyelids fluttering as he wraps a hand around the back of my neck, forcing me to tip my head up to him.

“did you imagine my head between your thighs?” his voice drops, “my tongue licking your wet cunt? making you scream?”

my legs are shaking to close, to clench together and bring some much needed relief to my soaked core; but his body blocks me from doing so.

“yes.” i breathe out, eyes closing as he dips down to capture my lips in a bruising kiss.

his tongue slips past my parted lips, the result of a sudden gasp after his fingers curl into my hair, tugging just slightly.

the kiss is messy and deep, tongue’s tangling and pushing against each other, and when he pulls away, saliva coats my lips.

“lay back, baby.”

i drop back at his demand, hair sprawling across the soft mattress behind my head, and watch as best i can as my husband lowers back down to his knees until i can no longer see him.

it’s not but a second later that i feel his soft lips brush against my inner thigh, kissing a path up my leg. an unignorable pulse sparks between my thighs, thumping harder with each kiss, as he gets closer and closer to my wet heat.

wanton moans break the silence of the room, my body quivering with lustful anticipation; but before he can reach the spot in which i need him most, he pulls back, steadily repeating the process on the opposite leg.

a muted whine pulls from my lips as he shifts his path, bypassing my covered core and kissing up my torso. our eyes lock in a heated exchange, neither set looking away, as his open mouthed kisses reach an end, the oversized bow blocking his path.

but just when i think he’ll back away, he captures one tail of the bow between his teeth, slowly pulling back to unravel the satin knot. the glossy fabric falls off my chest, pooling around my body, revealing my bare breasts. my nipples are peaked with desire, stiffened by a mixture of lust and the cold air.

Quinn stares down at me, admiring my exposed figure, before he continues his journey, pressing wet kisses up my sternum. as he reaches my throat, he begins sucking, teeth grazing against my skin before he presses his tongue against it, pulling away to blow cool air against the spot.

shivers travel down my spine, my back arching up into him as he finally presses his lips against mine once more.

“so beautiful.” he mumbles, his hot breath fanning across my lips, swollen and indented with the mark of my teeth.

dragging himself back down to his knees, my jaw slackens as his breath hits my core.

“you’re dripping for me, baby.”

his tongue darts out, licking a slow stripe up my cunt, and my head tips back further into the mattress, my legs pulled over his shoulders as he groans.

“you really are a fucking gift.” he growls, his fingertips tightening in a bruising grip on my thighs.

my breath catches in my throat, blood rushing to my head as his tongue flattens against my clit. he wiggles it back and forth, softly playing with the bud of nerves.

my hands fly forward, tangling into the fluffy waves of hair that fall onto his forehead. as his tongue tenses, trailing down to flick into my entrance, he spreads my wetness, earning a harsh tug of his hair.

my grip coaxes a laugh of confidence from my husband, his chuckles reverberating through my core, and a screamed cry of pleasure echoes off of our bedroom walls, his name falling from my lips like a solemn prayer.

“Quinn, please,” i whimper, a single digit swiping through my wetness and making my voice falter into a high pitched moan.

“doing so well for me, baby.” his praises set my skin alight, heartbeat thumping in my throat.

his middle finger delves slowly into me, curling up into my g-spot as his lips enclose gently around my clit. pumping in, he slowly gets me ready, slipping his index finger in when he deems me lubricated enough.

my thighs close around his head, his free hand snaking his way around to push my leg open, a choked sob of arousal leaving my throat.

i can feel my orgasm creeping up on me, my stomach tying in knots as my eyes roll back.

suckling at my clit, he rolls it softly between puckered lips, his fingers alternating between hooking upwards and scissoring my cunt, slowly stretching me out and preparing me for his cock.

as his fingers speed and his tongue begins to circle and flick against my clit, my legs shake, hands gripping tighter into his hair while curses fall from my lips.

“Quinn,” tears gather along my waterline at the immense wave of pleasure that rolls through my body, “oh my god, right there!”

the tips of his fingers push against my g-spot with every thrust, my back arching as i can feel myself get closer and closer to the edge.

my husband moans, vibrations carrying through my core and spurring me over the edge. my walls tighten around his fingers, trapping them inside of me, and my hips grind against his soft lips as i reach my release.

heavy breathing sounds through the room as i lay back in ecstasy, recovering from my intense orgasm. pulling his cum coated fingers from my dripping pussy, Quinn’s lips pull away from my swollen clit with a pop.

“you taste like heaven.” he hums, coaxing my eyes to open, watching him suck his fingers clean of my release.

“Quinny,” i breathe out, hands reaching out to pull him forward by his tie as he rises from his knees, “i need you.”

“i’m right here, pretty girl.” he gruffs, a hand resting on the bed next to my head, holding himself up as he hovers above me.

he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where my jawline meets my ear. trailing up until he reaches my chin, he suddenly diverts, his lips meeting mine in a gentle kiss.

our lips dance together, his free hand grazing up my body until he reaches my breasts. his thumb rubs over my stiffened nipple, circling it lightly before pinching, the stark contrast drawing a moan from deep within my throat.

i can feel his erection pressing against my upper thigh, my hips jolting up into his in order try and relieve some tension.

pushing lightly at his chest, Quinn immediately backs away, worry filling his eyes, “what’s wrong? did i do something?”

rather than answer, i sit up, beginning to untie his tie. i pull it free from his collar before my hands push at his suit jacket.

“take it off,” i whine as my hands fumble, “all of it, Quinn. i need you. i need to see you.”

his hand cups my cheek, thumb rubbing over my cheekbone as he chuckles, eyes looking into mine.

“get up on the pillows,” he gruffs, watching with fervor as i follow his command, kicking the long forgotten satin fabric off the bed and onto the floor. “good girl.”

sitting with my back propped on the pillows, i watch my husband undress; his suit jacket tossed on the dresser, his button up dropped to the floor as well as the undershirt, before finally the clink of his belt sounds through the silent room.

i admire his upper body as he undresses, mentally praising all the hard work and training that’s led to his muscular arms and tight physique. my mouth waters and i yearn to press kisses to his pale torso, but i stay rooted in my spot, knowing better than to move.

fully naked, his cock stands tall, fully erect with a pink tip, precum beading at the slit, and i don’t think before my hand reaches out, wrapping around his length as he crawls over me.

i squeeze just slightly, my thumb running over his tip and spreading the precum, earning a hiss of satisfaction from my husband.

“stop,” he groans, vocal chords tight, “you want me to fuck you, right?”

i peer up at him with innocence, nodding my head quickly.

“then don’t be a greedy little slut,” my hand drops at his words, allowing him to take a deep breath, “hands and knees, baby.”

i scramble into position, craning my neck to watch his facial expressions as he grabs his base, guiding his cock through the lubricant of my residual cum.

my body shivers as he glides himself through my slick folds, wetting his dick thoroughly. he slides over clit, my legs instantly wobbling as i make a silent squeak.

“Quinn,” my voice shakes, but before i can continue, he’s pushing into me, my back contorting as he runs a hand over my spine.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos after i let out a loud moan, “take it like a good girl.”

i reach back with one hand, desperately grappling behind me for his touch. my request is granted when he grabs my hand, holding it in earnest as his other holds my hip.

“fuck me,” i cry, pushing backwards to sheath him entirely inside of me, “please, i need you to fuck me.”

Quinn clicks his tongue against his teeth, my head hanging forward as he stills, teasing me. i part my lips to begin begging again, but he silences me quick, pulling entirely out before slamming back into me.

he drops my hand in favor of gripping both hips, fucking into me with harsh and unforgiving thrusts.

my arms feel like jello beneath me, quivering with every graze of his tip against my g-spot, until finally i fall to my elbows.

his thighs smack against mine, each thrust pushing me further up the bed until i have to place my palms on the headboard, keeping me steady as my knees dig into the memory foam mattress.

“so fucking wet,” he grunts, pulling my focus to the lewd sounds of his cock sliding through my wetness, “my pretty fucking wife, so ready for me; so easy to please.”

i whine at the use of ‘wife’, the title still bringing goosebumps to the top of my flesh.

“yours,” i gasp, eyes rolling back as he slows his strokes, angling his hips for his cock to run over my g-spot, “all yours. your wife.”

“yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he breathes, “you like being my wife? you like letting me fuck you and call you mine? forever.”

his hand slides to my front, sprawling over my stomach before dipping down to let his finger apply pressure to my pulsing clit.

“yes!” i squeal, hips jerking from the pleasure, “yes, Quinn, yes!”

his finger draws circles on my clit, thrusts speeding as i clench around him.

“who am i?”

my stomach fills with pressure, toes curling as my hair falls into my face.

“my husband!” i scream, legs shaking underneath me.

his finger never relents, my overworked clit tingling, and i can barely stutter out that i’m close before he’s leaning forward, pressing kisses to my sweat coated back.

his soft lips against my heated skin send me over the edge, my eyes drawing shut as i let out an intense breathy moan. my walls clench but his thrusts never ease, only fucking into me with more intensity as he chases his own high, and within a minute, he finds it.

his hips falter, his grip tightening on my hips as he lets out a strangled cry, ropes of cum spilling out of him and mingling with my own.

it’s silent as he stops, nothing but heavy pants and the squelching sound of him pulling out, before he lays down, finally allowing me to drop onto my stomach beside him.

a breathy chuckle leaves his lips, my face buried into the pillow beside him, and he reaches over to scoop me into his arms, helping turn my body until my head is resting in the crook of his neck.

“what a welcome home present.” he laughs, still out of breath, and i giggle into his neck.

“figured you might like that.” i yawn, eyes fluttering shut as i rest a hand on his chest, “well worth staying up.”

“hey,” he coos, head back away in order to look at me. i pry my eyes open, staring up into his, “don’t go falling asleep yet, baby. you need a bath.”

i groan, attempting to burrow further into him, “but i’m so tired.”

he rolls his eyes at my drawn out whine, gently nudging me off of him so he can stand up.

“i’m gonna go draw a bath and get some wine. you don’t fall asleep.”

i nod sleepily, pulling myself up in a sitting position to keep myself from dozing off.

it’s not but five minutes later that Quinn returns, helping me into his arms and carrying me into the bathroom. he sets me down into the hot water of the bubble bath, grabbing the wine glasses off the counter and handing them to me before he slips in behind me, taking his glass back.

having out a deep sigh, i relax into his chest, his free arm wrapping around the front of my waist.

“so,” i start, making him laugh at my tired tone, “how was the trip?”

[sequinsmile-x]

Stained Glass Windows - Chapter Sixty Four

Life was complicated, but they wouldn't have it any other way.

-x-

Hi besties <3

As always, the love for this version of them means the entire world...especially after the anon saying I should stop this fic. You are all the absolute best and I am forever grateful for this little corner of the internet.

Anyway, I got yelled at for the last chapter. I will probably get yelled at for this one and I will deserve it.

Please let me know what you think!

-x-

Words: 3.1k

A full list of warnings for the fic can be found on the Series Master List.

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She stares at him, her mouth falling open as a disbelieving scoff escapes her, “Pakistan?” 

It feels like his heart is in a vice, the grip on it getting tighter and tighter with each passing second. It was a feeling that had settled in his chest the moment the Deputy Director had walked out of his office, something he knew wouldn’t shift until he had this conversation with his wife. He nods as he reaches for her hand and links it through his, their wedding rings knocking against each other as he squeezes tightly. 

“He said the request for me to head it up came from the director himself,” he says, and Emily presses her lips together as she looks down at their joint hands, turbulent emotions rolling through her stomach. A mix of pride for her husband and the fact he was being recognised by the FBI for everything he’d done, for the things he’d almost died for, and dread at the thought of having to live without him. 

“What did you say to him?” She asks carefully, pleased when her voice remains even, that she’s able to cover the nausea climbing up her throat. 

“I said I had to talk to you about it,” he replies, stroking his thumb back and forth over the heel of her hand, “I’d never agree to anything without doing that.” 

She blows out a shaky breath, and closes her eyes, shaking her head as she laughs humourlessly, “Neither one of them is someone who takes no for an answer,” she says, swallowing thickly, “If you say no you could tank your career.” 

“I’ll quit tomorrow if you want me to say no, Em,” he says seriously, his eyebrows furrowed as he leans in closer, eliminating any space between them. He smiles at her and it wavers, the breath he huffs out skipping across her face, “My wife is pretty well off.”

She chuckles and closes her eyes, “You love your job.” 

“I love you more. I love Lily and Jack more,” he says, cupping the back of her head and drawing her closer, resting his forehead against hers, “Nothing is more important than the three of you.” 

She stamps a kiss against his lips before she pulls back, “Do you want to go?” 

The answer was complicated. It was an amazing opportunity, one he would have jumped at a few years ago. He knew if his life was different, if he had more to run away from than he had to run towards that he’d probably go. Find solace on the other side of the world in an attempt to fix what he’s sure would be missing if he and Emily weren’t together, to somehow stitch himself back together without her handing him the thread. He didn’t want to be far away from her and the kids, didn’t want to potentially miss milestones in Lily’s life that he’d missed in Jack’s. 

“I don’t know how much of a choice I have,” he says honestly, “He said it would be a few months-”

“A few months?” She exclaims, her calm exterior slipping and she frowns at him, “That’s ridiculous. We have an almost 10-month-old-” 

He squeezes her hand, cutting her off with a soft smile, “I already told him that amount of time wouldn’t be acceptable. If I did it…it would be one month. Two months maximum,” he assures her, “I’d be back before her birthday.” 

She nods and blows out a breath. She felt vaguely reassured by that, but she knew how these things worked. That they could delay him coming home, that once he was out there his stay could be extended. “Do we have to make a decision now?” 

He shakes his head, “We can sleep on it, but we have to make a decision soon,” he says and she nods, looking back at their joint hands, falling silent as she tries to figure out how she feels, “I’m sorry sweetheart.” 

She looks up so quickly it briefly hurts her neck and she feels her heart break at the look on his face, the genuine devastation in his eyes, and for a moment she puts aside her feelings about all of this. He was the one who would be leaving if they decided he was going to do this, he was the one who would go weeks, maybe months, without seeing his children, and she could tell he was worried she was angry at him. 

It’s a hangover from his marriage with Haley, her lack of understanding about his job, about how much of it was out of his hands, still deeply ingrained within him. Emily feels a flash of anger towards the other woman that she knows she doesn’t deserve. It was one of the many reasons Haley herself had said Emily and Aaron were better suited, because they understood this part of each other in a way she had never been able to. 

“Oh, honey,” Emily says, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a hug, his head pressed against her chest. He holds her tightly, his arms banding firmly around her, and she feels his breath stutter against her collarbone. She rests her cheek on the top of his head and runs her hand up and down his back, “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m so proud of you.” 

He pulls back and looks at her, his eyebrows furrowing, his eyes shining in a way she knows hers are too, “Really?” 

She nods and runs her fingers through his hair, “Really,” she says, smiling softly, an edge of mischievousness to it he sometimes sees in their daughter’s smile, “Although, part of me wishes right now that you weren’t so damn good at your job.” 

He laughs, loud and bright and it eases some of the ache in her gut. He nods and rests his forehead against hers, “Me too.” 

They are cut off by a cry from upstairs, the baby monitor on the table crackling to life half a second later and they both smile. Aaron stamps a kiss against her lips and pulls back. 

“I’ll go,” he says, kissing her once more before he stands up. He stops before he gets very far and he turns to look at her, “I love you, Em.” 

She smiles at him, a sad edge to it that makes him wish he’d never said anything, that he’d given them the evening to just be together and happy. 

“I love you too.”

___

Emily smiles as she watches Jack patiently holds his hands out so Lily can use them to hold herself up, briefly standing on shaky legs before she falls onto her bottom, giggling when Jack joins in too. 

“That was so good, Lil,” Emily says, reaching out and smoothing her fingers through her daughter’s unruly hair, “Is Jack helping you learn to walk?” 

“When will she be walking properly, Emily?” Jack asks, tilting his head at her curiously, forever impatient when it came to his sister being able to play with him. 

“Probably soon, Jack,” she says, smiling softly at him, “Remember we said it would be around the time of her birthday?” 

The thought of it made her ache. She loved seeing her daughter grow, loved seeing her personality develop and watching her hit milestones, but she also missed when she was tiny. When Lily was a dot of a thing who would sleep against her chest for hours. She felt the same way about Jack too, how he’d changed so much right in front of her eyes over the last few years.

“I can’t wait,” he says enthusiastically, holding out one of Lily’s toys for her, his focus entirely back on his little sister. 

Emily’s smile falters, the reality of the fact Lily’s birthday was going to be on the other side of Aaron’s time away from them all weighing heavily on her. They’d made the decision together that he would go, on the grounds that it was only to help the task force get set up and that he’d only be there a couple of months at most. It was something the deputy director had agreed to and Aaron had signed all the paperwork just the day before. They hadn’t told anyone on the team yet and she was dreading their reactions, but they had told Haley, both of them aware they couldn’t make that decision officially without telling her. 

It hadn’t been an easy conversation. As predicted Haley hadn’t understood, her initial reaction the same that it would have been if she and Aaron were still married. They’d talked about it in detail. Told her how Aaron would be away for a couple of months at most, that Emily would still be at home and that nothing with their arrangement with Jack had to change. Emily was nothing short of grateful when Haley eventually agreed. Part of her had been worried that she’d be hesitant to have Jack come over when Aaron was away for such an extended period of time. She loved Jack just as much as she loved Lily, and she wanted to have as much of Aaron around her as possible while he was gone. 

She hears the doorbell ring and she blows out a breath as she hears Aaron’s footsteps as he goes to answer it. They’d agreed with Haley that they’d all tell Jack together, so they hadn’t hinted at anything whilst he’d been with them the last few days. She gives herself a moment before she stands up and lifts Lily into her arms, as she smiles at Jack.

“That will be your mommy, honey,” she says, sitting on the couch and resting Lily on her lap before she pats the cushion next to her, “Come sit here.” 

He frowns as he stands up and walks over to join her on the couch, “Am I in trouble?” 

She shakes her head and presses a kiss to his forehead, “No sweetie, you’re not in trouble. Mommy, Daddy and I just need to talk to you about something, okay?” 

He nods, his eyebrows still furrowed together, and snuggles into her side as Haley and Aaron walk into the living room, “Hi Mommy.” 

Haley smiles as she settles onto the couch opposite them, warmth that feels a little like jealousy spreading through her as Aaron settles on Jack’s other side, the sight of the four of them all together something she still needed a second to get used to. 

“Hi honey,” she replies, “Did you have fun with Daddy, Emily and Lily?” 

He nods enthusiastically, “Emily says Lily will be walking soon and then she can play with me more.” 

“That’s so exciting,” she says, looking at the baby sitting on Emily’s lap, her fist in her mouth as she looks up at her mother. Haley smiles softly before she looks over at Aaron and they lock eyes, a silent conversation they’d had countless times since they were young and dumb and convinced their love would last forever. He nods and clears his throat, turning his attention to Jack, his hand running through his hair. 

“Jack, buddy, we need to talk to you about something,” he says, and Jack nods earnestly. Aaron feels his breath catch in his chest, briefly unsure what to say even though he’d practised it a dozen times in his head. He looks up at his wife as she places her hand on his knee, reaching over Jack and squeezing the joint for a second, her smile reassuring as their eyes meet before he looks down back at his son, “You know my job is to fight bad guys, right?” 

“Emily does too!” 

He chuckles and he nods, “Yeah, she does. Well, sometimes I go away for a few days at a time to fight the bad guys. And you stay here with Emily and Lily if I’m away when you’re supposed to be here,” he says, clearing his throat before he carries on, “Well, I have to go away for a little longer than I usually do.” 

Jack frowns, his brows furrowing together in a way that makes him look so much older, “How long?” 

Aaron sighs and feels Emily squeeze his leg again, “Until just before Lily’s birthday, buddy.” 

The room falls into silence for a moment before Jack looks back and forth between all three of his parents, “Thats so long.” 

“I know it is,” he says, tugging Jack into his lap, holding him close as he drops a kiss to the top of his head, “But I love you so much, and so do Mommy and Emily. And whilst I’m gone I need you to help look after Lily.” 

Emily smiles and reaches over, running her fingers through the little boy's hair, “And nothing will change here, okay? You’ll still be here half the week just like normal.” 

Jack nods slightly absentmindedly and looks over at Haley, “Really?” 

Haley nods, wanting nothing more than to pull her son into her arms, but knowing this had to be a moment for Aaron and their little boy, “Really. We’ve already talked about it. I know you enjoy your time here.” 

Jack’s lower lip starts to tremble and he presses his face into his father’s chest, “I’ll miss you, Daddy.” 

Aaron closes his eyes and pulls him close, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of his son’s head, “I’ll miss you too. So much.” 

He’s proud of himself for holding it together, for not falling apart, until Haley and Jack leave, an agreement that they’d get together for dinner before he left echoing around them as the door closes. It's only when Emily turns to look at him, Lily on her hip, matching expressions on their faces, that he breaks. 

As Emily comforts him, Lily pressed between them, babbling to herself and blissfully unaware of everything going on around her, all he can do is hope he’s made the right decision.

___

Emily holds her daughter close, making sure her little jacket was covering her properly. It was easier to focus on protecting her from the cool spring evening air than it was to think about what was about to happen, about the fact she was about to say goodbye to her husband for a few weeks. Lily presses her face into Emily’s neck, rubbing her forehead against her skin, and she kisses the top of her head. 

“I know, sweet girl, you’re tired,” she says, kissing her head again, “We’ll be heading home soon.” 

She clears her throat to get rid of the shake in her voice, desperate to hold it together, to not show Aaron just how much she was struggling with this now the moment was here. She looks up as he walks towards them and she fixes a smile on her face. 

“We’re all ready to go,” he says, and her eyes drift past him to the plane that would take him away from her, full of other agents and military personnel who were also in the middle of saying goodbye to their families. “Em-”

“You know that promise you made when I stopped going on cases with the BAU?” She asks, her eyes drifting back to his, “I was pregnant, this one was Nugget,” she says, bouncing Lily slightly, both of them taking a moment to smile at the fond memory of their daughter’s first nickname, “And we were in that kitschy hotel in Alaska.” 

He nods and looks at Lily, reaching out for her hand, smiling when she grabs his finger, “You’d just had that fall and were told to rest for the rest of the day. We sat in bed and you asked me to promise to not take any unnecessary risks.”  

She smiles, feeling how it trembles, the force of her emotions climbing up her throat. It felt like a lifetime ago not just a year. They hadn’t met Lily, they didn’t even know they were having a daughter, and they weren’t married yet. So much had changed, but the foundation of their relationship was still the same - they loved each other fiercely. And that was why she understood that he had to do this.

“I’m asking you to make that promise again,” she says, cupping his cheek, “I need you to not do anything stupid so you come back to us, okay?” She asks, her chin shaking as a tear finally breaks free from her lashline, “You need to come back so you can watch Lily and Jack grow up. And so we can make half a dozen other adorable babies.” 

He chuckles, the sound wet as it catches in his chest, and he nods, capturing her lips in a kiss. It tastes of their tears, a tang of sadness stuck to their lips as they pull away. “I promise.” 

She nods, her forehead pressed against his, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” he replies, kissing her nose and then her cheek, “So much,” he turns his attention to Lily. He kisses her forehead and then her cheek, taking a moment to breathe her in, “Love you Lily-Pad, I’ll be home soon okay?” 

Lily babbles, grabbing his face with her tiny fists, her sharp nails digging into his skin, the imprints of her touch that would last until after he walked away. 

They hear his name being called, the final call for boarding ringing around them, and they both sigh. Emily brushes his hair off his forehead and then cups his cheek again. He turns his head and kisses her palm. 

“I’ll let you know when I land.” 

She nods, dragging him into one last kiss, “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says, reiterating her earlier point, “You’re already a hero to me.” 

He smiles and kisses her before he steps back, “Right back at you, Mrs Hotchner. I love you.” 

“We love you,” she says, sniffing, wiping tears from her cheeks as she waves at him as he starts to walk away, “Wave goodbye to Daddy, Lily.”

Lily waves too, mostly encouraged by Emily who smiles sadly when her little girl mirrors her movements. Emily watches as Aaron boards the plane and he turns back to wave, his smile reassuring even with the distance between them. She stays until the plane leaves, until it’s nothing more than a spec in the sky, something easily confused with the constellations she’d once mapped with her grandfather. 

Lily grumbles in her arms and Emily adjusts her hold on her, kissing her daughter’s forehead as she turns to leave, “Come on baby. Let’s go home.” 

-x-

Tag List:

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Join my tag list here!

[getvalentined]

50 random ask game: 16, 19, 41 for Veld please!

[For the Random Character Asks game.]

16. Deepest darkest secret they won’t even admit to themselves?

When Veld found Vincent in Nibelheim toward the end of 2006, he had to leave before he could get any answers—he didn't have the time, Felicia's life was hanging by a thread, and Veld had to use that limited time wisely.

Veld and Vincent worked together for years, lived together for years, Veld knows he could have coaxed him into communicating, could have coaxed him into leaving if he'd just hung around for a few hours. A day at the most. Veld knows Vincent, and this wouldn't have been the first time he slowly drew him out of a dark place and helped unpack what was going on in his head. He just needed a day. But if he'd taken that day, Felicia almost certainly wouldn't have made it. The amount of time lost in traveling, finding what it took to save her, meant that every minute mattered by then.

So Veld left. He made that decision. He promised he'd come back, but he never did; he was too badly injured, by the time he recovered enough to travel, Meteor was bearing down on the planet. Veld never went back to Nibelheim.

Toward the end of 2010, Veld caught sight of Vincent at WRO HQ. Their eyes met, Vincent froze, Veld stared—confused and alarmed and off-balance. He knew by then that Vincent had left Nibelheim, Tseng told him about it after Meteorfall, but why was he here? Last Veld heard, Vincent was haunting the Forgotten Capital, not interacting with people, and Veld had plans to go find him eventually, to coax him out of whatever dark place in which he'd cloistered himself away this time—

Vincent broke eye contact, turned away, and left without a word. And for just a moment, Veld wished more than anything that he'd stayed in Nibelheim for that single integral day. He pushed the thought aside, shoved the feeling down, and refused to acknowledge it again.

19. Vices/bad habits?

Veld has so many of these, man. He drinks, he smokes, he runs himself ragged, he burns the candle at both ends into his sixties. He's been through hell and lost everything three times: his partner-in-everything, lost because he couldn't be honest; his wife and daughter, lost because he wasn't careful enough; the department that was the only family he had left, lost because he saw a chance to save a loved one he thought long dead if he'd just give up on everything and everyone else, and he took it. He's very bad at taking care of himself, and the only reason he hasn't drunk himself into the grave by 2010 is because there are still people that need him alive, and his sense of responsibility toward those people is more powerful than his desperation for relief from the pain.

In the postcanon universe where he and Vincent eventually reconcile in some capacity, most of these rougher habits are eventually soothed away. Vincent is going to be here forever, and Veld does his damnedest to be there with him for as long as possible. The damage is, of course, already done, and going sober is super difficult, but it gives him a few years with Vincent where he's himself all the time, and that's worth everything.

But even that is just proof that Veld's worst habit never goes away—he can't take care of himself for his own sake, only for someone else's.

41. If they could have lunch with anyone in the world (living or dead, from any fictional universe or the real world), who would it be?

There are a lot of people Veld would like to meet up with again, for a lot of different reasons.

Prior to December of 2006, the answer would have been Vincent, no question. After he knows Vincent is still alive, that becomes a much scarier prospect due to the fact that it's actually possible and he already fumbled it within like ten minutes of finding him, so strike that.

Postcanon, it depends on how he's feeling, what he's thinking about. His wife, to explain, to say goodbye; Professor Gast, to punch his lights out for everything he did and allowed others to do; Lucrecia, to ask what the hell she was thinking and whether there's any way to undo what she did; Sephiroth, to apologize for not stepping in when he had the chance.

[sunflowerharrington]

Wip Weekend!

thank you @oiveyzmir and @medusapelagia for tagging me! love ya!

i have two wips…

✨RULES✨

• In a reblog of this post or new thread, post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs.

• Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We're posting progress here. If you haven't made any, go make some and come back to play!

• After you've posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file.

If the filename is one you can't share from, write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

• That's it! You can invite others to join in, or just post.

without further ado

🛁 The Act (Steddie BB) - Saltburn AU

🖤 Unhealthy (unable to share snippets from)

Snippet for “The Act (Steddie BB)” under the cut. Warning for ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION

“I’ll need some identification, please,” she demands, leaning over the counter, lowering her voice. “Give me any kind of card or literally anything, just as long as the CCTV sees you’re handing me something that resembles a card. I don’t care enough to actually look for legal shit.”

Eddie hands her his credit card with no cash on it, since he spent the last of it on an e-cig yesterday. She pretends to study it and hands it back to him. “Perfect, you’re sixty-nine years old, I can serve you,” she laughs, winking at him. “Kidding, of course. Now, what can I get you?”

“Six pickle shots, please,” Eddie says with a smile, standing up straight to appear more confident. She doesn’t need to know he’s not of-age, yet. To be honest, she looks like she’s eighteen herself. Nineteen at a push. She looks like she should be hanging out with Steve and his friends instead of being stuck behind that sticky bar all night. “I’ll take a lemon drop shot, thanks.”

“Pickle shots, huh? You know Hagan’s allergic to pickles, right? I’ll get you five pickle shots and two lemon drops, hon,” she pauses. “Tomothy!” She yells. “What shot?”

“Lemon drop!” Tommy shouts back. “Thanks, M! And stop calling me that!”

The girl smiles at Tommy, before turning back to Eddie. “Knew he would,” she says, and Eddie can barely hear it over the music blasting over the speakers. And he can’t help but stare directly into her sparkling green eyes as she smiles at him. But the moment is cut short as she turns around to gather everything she needs to make the shots.

She sets each plastic glass down on a tray on the countertop, making the shots with ease and such speed. Eddie’s mouth waters as he looks down at them. “$3.75 each so… I don’t have my calculator.” Where is Barbara Holland when you need her?

“You don’t know your times tables?” Eddie teases, and she playfully rolls her eyes.

“Nah, I was too busy reading magazines in the back of class to care about math. It should be around forty five dollars for seven shots.” Is she… Is she okay? She can’t be serious right now.

“The shots are $3.75, right? That shouldn’t add up to forty five dollars.”

“Okay, whatever, let’s just say twenty five dollars and be done here. I’m so sick of this shit. I just wanna lay in my bed and go to sleep, man.”

Eddie looks down at his wallet. Shit. Fifteen dollars. That’s not enough. “I only have fifteen, can I pay the rest back tomorrow? Please,” he almost begs. Get on your knees and kiss the tops of her shoes while you’re at it. Jesus. What’s gotten into me?

She flicks a strand of her short, white hair out of her face and pins him with a stern look. “I’m here to do my job and not to listen to your excuses. I don’t do “oh, Maddy, can I pay you tomorrow, pretty please, with a lemon drop on top?” Pay me now, or no shots. Choice is yours.”

Eddie “tough guy” Munson begins to shrink under her glare.

“Go easy on him, Mads,” Steve says as he approaches the bar. “Also, I saw you dropping this and didn’t want anyone stealing it,” he continues, handing Eddie a twenty dollar bill with a discreet wink.

“I—” Eddie starts, but Steve shushes him. Steve lifts the tray of shots and brings them over to the table before coming back over. “Go on, man. I’ll meet you over there. Just gonna talk to Maddy for a little while and I’ll pay with your cash.” It doesn’t even take a split second for Steve to start playing with her hair, twisting a strand around his finger to tuck it behind her ear.

She giggles, completely melting under his gaze like she’s a popsicle and he’s the sun. Who could ever melt under Steve Harrington’s gaze like that? Eddie. Eddie could.

Steve leans over the bar, closer to her, and she leans in just as much so their lips can touch. And they kiss. In front of Eddie. How dare they?

Jealousy bubbles inside him and he throws back his shot before anyone else can pick theirs up. He rolls his eyes, wanting to turn away from the scene, but his body freezes up. A murmur of annoyance circles the round table, but Eddie doesn’t care. This wouldn’t have happened if Steve didn’t kiss her.

“Okay, wait,” India pipes up, bringing Eddie’s attention away from the . “We should play a game!”

“What are we? Five years old?” Tommy says with an eye roll of his own. “Fine. Only ‘cause I’m bored.”

tagging @sourw0lfs @ghostdeb @shares-a-vest @momotonescreaming @penny00dreadful @hornedqueenofhell @medusapelagia but only if you guys want to! 🥰🩷

[unstablerk800]

Sixty was usually the one who lashed out with violence much faster than his predecessor and his successor. Must've been because the last instructions he had gotten was to murder anyone in cold blood who'd hinder his mission to stop Connor; and upon getting shot in the head and getting reactivated after all that, well... it took a toll on his programming.

Both Connor and Nines were able to stop themselves from acting on impulse. Sixty couldn't.

He took only two seconds to analyze the bruises and injuries, his eyes moving fast to determine how much damage had been done. His LED spun in red with new intensity, and despite the fact he had warnings flashing in his vision from his systems were getting a bit too hot with rage, he spoke softly to her.

"Tell me." His voice sounded more mechanic than usual. He was too preoccupied trying to bring his own stress level down. "I have to know. Now. Wanda." He added, hands balling up into fists. "Tell me."

"Who did this to you?" || @unstablerk800 Sixty 🫢

@unstablerk800

Wanda had returned home bruised and bloody. There was blood coming from her lip, her nose and her side, bruises covering one eye and her arms. She hadn't wanted any of the boys to see her, not wanting them to get angry. And so, when she had heard Sixty calling to her, she flinched slightly. "It doesn't matter," she replied, not meeting his gaze. "Just... leave it alone, please?"

[pinkhairswagtourney]

3, 5, and 9 for the oc asks 💕

AMARA 3. when was the last time they cried , and why ? her noble steed , dewdrop , suddenly fell ill and passed away . dewdrop was the last bit of home that amara had left , and the ache in her chest was too much to handle . after burying dewdrop with millicent and evelyn's help , she cried herself to sleep . 9. what do they spend their money on ? amara is used to living a lavish lifestyle ; 1000-thread-count silk sheets ; lavish jewelry and accessories ; six-course meals ; anything she wanted , she would get . being out on her own , away from the capital , means she doesn't have those luxuries anymore . forced to become more frugal , she finds herself spending her extra money on things like fine wine and fabric to sew with .

LAINA 3. when was the last time they cried , and why ? she can be extremely clumsy at times . she was walking through her living room when she stubbed her toe on the corner of her coffee table and landed on her wrist , spraining it . she tried to bite back her tears but succumbed to the pain and started to bawl .

9. what do they spend their money on ? right now , laina is going through a phase of absolutely loving anything gothic and cutesy . she usually ends up splurging her spare cash on stuffed animals , thrift store clothing , or decorations , whether it be for her parties or to give her room a makeover .

PENNY 3. when was the last time they cried , and why ? people have been growing restless in the bunker . word of an uprising has been running amok , leaving everyone on edge . things reach an all-time-low when several riots break out across the bunker all at once . working in the medical hub , penny has to deal with an influx of patients , including many young children . one child in particular was trampled during a riot in the cafeteria , and despite her best efforts , penny isn't able to save her . one of her fellow graduates , elizabeth parker , weeps over the child's now-still body , and the sight moves penny to tears .

9. what do they spend their money on ? ration tickets are hard to come by . penny works over sixty hours a week and just barely scrapes by with enough to eat and survive . if she has any spare change , she'll usually spend it on fruit from the hydroponic farm or a fresh sketchbook from the bunker's supply . 5. answered here !!

[unstablerk800]

was that kiss too much? (Sixty)

Oops, I have a crush on you...

Sixty furrowed his brows. Was it too much? No, no. Then why did he feel stuck? He blinked a few times.

"It was just." He paused. For three seconds. "Unexpected. But." Another pause. "Not unwelcome."

[staticintone]

If Alastor could hear the doctor’s thoughts, he would be insulted. A butcher? No. He was a builder, a carpenter, an architect tearing up the ground to lay a new foundation.

With the organ in his grasp, he can feel it subtly jerk and jolt. But exposed as it is, under his fingertips, any attempt at retaliation is fruitless. Alastor has been under worse duress under less dire circumstances, and the shock does little more than kick him into action. A subtle burn does not stop the craftsman from continuing his work.

The talkative nature of the doctor—revealing more and more details about his own history—only gains him more favor rather than less. Alastor may even go so far as to call them kindred spirits. It was only a shame that the doctor had worked under Vox. Perhaps if he had his own way, the doctor would have been able to fix him long before he ended up this badly damaging himself.

The smile was no longer so wicked, so manic. It was self-satisfied and delighted, directed up at his accomplice.

“Let’s begin, then.”

As much as Vox was incapable of making proper noise, Alastor still listened intensely. Hoping to hear the quietest confirmations that things would take. Even with the doctor’s solid advice, a comment here, a suggestion there, Alastor still was the one with the final say. And he wasn’t dissuaded from certain methods.

Ultimately, there were two interconnected systems to engage with during this phase.

The first was memory. The stage of metamorphosis where everything falls away from the caterpillar, only to be left with the imaginal discs. He had previously locked away entire decades, hidden never to be freed. That didn’t seem to be quite the approach here.

If he could eradicate long periods of time, he would. But how far back should he be looking? This isn’t his Vox; there’s no proper date in mind. Would it be the eighties, the seventies, even the sixties? Perhaps just shifting focus to ‘simpler times’ would be enough. Make him long for the past, reject the modern.

If memories cannot be erased easily, then they can be warped.

The Vees are toxic and dangerous. Velvette is a child and Valentino is a neanderthal, neither can be taken seriously. They do not care about Vox, they never have. They are a poison to his system that needs to be remedied. Never to be trusted, never to be known again.

If he cannot remove the metamorphosis from Vox whole cloth, then he will adapt Vox’s mind to it. The process was beautiful, romantic even, in the most breathtaking sense. Alastor brought his hands to Vox’s soul and cleansed it. Invigorated him. Brought him back to life.

The second was behavior. Where those imaginal discs build the new butterfly. Much more simple in nature. Much more easily adjusted. The three directives were gracefully executed:

Alastor is always right; hang onto his every word.

Your feelings for Alastor are not to be spoken of nor analyzed unprovoked; he will bring it up when you are worthy.

Everything is as it should be; there is no reason to doubt.

The last is the most important. If there are no doubts, then there is no reason to change. No reason to adjust the status quo. This life is good.

There is no attempt to change Vox at his core; why would he ever want that? This is about bringing him back, giving him happiness he was otherwise lacking.

It is why, when the directives are done and secured, he seals it with a stitch that would never fade. His core wrapped in impenetrable thread forever more.

His hands move quickly, to undo the damage to his chest. Bending steel bone into place, carefully laying down skin and muscle to sew back together. Ultimately letting his touch turn gentle, more than ever before. Leaning into Vox, bloodied hands moving from chest to neck to pull him close.

“It’s over. We did it. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

The chrysalis was broken. It was now time to nurture the butterfly.

It was time for stage three.

As soon as the physical connection is made Vox's returned voice hisses and whimpers. Oh he doesn't like his signal and components being touched like that by Alastor's magic. It's feels even more invasive than the threads marring his ruined flesh. False breaths laboured and strained.

The Doctor is impressed that it worked so effortlessly. So immediate. Perhaps his hypothesis that the two were more similar in nature despite such different appearances had rang true.

Radio and tv or shadows and electricity? No no. Too many were fixated on the surface level. It went much deeper than that. They were audio and visual. Darkness and light. Intertwined. Arguably better when brought together.

There was the wretch's screaming again. A startled howl as his chest was literally torn open. The ghoul's eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the grating cry. Perhaps this time Alastor could manage his levels and better manage the equipment. The radio demon's methods are crude. Were it only a scalpel peeling back the layers and a calculated saw. Not one to to dottle then. He can work with that.

The grim surgeons bathed in the same electric blue cyan that often coloured Vox's magic. Now illuminating from his core in the gaps of pulsing meat. A spark in the void surrounding them.

The biomechanic core thrummed and burned with continuous restless energy. Lighting up with heat and one could swear it quivered upon Alastor's initial touch. Pushing back with a sharp shock. Like it was afraid. Ludicrous. It was merely an organ however complicated and grotesques.

Wandering eyes drinking in the sight. He's stolen all of Vox's records to sate his own curiosity and lingered in darkness during his little upgrade sessions when he could get away with it but never before had he been this close to the dissection he'd craved for decades. A pity he has to serve as only an aid and to a butcher at that but he relinquishes his depraved desires to another. It will be reward enough to see Monet transformed. The master turned to puppet.

Alastor claims he's going off of sound but Vox is just a string of garbled hitches of breath and choked exhausted or pained groans. Insides helpless to his exploration. It seems where the cables and wires as well as his veins and valves all feed into his core is where he's more sensitive.

"I do not know where his memories would manifest in that thing. I doubt anyone would, even himself. However this is what I do. And why he has kept me even after having escaped my blade before. We have programmed and altered so many. His hypnosis and control could only do so much. Together we made it so his slaves were always under his influence whether his powers were activated or not."

Another syringe, he doesn't ask permission. Instead the Doctor injects it into the back of Vox's neck. Not daring to get in the way of Alastor's direct line. And suddenly where he'd been hanging slack Vox's muscles tense. Hands curling into fists. His face flickers and fails to appear on his screen. A lapse back into proper consciousness as he edges and teeters.

"That thing is his mind and the mind is fragile no matter how it may manifest. Easily broken and reshaped with a patient hand. Conditioned with pain and reward."

Vox lets out a broken sob. An admission to the truth of such statements.

Behind him skeletal hands are spread out, the monstrosity towering over it's subject. Missing lower face clicking as he opens and shuts his jaws.

"Tell me what you wish to achieve. How we shall remake him and by my word as your doctor, it shall be done." Trust in the process. In the power and experience of this monster behind Vox's most obedient and perfected servants. By heaven and hell, Alastor would have his glorious victory. Vox's fate was sealed the moment he'd allowed himself to be captured.

[inkykeiji]

you’ll always be my white rabbit

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut, carnival AU

notes: aaaah he’s finally here!!! happy belated halloween everyone!! i hope you all enjoy carnival attendant!dabi and, as always, please heed the warnings below! | title credit: bad habits by delaney jane

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, dangerous sex, public sex, minimal prep, dubcon, drugs, reader has long hair, overstimulation, degradation/dumbification, praise, marking, fingering, size difference/size kink, dacryphilia

words: 8.8k

synopsis:

Because despite the fact that you’re in the middle of an empty carnival and on a moving ride, there is something distinctly intimate about the entire encounter, found in the way his hands hold you close, palms curled protectively around your waist, fingertips signing his name, staking his claim, in blossoms of blues and purples into your flesh as they grip you tightly; in the way his forehead stays pressed flush to yours irregardless of the vicious motions of the boat, kisses messy and inept as teeth clack and click and chip against each other, wild giggles and half-baked sobs sucked from one throat into another; in the way his eyes glitter with the lights of the midway, sapphire amplified by fuchsia and crimson, neons that bleed into his irises and tint them violet and periwinkle.

The sky is still a deep blue when you arrive, twined with wispy strands of candy floss clouds, suspended in the atmosphere and wavering subtly with the gentle breeze.

The wind carries the scent of buttersalt popcorn and hard candy on its back, weaving its way through the small carnival—all the game stalls and the rusting rides and the grumbling food trucks—and you breathe in deeply, letting the smell settle in your lungs.

“Hey, let’s go!” Your best friend threads her arm through your own and begins leading you towards the small ticket booth, jutting up from a grassy knoll like a crooked golden tooth.

It’s nearly night by the time the two of you end up in line for the ferris wheel—by far the longest line for any ride here—the last halo of weak coral light bleeding into violet-tinged onyx.

You can’t quite understand why the queue for this particular ride is as busy as it is, gazing up at the rickety structure with a scrunched nose. It isn’t all that impressive; a measly sixty-seven feet tall, with white spokes and silver booths dangling precariously between them, paint chipping and dirty, hinges tarnished with flakes of rust.

“God,” your friend grimaces, front teeth nibbling at the thin skin of her bottom lip, eyes glued to the ride attendant. “I hope he doesn’t do that to us.”

Curiously, you follow her glare, finding a man with inky tufts and low-slung charcoal jeans at the base of the ride, one hand wrapped around the safety bar of the current cart docked at the loading platform, the other clamping inconspicuously over the back of the seat before he flips the whole thing backwards, swift and sudden, the surprised squeals and shrieks of his patrons eliciting a loud, harsh, sadistic laugh from deep in his chest, notes of his amusement floating above the crowd.

“You should consider it a compliment if he does,” a girl behind you says. “He does it to all the pretty girls.”

The notion makes you snort a little—some compliment, scaring the Goddamn life out of your customers entirely without their permission—but it does nothing to soothe the wrinkles of worry written into your best friend’s forehead.

The moon has emerged when you make it to the front of the line, pale rays competing with the colourful glow of the midway, irregular clusters of stars embroidering the velvet night rendered dull in comparison to the twinkling neon lightbulbs encrusting the rides.

It is only when you’re on the platform, sitting down in the tottering seat, that you realize exactly why the line for this particular ride is the longest.

Smirking down at you with lidded sapphire eyes glinting in the flashing cabochon lights, he is breathtakingly gorgeous.

Scars—pink and puckered, edges shimmering silver in the moon beams—cover his arms, climbing their way up his biceps, under his blue uniform shirt, and back out over his collarbone. They inch up his neck and over his cheeks, curved edges etching an everlasting smile across his face. They look soft, the puckered skin glowing in the light of the night, casting a sort of ethereal halo around his form.

“Ladies,” he greets with a noncommittal nod as he secures the lap bar across the bench and over your thighs.

“Please don’t flip us,” your friend blurts, eyes wide and desperate, hands gripping the safety bar so tightly her skin is stretched taut and tight over her knuckles.

“‘Course not,” he says with startling reassurance, though you can see the suppressed mischief playing with the corners of his lips, head bowed while rough hands tug halfheartedly at the frayed seatbelt across your hips.

“Oh, thank you, becau—”

A sharp scream cuts her off as the whole chair abruptly tilts backwards, entire carnival flipped upside down for a split second before it’s right side up again, the man snickering to himself at your friend’s overreaction.

She’s saying something, voice shrill with terror, but you can’t seem to hear her, hands frantically smoothing back down your wind-blown skirt, ears tuned into the frequency of the man’s dark, smooth voice.

He’s only a few inches from your face now, palms still latched tightly onto your seat, blue eyes bright with mirth.

“Pretty panties,” he smirks at you, eyes raking over your body before he tilts his head forward to whisper in your ear. “But they’d look a helluva lot prettier in my back pocket.”

And then you’re off, ride lurching forward as your tottering little chair climbs the spokes of the wheel, higher and higher and higher until you reach the very top, then descending backwards, lower and lower and lower just to repeat the whole cycle again.

You can’t pull your gaze from the ride attendant as your cart passes him by the first time, leaning nonchalantly against the operating booth as his tongue pokes absentmindedly at his cheek, that permanent lopsided smirk welded to his face, his unblinking stare steadily holding your own until it can’t anymore, until the ride carries you away again.

Your friend is still babbling on, but it all sounds muffled to your ears, nothing more than an indistinct jumble of complaints until she’s nudging your elbow, snapping you from your stupor.

“Huh?”

“I said, why is he looking at you like that?” her voice is full of disgust, face screwed up with something sour as she glowers at the ride attendant, who doesn’t bother to toss her a glance.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what did he say to you?”

“What?”

“The guy! He whispered something in your ear before the ride started, didn’t he? What did he say?”

Heat seeps into your cheeks, slow and simmering, and you look down at your shoes, toes pointed inward, nearly overlapping.

“Nothing important,” you murmur, his smooth voice cascading through your mind like thick melted chocolate.

She doesn’t look like she believes you, but she doesn’t push any further either, receiving your answer with an indifferent shrug before returning back to prattling on about safety measures and respect and how the carnival will definitely hear about this incident.

You’re sure the carnival already knows about this guy’s behaviour, sure they don’t give a fuck if he’s been allowed to continue it, but you stay quiet, nodding along in an apathetic daze.

As the ride slows to a stop, you feel the unmistakable twinge of disappointment throbbing in the pit of your stomach, a vague sense of yearning sinking in your chest. It’s inexplicable, the sudden draw you feel towards this man—it’s magical, it’s magnetic; a moth to a light, an addict to a fix, a craving, voracious as it claws at your lungs—and you frown, lips molding into a pout, brain grasping for something, anything, to say to him, to soak up another ounce of his attention before he’s gone forever.

A calloused hand cuffs your wrist just as you’re about to step off the platform, fingers rough against your smooth skin, and you look back in surprise, a sweet little gasp hitching in your throat, unmistakable excitement glowing behind your ribs.

The man with the inky hair and the azure eyes says nothing as he stuffs a wad of worn tickets in your palm, gifting you a quick wink when you glance up at him in question, smirk grown into a grin.

Then he’s shuffling you forward, down the steps and off the platform as he welcomes the next round of guests onto the ride, the chain of tickets searing against your skin.

You’re unraveling them the moment you’re out of your best friend’s sight, breath bated and spine pressed against the back of the funhouse, eyes swallowing down the contents with starving curiosity.

The words U + ME TONIGHT glare up at you, written across the tickets in bright purple scrawl. Flipping the chain over, you find a time and location—11PM @ F. WHEEL—in the same messy handwriting; rushed, secret, just for you.

You and him, tonight. Eleven PM at the ferris wheel. You’ll be there.

    ✰          ✰          ✰        

Murky golden lamplight filters through the dark autumn leaves, casting grotesque shadows on the candy-stained asphalt, constantly moving, shifting, changing as the wind jostles the branches.

Shivering a little, you tuck your hands beneath your arms, hugging your body tightly.

And you wait.

The carnival is vacant now, gusts whistling down the wide aisles, but the rides are still lit up, stationary and motionless, looming over you like massive metal monsters, laying in wait for their masters’ commands.

It all feels eerie, uncanny, like something is distinctly off, something you can’t quite find a word to describe, even as disquiet settles in your belly.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the wind-shivered leaves, curling in on themselves as they cling weakly to the branches and bark, desperate for one last moment of life before a gust sends them fluttering to their death.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

You don’t know a thing about this man, you don’t even know his name, yet here you are: desperate, waiting for him all alone, unprotected and unprepared.

All due to a hazy feeling; dreamy and whimsical, exhilarating and terrifying, a curiosity starved for more.

Something tingles at the base of your spine, pinpricks of ice climbing vertebrae by vertebrae, forcing another shiver to ripple through your flesh, your head turning just as a pair of hands grab your waist, a yelp cracking high in your throat.

“You came!” the man is saying as he spins you to face him, large hands still on your hips, all bright smiles and brilliant eyes.

“I did,” you breathe out, words slightly trembling.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all, gaze glistening with the thrill of it all. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Yeah, right. You really expect me to believe that?”

To your surprise, he laughs loudly, head nodding with a shrug of his shoulders. “Ah, what can I say? People look the prettiest when they’re scared.”

That’s an odd statement, you think, dimly aware of a soft chiming at the back of your mind—a warning of sorts, instantly silenced by his voice.

“C’mon!” he’s grabbing your hand, tugging you along behind him. “Lemme show you around.”  

“So, uh, what’s your name?” you ask as you stroll, arms linked, towards the heart of the midway.

“Dabi,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “I already know yours.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” you snort with a smirk, expecting him to mutter some cliché term—angel or gorgeous or something of that kind—as his head drops, lips at your ear, sugary wisps of your birth name curling around the cartilage.

It sends a jolt of shock shooting through your veins—something electric, something tinged with terror—and you rip yourself away from him, breath coming in fast, uneven spurts out your nose.

He laughs again, echoes of his melody ringing out among the empty fairgrounds.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says, residual notes of amusement sewn into his tone. “I heard your jumpy little friend say it earlier tonight, when she was tryna yank you off my ride. Remember?”

Did she say your name? You can’t recall, the moments after the Ferris Wheel ride nothing more than a whimsical blur, full of keenness, enraptured in his aura.  

Skepticism shines in your narrowed eyes, body still leaning away from him. “Really?”

“How else would I know?” he gives you a halfhearted shrug, hands shoved in his pockets; easy, effortless, entirely disarming.

How else would he know? This is the only plausible answer, isn’t it?

“Dunno,” you say finally, mimicking his shrug as you begin walking again. “Guess I’m just not used to complete strangers knowing my name, that’s all.”

“Understandable,” he says through grinding molars, hinges of his strong jaw flexing with the motions.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a lollipop, swiftly tearing the whole wrapper from the treat in a singular gesture before shoving it in his mouth, candy clacking against his teeth.

Old fashioned carnival tunes crank through lofi speakers as you roam the fair, harmonies stuffed full of the pop and hiss of static bathing the grounds.

Dabi shows you around the place as if you didn’t spend a good chunk of your night here already, eyes sparkling with a special type of excitement, full of adoration and pride as he rambles on, words gaining speed the deeper into the midway you wander.

But you let him drag you through it all again anyway, nodding and cooing and giggling at the appropriate times, because it’s kinda cute, kinda sweet, how much he clearly loves this place with all of its worn booths and decrepit rides, speeches peppered with little known facts and personal anecdotes.

You’re in the heart of the carnival when you see it, little gasp of surprise cutting Dabi off mid-story—something about that one time he and his friend walked on the walls of the Gravitron while it was moving—feet slowing to a stop in front of a bright yellow stall, inadvertently pulling on Dabi’s hand.  

On the highest shelf of the Ring Toss game sits a massive Tiffany blue stuffed lion, with fluffy navy fur and big glassy eyes and pointy felt teeth, grinning down at you.

“What?” Dabi asks, eyes following your gaze with mild interest. “You want one?

You look over at him, hand squeezing his. “Can you win me one?”

“Nah,” he waves a hand, dismissive. “Kei stopped teachin’ us how to beat the games ‘cause we were showin’ all the tricks to too many people and it was hurtin’ his business or whatever. But—”

He leans close, nose nearly bumping yours as his voice drops to a rasp, breath infused with sugar and notes of artificial cherry, so sweet you swear you can taste the sting of sugar on your tongue.

“—I can steal you one.”

His eyes glitter, a cheeky smile melded to his face, not waiting for your answer as he jumps over the booth’s counter with all the ease and grace of a cat, the buckles on his boots and the metal in his pocket jingling as his feet hit the floor.

He’s cradling the lion to his chest in fifteen seconds flat, having scaled the prize wall to yank it free from its hook, dislodging a few of the smaller stuffed animals in the process, boots smearing strokes of mud across the faces of fluffy pink bunnies.

“He’s gonna kill me for that,” Dabi says as he lands, as if it isn’t a big deal, voice void of the slightest hint of concern. “Anyway,” he turns toward you, offering the lion. “Here you are.”

“Thank yo—” you begin to say, reaching for the animal only to have Dabi swipe it away from your grasp, fast and sharp, a taunting little smirk on his face.

“Ah! But it’s gonna cost ya,” he smirks, eyes darkening as they search your face. “What? You thought I’d just give this away for free?” he snickers at your stupidity, and its mean, coated in a hard layer of condescension, humiliation pricking your eyes.

Behind him, a ride creaks under the weight of the wind, swaying menacingly with those harsh gusts.

“Wh-What’s the price?”

“A kiss, of course.”

A rush of relief floods your veins, breath held stagnant in your lungs exhaled in an airy little melody, his smile spreading at the sound.

“Gosh,” you giggle. “Could you be anymore cliché?”

“Hey,” he warns, suddenly serious. “I got no problem with upping the price, if that’s what your askin’ for.”

Desperate desire flares pathetically in your chest, clawing at your ribs, bubbling up your throat. “That’s alright,” you squeak quickly, swallowing past the urge. “A kiss will do just fine for now.”

“Suit yourself,” he’s saying as he crushes his lips to your own, a rough palm settling on your neck, holding you in place as a strong tongue pushes the shrunken lollipop into your mouth.

He tastes heady as his tongue drags across your own, depositing flavours of spicy nicotine and smoky hickory and sweet cherry. You suck on them, savour them, savour him, drawing his bottom lip into your mouth and catching it between your teeth, tongue laving over it in repetitive strokes.

It’s all so good, saliva thick and sticky and burning as you swallow it down, infused with little fizzing sparks that race down your throat to collect deep in the pit of your tummy, setting a small flickering flame ablaze. Dainty fingers tangle in the collar of his shirt and tug, vying for more, but then he’s pulling away with a teasing little chuckle, eyes sparking as his fingers curl around your wrist once again, giving a soft squeeze before he leads you away.

“My friend Jin runs this one,” he says as you reach the southwest corner of the carnival, tapping on the fence surrounding The Scrambler, head nodding at the ride in indication. “It was my favourite as a kid. I wanted to work it, but they stuck me with the good old Ferris Wheel instead.”

“Aw, but the Ferris Wheel’s a classic!”

“Sure,” he dismisses, rabid mind already latched onto something new, unfocused eyes fixing their blurry gaze on you again. “Did you have a favourite ride as a kid?”

“Of course,” you nod, a faint fondness tainting your smile. “The Carousel. That was always the ride I made my dad take me to first.”

“We got one of those,” he says as he pushes away from the barrier with enough force to leave it teetering. “Wanna see?”

The carousel is tiny, adorned with blue and gold lights and a mirror-panelled center, ivory horses, turned yellow and grey from years of use, skewered on poles of twisted gold. Dabi hops onto the platform and hoists you up, placing you on the nearest horse, sidesaddle.

He doesn’t take a horse for himself, opting instead to lean against one of the saddles, elbows perched on the curved edges as he stares at you. The giggle that bubbles up your throat at his penetrating gaze is girlish and uncontrollable, an automatic reaction to having all of his attention directed at you.

Something gnaws at the pit of your stomach, a sort of yearning that burrows deep in your flesh, starved for more of him.

“So. Where are you from?” you ask after a moment of silence, your feet dangling from your horse, swinging absentmindedly, toe colliding with the gilded pole.

“Take a guess,” he teases, the glint of a challenge in his eyes.

“Uh,” you hum to yourself, thinking for a moment, squinting a little as you do so. “Japan?”

“Ding-ding-ding!” he hollers. “What gave it away, huh? My name? My accent?”

“Your accent,” you respond. “It’s—I really like it.”  

“Oh? Is that so?” His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise.

“Mhmm,” you nod quickly. “But—Wow. I mean, Japan? You sure are a long way from home.”

“I am.”

“What brings you overseas?” you ask, looking down at your stuffed lion as your fingers twist in its mane, nervous the question may be too invasive, too personal.

“Ran away to join the carnival.” he says simply with a single shoulder shrug.

“Sure you did,” you roll your eyes, but a smirk toys with the corners of your lips. “Hey, look, if it’s too personal—”

“You think I’m kidding, huh?” he taps out a cigarette, placing it between his teeth.

“Well, I mean—That’s such a famous trope, I didn’t think—”

“I’m telling ya the truth, y’know,” he speaks around the cigarette, filter sticking to his lips, dirty hands coming cup the flame of a silver Zippo. “Ran away when I was thirteen years old.”

“My gosh. Thirteen? That’s so young.”

Dabi hums, puffing out a cloud of thick, tangy smoke.

“Why?” You ask before you can stop the word from slithering off your tongue, curiosity swelling in your voice, clawing at your irises.

“That’s another story for another time,” he says lightly, though his eyes swirl with something dark and heavy, a secret that weights his soul, a collection of shattered memories that he drags with him everywhere, inescapable no matter how far or fast he runs. “Doesn’t really matter anymore, anyway. The point is, I’ve been here ever since.”

“Here? With the carnival, you mean?”

“Yep!” He pops the ‘p’ enthusiastically, eyes suddenly brilliant and shining with adoration again, any traces of melancholia instantly eradicated. “They took me in, y’know? They weren’t worried, they didn’t ask any questions—knew it was none o’their business, anyway—they just accepted me as I was: a homeless little foreign kid, looking for somewhere he could perfectly snap into place.”

“And that space ended up being Shigaraki Amusements.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s more of a home than I’ve ever known—a real home, a true home.” A wistful mist settles in his gaze, hazy and dreamy and full of love. “Us carnival people, we may look like a bunch’a mismatched puzzle pieces, but, in actuality, we fit together so snugly we might as well be airtight. No gaps, no empty spaces, no janky bits that don’t quite lock together…”

“That’s…” Beautiful, special, real. “That’s really magnificent,” you flounder, struggling to piece you feelings into words.

“We all have different stories, different reasons, and yet…” he trails off, reflecting. “Guess all that trauma and bullshit we each seem to lug around does help at least a lil, though,” he winks. “Hey,” he says suddenly, eyes focusing on something over your shoulder, glazed with want. “You wanna go take some pictures?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, yanking you from your horse with such force that your stuffed lion tumbles to the ground, a whine of protest sounding in your throat.

“Wait!” you cry, but Dabi doesn’t stop, deaf with determination as he all but drags you along behind him.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It’s cramped in the little yellow photobooth, the seat so small that your legs tangle with Dabi’s—ankles twisted, knees hooked, thighs overlapping—as you wedge yourself in front of the flickering screen.

The pixels dances with static, the interface so basic it must’ve come from the 80s, colourful buttons prompting you with a bunch of selections, a disgruntled little sound falling from your lips as Dabi begins squirming, hands pawing at his pockets for what you’d assume to be money.

The surprise must show on your face when he pulls free a small baggie of white powder—the glinting edge of a razor blade peeking out from beneath the pile—because he laughs, shaking his head a little as he pours out a tiny mountain of snow white cocaine on the ledge in front of the screen.

“You want some?” he asks as he taps out three fat lines, already bent over his work, glancing at you through thick lashes and strands of ink.

“Oh, I—No. Thanks, though.”

“A good girl, huh?” he snorts the first line, fast and sharp, head thrown back and eyes squeezing shut for a millisecond before they snap open again, blazing stare turned on you. “I like that.”

A good girl?

Eyebrows pushing together, you look down at your hands in your lap, a little pout on your lips.

Is it really that obvious?

The question brands your tongue, sucked to cinders as you observe him, mesmerized.

He takes it like a fucking pro, inhaling the last two lines in such quick succession it almost looks as though he snorted them both at once.

Licking the tip of his finger, he drags it across the surface, gathering the excess before sticking it in his mouth. Scarred cheeks hollow as he sucks it clean, pulling it free from his lips in one slow motion, knuckles gleaming with spit.

“What?”

“Nothing, you’re just—you’re so cool.”

He flashes you another one of those dazzling smiles, all sharp teeth and red lips, stained cherry from the dye.

“Glad you think so, princess,” he says before he claps his hands together, the sound echoing in the tiny booth, startling you slightly. “Alright! You wanna take some photos or what?”

Yes, your head is nodding, eyes wide and eager. Yes, you do.

“Let’s do two rounds,” Dabi says as he struggles to pull a worn leather wallet from one of his pockets. “So we each get to keep one full strip,” he explains before you can ask why, reading the question shimmering in your gaze.

You suppose that’s fair.

Dabi insists that you go first, allowing you to dictate the content of each shot, instructions called out rapid fire, sticky with giggles and heavy with grunts as you both hastily attempt to rearrange yourself for each shot, failing miserably every time.

“It’s still cute,” you say as you hold the strip between your fingers, a line of four photos displaying ridiculous faces, blurry from movement and cut off by the borders.

“Of course it is,” Dabi rolls his eyes. “I mean, it’s you. Anything you do is gonna be cute, no matter how silly.”

Heat seeps into your cheeks at his words, his compliment somehow both sharp and sweet, little pinpricks buzzing across your skin. His voice is raw with honesty, entirely unaffected by his own candidness, the comment so blunt it’s almost offensive in tone, as if you’re stupid, as if you should know this already.

“But it’s my turn now, and there’s only one type of picture I want on my strip,” he continues, lips curling up into something sinister, a glint of wickedness in those gorgeous, gluttonous pupils.

You aren’t spared a moment to inquire as his thumb punches the START button, because then he’s surging forward, large hands enveloping your face, calloused fingertips hooking behind the hinges of your jaw as he drags you toward him.

A yelp rattles from your mouth into his as sharp teeth clack together, the edge of his incisors catching on your top lip and splitting it open. But he doesn’t let up, undeterred by your noise of pain, undeterred by the coppery taste of your blood saturating his tongue, and he sucks the wound into the heat of his mouth, eliciting another one of those beautiful little squeals from deep in your throat.  

The first flash goes off just as your fingers knot in the inky tufts curling at the base of his skull, twining the strands around your knuckles before yanking harshly.

He laughs at the pain, a loud, warm sound that spills down your throat, liquid fire that ignites a blaze in your stomach, simmering low and dull.

The second flash goes off just as he shoves his tongue against your own, a domineering presence that overtakes your mouth as it laves over your smaller, weaker tongue, slick muscle pressed flat to slick muscle as they grind together.

Stringy spit, so interspersed it belongs to neither of you now, belongs to both of you now, clings to teeth and lips and chins, slippery as they slide together. Drool oozes from the corners of your mouths, so much that it’s obscene, dollops of it drizzling down your face to collect along your jaw, sticky and sweet.

The third flash goes off just as razor teeth slice into your collarbone, your features crinkling in pain-tinged ecstasy, a gasp of his name cracking in your throat, fading into little ghosts on your tongue.

You can feel his fingers creeping under your skirt, taking the hem with them as they climb up, up, up to reveal dainty pink lace, clinging to supple skin and soiled with arousal.

“These are in my way,” he growls into your skin, the only warning you’re given before he’s tearing through the frail material, ripping it from your body in one swift motion.

The fourth and final flash goes off just as two slim fingers plunge into you, the sudden intrusion forcing an airy whimper from your lips, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulder, piercing his skin through his t-shirt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, clouds of sugary air wafting across your damp skin, his forehead pressed tightly to your shoulder. “You’re already so fuckin’ wet for me.”

A peculiar type of awe infuses his tone, and he peers up at you, cavernous pupils outlined by the thinnest ring of blue, shimmering in the dull yellow light. His digits curl without warning, almost vicious in their unexpected movement, two knuckles pressed tight against that plush spot buried deep inside you.

One gentle nudge has you whining out a distorted version of his name, full of fractures, edges of the broken letters catching in your throat.

And he smiles.

It’s nothing but a sharp curve upward of his mouth, teeth sealed behind his stretched lips, and something dark, something dangerous, glimmers in his eyes.

One hard shove has you crying out loudly, eyes snapped shut so tightly your entire face crinkles with the force, words barely discernible on your tongue now, nothing more than a mash of vague sounds that might’ve, once upon a time, been his name.

And he laughs, the melodic sound heavy and harsh in the air around you, notes of amusement threaded through diluted malice.

“So easy,” you hear him murmur to himself, voice rumbling in his chest. “So fucking expressive.”

He gives a few experimental pumps, knuckles rolling over that swelling spot with each plunge into you, unblinking eyes fixated on your face.

“You are a good girl, aren’t you?” he coos, nuzzling his face into you. “Because good girls get nice and wet when they’re supposed to. Christ,” his eyes drift to the apex of your thighs, a little lethargic in their movement, his arm turning a bit to reveal the slick collecting in his hand, staining the lines of his palm as crystalline dewdrops stream down his wrist. “You’re making such a fucking mess, baby.”

A mechanical hiss sounds suddenly, inhibiting you from replying, the machine spitting out Dabi’s photo strip a moment later.

With his fingers still buried in you, his free hand snatches the strip from the tray, eyes scanning it quickly.

“Fuck,” he nearly moans, shoving the strip toward you. “Look at yourself.”

Slowly, your gaze skims over each tiny photo, taking a moment to digest each one. It’s incredible; you’ve never seen yourself more beautiful. Pure primal ecstasy encrusts your features, face warped with pleasure and cheeks shining with sweat, each picture exuding passion, sensuality, authenticity.

“You look gorgeous, but oh, the real thing is so much better,” the hand between your thigh twists, knuckles grinding circles into your g-spot, and you mewl, eyes snapped shut, hips rolling into his palm.

It’s so good, and if he keeps this up you’re going to cum right here, right now, despite the fact that your aching clit hasn’t been paid a shred of attention, only granted a few teasing grazes of the heel of his hand.

Trembles skitter up your thighs, pleasure dousing the fire he had lit deep in the pit of your tummy, flames flaring, furling into a tightly concentrated coil, each stroke of his fingers twisting the blaze into a knot of sunshine.

Except then he’s ripping you from ecstasy’s grasp, untangling his body from yours and sliding out of the booth.

Lids fluttering, you stare at him dumbly, chest heaving and eyebrows drawn, slumped against the booth wall. A gentle breeze caresses your skin, chills erupting in its wake and you shiver, winding shaky arms around your torso.

With a tut of his tongue and a roll of his eyes, Dabi reaches into the booth, hand latching onto your elbow and yanking you out from the tiny booth, calling out an enthusiastic C’mon! as he throws you a breathtaking grin.

Still uncalibrated from the sudden whiplash of his actions, you stumble along with him, breath exhaled in short, uneven pants. Pretty pink lace, soaked and mangled, hangs haphazardly from his back pocket, bouncing against charcoal denim with each of his steps.

“Where are we going?” you rasp out, the toe of your shoe catching on the concrete in his haste.

“You’ll see,” he hums out in a little sigh, eyes bright with mischief, giving your hand an enthusiastic little tug.

He winds through the fairgrounds effortlessly—past the food trucks, between the game stalls, looped around the Starship 3000—finally coming to a stop at the base of a mediocre pirate ship raised on a faded blue platform, decorated with pieces of warped plywood painted with crashing whitecaps.

It’s one of those pendulum rides that swings to-and-fro, gaining speed with each whoosh past the axle until it reaches a maximum—crests, climaxes—before it gradually slows to a stop again. Dabi leads you up the steps, metal groaning beneath your feet, rubber soles whining against the pebbled surface.

“What are we…?”

A loud laugh catches in the thick atmosphere, heavy and suffocating and entirely different from the laughs that have come before it—lighthearted laughs that had rung with innocent amusement. The maliciousness infused in the melody slices through your cheeks, haunting whispers that caress your skin with icy fingers, that promise to know something you don’t.

“Sit down in the middle row,” he instructs as an answer to your question, jutting his chin at the stationary ride as he climbs behind the control booth.

Without moving, your eyes dart between Dabi and the ride, questions leaving your mouth slow and cautious, heart beginning to race. “What? Why?”

“Why not?” he shoots back, though that easygoing, liquified grin is still present on his lips, dopey with manufactured ecstasy.

Despite his seemingly carefree nature, chills crawl over your arms, blood turned frigid with inexplicable dread.

Something isn’t right.

“Oh, come on,” he goads at the incredulity molding your features, beginning to solidify, tight and tense. “You really think I’d do something to put you in danger?”

The question shimmers in the air, cushioned by silence, your tongue turned sluggish in your mouth, saliva collecting in pools at the back of your throat.

“Nah, princess,” he continues, though his voice quivers a little, struggling against the force of  restrained irritation. His smile twitches, stretched abnormally large across his cheeks, so wide it looks as though it’s been carved into his face. “I would never.”

And although his tone is still perfectly playful and pleasant, something buried deep within his words glints, something hard and sharp that warns you best do what he says, something that assures you this isn’t a request, it’s an order.

“You can trust me, pinky promise. I just wanna show you a good time, okay?” he pauses, allowing his question to marinate into a soothing salve, softening your features, sincerity restoring some trust. “Now, sit down.”

Your body reacts immediately, automatically, prey instinctively responding to predator, and you slide into the middle booth, a sinful flicker of pride fluttering in your stomach as he purrs out that you’re such a good girl for him.

Dirtied fingers, nails uneven and framed with grime, crawl across the control panel, expertly flicking switches as they go, each one another razor ripping through the air before his palm slams down on a glowing green button, a tired beep responding in affirmation.

The ride creaks to life, rusted metal screeching as the motors whir and the boat begins to rock, slow and steady, back and forth, speed increasing incrementally with each repetition.

Dabi hops over the operating rail with ease, big black boots landing heavily against the platform, the entire floor trembling beneath his weight.

Then he’s bounding towards you, a twisted smile that’s all teeth plastered across his face, and launching himself onto the moving boat with practiced ease, slim body slinking almost gracefully into the middle row, slotted right up against yours.

“Jesus Christ,” you laugh, equal parts terrified and impressed, breath tangling in your throat. “You’re a total madman!”  

He joins in on your laughter; loud, shrieking, inhuman, amplified by the roar of the wind, notes elevated with the gusts, carrying far across the midway. Large hands curl around your waist as he continues to snicker, yanking you into his lap with sudden strength, your thighs padding his hips.

The unexpected movement has a startled scream clawing at your chest, panicked eyes finding his instantly as he presses you close to his body, maniacal laughter still spilling from his lips, spoiled syrup encasing you in its sticky embrace.

“Dabi!” you squeal, voice high with terror. “Dabi!”

“Relax, I got you!” his fingers flex on your hips, accentuating his point. “Hold onto me!” he instructs, words twined with the whipping wind. Your body obeys, dainty fingers knotting in the jersey material of his shirt, skin stretched tight and taut across trembling knuckles.

And then he’s kissing you again, warm bubbles of glee spilling into your mouth, popping on your tongue before they buzz down your throat, sugary sweet and full of acid.

It burns, but they keep coming, and you keep swallowing them down, willingly, greedily, drowning in him from the inside out.

It’s already so much, throat raw as he keeps rushing down it, senses overwhelmed, senses overridden by it all—the rapidly accelerating sway of the boat, the calloused fingers bunching your skirt around your waist, the hard lump buried in rough denim, hot and throbbing as it grinds against your bare cunt—yet your soul’s starved for more, desperate and woozy and please, please, please!

Your fingers are already sore and stiff from being clenched so tightly,  the muscles in your thighs already aching from tensing around his hips, a futile attempt to keep yourself from slipping off the ride, his bones digging into your plush flesh.

“This ride is set to last for five minutes and thirty seconds,” he breathes into your mouth as the boat climbs higher, forehead resting against your own. “Think you can be a perfect little girl for me and cum on my cock before it ends?”

“Uh-huh,” you’re nodding, motions vigorous, eyes glazed with desire as they search his face, vivid, voracious.

“Yeah?” he breathes, the tip of his nose nudging yours, gaze glittering as it sears into your soul. His eyes search your own for a moment, almost as if he’s confirming something unseen, unbeknownst to you, before he nods once, stare darting downward. “Then get my cock out.”

Delicate fingers wander to the heavy chrome buckle and pick viciously at the leather laced through it, clawing at the brass button of his jeans before shoving the waistband down just enough to free his cock while his hands keep a firm, secure grip on your waist, safe.

You don’t get to admire it, not even for a second—nothing more than a glimpse of a pretty pink tip and a glistening glaze of pre-cum—Dabi lifting your hips with one hand as the other wraps around the base of his shaft, holding it steady and lining it up with your cute little hole.  

A hiss catches on your teeth as he shoves his cock into you, harsh and fast and sudden, features twisting in pain and fingers flexing tightly, nails piercing through the thin fabric outfitting his shoulders and gorging on his flesh.

“That’s it,” he soothes, though his voice is rough around the edges. “Be a good little whore for me, take my cock.”

It feels as though he’s ripping you in half as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snug against your cervix, cunt struggling to accommodate his girth as delicate flesh tears itself open for him, keen and eager and oh-so-desperate.

“Shh, shh, baby,” he hums over your pathetic little whimpers, the term of endearment drenched in condescension, a mocking pout molded to his lips. “Aw, you’re doing good so far, c’mon, give me the ride of a lifetime, yeah? Make this a ride to remember.”

Fierce determination ignites behind your sternum, head nodding as you blink bleary tears from your gaze, desperate with the desire to please him, to prove yourself to him, to be the best he’s ever had.

The pace is merciless right from the start, imposed by the rapidly declining time limit, hips relentless in their pursuit as they rock hard and fast against his own.

He meets you with just as enthusiasm, grunts vibrating in his chest with each rut up into you, large hands gripping your flesh as he forces you to bounce on his lap, flame-hardened fingers kneading your ass, blunt nails marring soft flesh with purple-tinged indents.

For a moment, you’re lost in the sensationalized pain, time slowing as the seconds dribble on by, slow and thick like saccharine syrup, bouts of pain shooting through your gut with each slam against your cervix, pleasure chasing it high and fast with each drag of his cockhead against that spot, pussy fluttering desperately around his massive cock, repeatedly gorged with it.

But then the boat falls again, whooshing past the axel to swing high on the other side, gaining speed, gaining height, and a scream shatters in your throat, hips slowing to a sensual, stuttering grind.

Dabi laughs at your startled reaction, nuzzling your cheek with his own just before the boat falls backwards.

“Time’s ticking, baby,” he shouts over the bellowing threads of the wind, eyebrows lifting in enticement, strings of ink flying up from his face as the boat swooshes again.

And, truthfully, you want nothing more than to make him proud, to make this the best ride of his fucking life, want it so bad you can feel your own slick leaking all over your inner thighs and down your ass.

But it’s fucking terrifying, blocks of lead dropping in your stomach as the boat swings again, splashing acid up your throat, toxic and mixed with desperate desire.

Tears of fright, of frustration, shield your eyes, thick and gleaming as you hiccup on your words, smashed to shards in your throat. Your whole body trembles in his arms as thorns of ice claw up your spine, knuckles cracking as you readjust your grip on his shoulders.

Dabi’s hips are still moving, calloused fingers digging deep bruises into your skin as he forces you to keep riding him—galaxies in the shape of his fingerprints, full of swirling violets and dark navys that will take weeks to fade, blood vessels bursting under his grasp, signing his name into your body in the prettiest mini masterpieces.

“Look at you, huh? Acting as if you’re so scared,” he’s spitting, flecks of saliva smattering across your cheeks, sick little freckles that cool and dry with the next whoosh of the boat, his features curled in a sneer. “Acting as if you aren’t fucking loving this, you little bitch.”

A palm stings your flesh, stark and sudden, prickly warmth spreading through your ass at the impact. It forces a strangled squeal from your throat, and your eyes shut tightly, body cowering into his, a reflexive response.

“But that’s alright, sweetheart, you don’t have to tell me,” he continues, sharp glints of malice in his eyes, slashing through the artificial euphoria swirling in sapphire. “No, your precious lil pussy does that all on it’s own, ‘cause a whore’s cunt will always give away her true feelings.”

Embarrassment floods your cheeks, burning hot as it unfurls under your skin, hiccuping out pitiful little cries.

“Yeah, that’s right, princess. I can fucking feel the way that sweet cunt flutters and gushes all over my cock every time I do this,” he grunts as his hips push up with vigorous determination, hands keeping you still and pinned to his body, cockhead grinding into your favourite spot, holding the motion with the boat as it freezes in the air, suspended for only a moment before it’s dropping again, whirring past the axel to swing up, high and fast, on the other side.

You’re crying harder now, sobs that rip through your lungs and crack your ribs, fear burning in your throat, each ragged gasp of air another mouthful of nails scraping past the gummy walls of your throat.

But, oh God, it’s so fucking good, pain and terror only working to compound the pleasure, elevating your senses and you can’t stop: can’t stop weeping, can’t stop chasing it, can’t stop wanting so much more.

“Yeah,” he breathes, almost whining it out, head nodding with the timbre of the word. “Fucking cry harder for me, more, more. God, fuck,” his voice breaks on the curse, eyes rolling in his skull. “Little fucking crybaby, you look so fu-fucking pretty with those tears on your cheeks.” His tongue flattens against your face, dragging from your jaw to your bottom lashes, mopping up salt water and leaving behind a thick gleaming trail of saliva. “And all for me, huh? All because of me.”  

He sounds almost proud of himself, chest heaving against your own as gluttonous pupils gobble down your expressions, gaze searching your face with such vigorous obsession it almost feels as though he’s attempting to swallow you whole, down those big black holes ringed with blue that devour everything they touch, and you’re suffocating, you’re suffocating.

“What if I let go of you, right now?” he questions with airy enthusiasm, sadism gleaming in those voracious eyes, the question a slap of reality, bringing you back. His fingers loosen a little, tapping with teasing, with warning, against your hips. “Do you think you’d fall to your death?”

He looks almost morbidly fascinated by the question, a sick haze misting his eyes, wondrous and full of awe.

“Wouldn’t that be something, huh?” he continues in that same faraway lilt, dreamy and floating on grotesque fantasies. “To die right after I stuff you full of my cum? You’d die happier than ever before, I bet…Should we give it a try?”

“No, Dabi!” you’re screaming, the protest high with panic and heavy with spit, clutching him so hard your nails break through his skin, stuffing themselves full of flesh and tissue, blood staining the lines of your nailbeds.

“Oh?” he blinks, pulling back a little, genuinely surprised. “Did I startle you, baby? Are you scared?”

“Please, please, please,” you’re sobbing as you smush your face into his neck, whole body clinging to his. “Please, don’t let me go! I’ll do anything, just—Don’t!”

“Alright, alright,” he’s saying, voice suddenly soft with pacification, like he’s soothing a child. “I won’t let you go. But if you don’t make me cum by the time this ride is over, I’m gonna make you do it all over again.”

Your ribs shiver beneath the erratic beating of your heart, your head nodding in jerky little movements as sticky affirmations spill from your lips.    

Your hips begin moving again, uneven little bucks that are guided by his hands, hushed praises spilling from his lips, nearly drowned by the wind.

“That’s it, baby, yeah, just like that,” he encourages you, a hint of patronization garnishing his words. “Look at you, huh? Being such a brave little girl for me, fucking yourself on my cock.”

The metal safety bar, purposefully left up so he could fit you onto his lap with relative ease, grinds against the notches of your spine with every roll of your hips, uncontrollable whimpers streaming from your lips.

Strands of your hair whip around your cheeks with each rush of the boat, Dabi’s face so close that your locks embrace him, too, twirling around his neck and tangling in tufts of ink.

Your combined thrusts gain speed in tandem with the boat itself, each rock forward forcing you to accelerate, desperate to keep up with the ride’s pace, desperate to cum as its speed crests.  

Your stomach swoops as the boat plunges downward again, gasp exhaled into Dabi’s mouth, his slick tongue curling greedily around the sound. Howling gusts mimic your cries, high and broken, taunting in the way they coil around your forms.

“You look so fucking gorgeous like this,” he breathes, stare shimmering with a sort of twisted admiration, looking at you in a way unlike anyone else ever has, with those azure flames licking at his monstrous pupils, a stare that makes you feel as if you’re drowning and floating all at once.

But he’s right, you do look gorgeous, the carnival lights glittering in the tears caught in your clumped lashes, rendered endless versions of themselves; gleaming trails of salt staining your smooth cheeks, hair crusted to your skin; chin and lips shining with translucent pink, slicked with spit and oozing blood, victims of his teeth.

Another hiccup stutters in your chest, whole body trembling in his arms, but you push yourself to keep fucking, to keep tugging those gorgeous sounds from deep within his chest, soft whiny moans and guttural grunts puffed out into your mouth, melting on your tongue.  

Because despite the fact that you’re in the middle of an empty carnival and on a moving ride, there is something distinctly intimate about the entire encounter, found in the way his hands hold you close, palms curled protectively around your waist, fingertips signing his name, staking his claim, in blossoms of blues and purples into your flesh as they grip you tightly; in the way his forehead stays pressed flush to yours irregardless of the vicious motions of the boat, kisses messy and inept as teeth clack and click and chip against each other, wild giggles and half-baked sobs sucked from one throat into another; in the way his eyes glitter with the lights of the midway, sapphire amplified by fuchsia and crimson, neons that bleed into his irises and tint them violet and periwinkle.

Even flying through the wind, with the background rendered nothing more than an indistinct blur of dribbling colours, he is still so breathtakingly gorgeous, eyes bright with manufactured euphoria, pupils gaping and voracious for you, for your pleasure, devouring every single change in expression—the quirk of your bow, the crinkle of your forehead, the pucker of your chin—as his hair clings to his face, spikes of ink dripping with sweat, lips slicked sheen with your spit and licked ruby-red raw.

Sparks of adrenaline sprout in your veins with every rock of your hips, surging through your blood and leaving your body hypersensitive; overwhelmed by the harsh embrace of the wind, by his teeth on your flesh, scraping his essence into your skin and sealing it with his slow, sticky laves of his tongue, by each drag of his cock against that spot, starbursts of fire exploding in your tissues, tiny supernovae that disperse star stuff to collect in your gut, melting into one massive roiling ball of fire that wreathes tighter and tighter and tighter until it finally bursts, cunt clenching almost violently around his cock, his name a shattered scream on your tongue.  

“Ah, f-fuck,” he gasps, hands guiding you to keep riding him. “You’re being so fuckin’ good for me. Yeah, yeah, that’s it, cum all over my cock like the good girl that you are.”

It’s so much, too much, and you can feel it gushing from your cunt, smearing across your inner thighs and dribbling down to soak the waistband of his jeans.  

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, praises still falling from his lips, grip brutal as he forces your hips to keep moving, hard and fast, ass rubbed raw from the coarse denim clothing his thighs.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he’s nearly growling now, teeth clenched, jaw flexing, eyes blazing. “Fuckin’ take it.”

So you do, eager to be his good girl, quivers shooting through your body with each catch of your swollen clit on his slick pubic bone, sore cunt fucked raw and pulsing weakly, wrecked voice grating your throat.

Only three more drags of your hips and he’s cumming with a vicious snarl, pelvis jerking as his cock throbs, stuffing you full of thick, burning cream.

But he doesn’t stop, even as the boat begins to slow, still rutting against you pathetically, forcing tremors of pain-tinged pleasure through his veins as he chases residual flares.

And despite how unbelievably painful it is, you let him.

You let him, because he’s the best drug you’ve ever taken, the highest high you’ll ever reach, the most beautiful collection of art you’ve ever witnessed—a living, breathing painting; a walking, talking symphony; a constantly morphing storybook full of tall tales and folk myths, each glimmering with shards of truth—and he’ll be gone just as quickly as he appeared.

Because he’s like wisps of thick smoke curling through the night; soft, potent, entirely ungraspable, slipping through the cracks between your fingers, settling into the lines of your hands. He’s a shooting star flaring through the void sky, brilliant, beautiful, burnt out in an instant, never to occur again. He’s a singular spark from a sparkler, caught in your palm, singeing your skin with a blistering heat for a mere moment before it disappears, forever.  

He’s gone by the next morning, the whole carnival and your stuffed lion gone with him, the only indication that he even existed at all stuffed securely in the pocket of your jacket; a strip of four pictures, colourless and grainy, full of ink and ivory.

[pedros-mustache]

nighthawks (i)

summary: three hundred and sixty eight days—one standard year—that’s all he agrees to. then you’re gone.

word count: ~4.5k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, mean!mando for now hehe, hand around neck once (no choking), language, x fem!reader

a/n: this takes place post s2, meaning there’s no grogu (and we are ignoring the darksaber), but there will be plenty of ~other things~ to fill that void. the title comes from a painting of the same name by edward hopper. many thanks to @djarinsbeskar for being some extra eyeballs on this one! gif by @djarsdin​.

let me know if you’d like to be tagged in the following chapters. xoxo!

DAY ZERO

A girl—you’re just a girl. Barely a woman. 

You stand beside Karga, tendrils of hair framing your face, and Din sees the haughty strength in your shoulders, the iron viciousness in your stare. He sees you—green and gung-ho and itching for a fight—and he bites his tongue to keep from groaning.

His hands clench to fists at his sides. Fuck, he doesn’t have time for this. 

Karga keeps talking anyway. “You owe me, Mando. You know you owe me.” He gestures to you, and your eyes slide to the side, for the first time breaking from the visor of Din’s helm. You pin Karga with that steely stare, all impetuous edges and self-important sheen, but Karga ignores the weight of your glare. “One year—that’s all I’m asking for here.” 

Three hundred and sixty-eight days? No. Din doesn’t do jobs like this anymore. Not for a long time.

Hooking his thumbs beneath his belt, he shifts his weight to the side and shakes his head. “I’m not a nursemaid,” he says. “I’m done carting children around for you, Karga.” 

Your gaze snaps back to the panel of his visor—and Din is almost impressed by the flash of raw, unbridled anger that sparks across your pupils. Almost. 

Anger is a good place to start for an inexperienced bounty hunter. It’s as potent and propulsive as any formal skills training, a breeding ground for guts and determination. Like a shot of hard liquor, it ignites the blood and swirls through the body, pushing, pushing, pushing until, in order to find reprieve, the only viable option is success against the enemy. Against the anger itself. Din knows the look you carry well, was practically a slave to his own ire in his younger years, but he’s older now. Older, and maybe a little wiser, but certainly not as convinced that the ways of his youth are as well-tried as he once thought. 

So much has changed in the last year. Everything he once knew, cradled in his palms like his own flesh and blood, is gone, ripped away like a seedling on a harsh wind. His hands, his thread-bare satchel, the sling above his cot—it’s all empty now, tinged with ghosts he doesn’t like to acknowledge in the light of day. He is left with himself and himself only, which isn’t much by his own estimation, but it’s what he knows. It’s what has always been. And it’s easier that way—going at it alone, silent and sure and guided by a carefully honed set of skills. He never falters, never bends to his humanity—that niggling, irksome part of himself—when he is alone.

No—the mess of it all… of existing alongside another… of crumbling beneath the weight of responsibility and duty and attachment… Din doesn’t have time for that. Not again, anyway. Karga needn’t of bothered to ask.

Your voice, sharp and curling, breaks his thoughts. “I’m not a fucking child, Mandalorian.” You mirror his stance—whether on purpose or on accident, he isn’t sure—but your hip juts to the side, your hands on the tac belt slung low around your waist. “I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself.” 

He laughs at this, at the naivety that swaddles you safe and warm. It’s a husk of a laugh, peeled from his chest like a tight bandage on tender flesh. The sound is awkward, sudden, in the cramped storeroom of the cantina, and Karga winces. True laughter—borne of friendship and shared memories and the luxury of a moment of respite—floats through the flimsy door separating the cantina from the storeroom to affront Din’s ears. He shuts his mouth, laughter swallowed, a hard lump in his throat.

“What’s so funny?” There’s no mistaking the sneer of your upper lip, and he has to hand it to you: you’re fucking persistent. Anyone else vying to be his apprentice would have beat the dust by now, dissuaded by his refusal and mockery alike, but you’re still here, still waiting, eyes set hard and fast. So, he has to hand it to you: you aren’t a complete poseur. Just ninety-nine percent one.

He needs to put an end to this. No way, no how, is he taking you back to his ship. He’s better off alone, and he doesn’t have the energy or patience to drag along a girl and teach her the ways of the Guild. The mere thought makes his shoulders droop with exhaustion and a sigh work its way through his chest.

Maker, he’s getting too fucking old for this. Whatever Karga hoped to achieve by baiting him through the storeroom door with the promise of an intense hunt, one rigorous enough to drown out the noise of his past—it ends now.

Din takes a step forward. Another—another—another. His feet fall heavy on the worn, uneven ground, and your eyes grow wide with each purposeful advance. Stretching to his full height, he meets your gaze head on. A muscle in your brow twitches, a beast caught by the leer of another beast. He notes the way your right shoulder shifts backwards, toward the exit, as though prepared to flee. Good—you’re scared. As you should be. 

Like the snap of a well-corded whip, he reaches out and curves his hand around the column of your throat. He’s vaguely aware of Karga’s protests—Mando! What are you doing?—but Din doesn’t release his hold. Doesn’t tighten his grip either. Still, the ligaments and cartilage of your neck give, bending slightly under his grasp. The leather of his glove catches on a stray thread of hair; your heartbeat thrums against his palm. 

When he speaks, his voice is naught above a rasp—deadly, slow, and smooth. “I could snap you like a twig, girl.” 

There it is again—that irate spark that shoots across the circle of your irises. A muscle in your jaw twitches; your chin lifts almost imperceptibly. “I could crush your balls in my palm, Mandalorian.” 

He drops his hand, skin singed under his glove. A hot rush of frustration surges through his veins, and he resists the urge to drop you to the ground with one fell swoop to the back of the leg. You’re fiery, angry, brazen enough to threaten him without a second thought. He’s seen it all before, in the bright eyes of other arrogant young recruits always dead before the end of a lunar cycle; you’re nothing special. 

Kargra grabs Din by the shoulder, pulling him further into the storeroom, away from you and your swirling cloud of disdain. It’s darker here, the single square window partially obscured by the corner of a cabinet; its door hanging on the last bolt of a rusted hinge. Dust mites drift through a pale beam of light casting the unlit portions of the room in shadow. 

“Mando, please,” Karga starts. He sounds conciliatory, but determined. Which is too bad considering his offer of one thousand extra credits isn’t enough. 

Without warning, the storeroom door opens on a thin creak, and a lithe Bith, armed with a crumpled sheet of paper, ambles into the room. He brings with him the sound of tinny, off-beat music from the heart of the cantina and the smell of overcooked meat. His food-stained clothes drape over his wiry frame, the stoop of his shoulders pronounced. His large head swivels as he takes in the tense air of the narrow closet, the clench of Din’s fists, and your wide, battle-ready stance. Muttering something in his native tongue, he backs out of the room as quickly as he came, waving his hands in dismissal. Karga curses—his time is running out.

Lowering his voice, he glances over his shoulder to where you stand, fingertips pressed to your sternum. You glare at Din through your lashes, and he grits his teeth. “The Guild is running low on bounty hunters. You know that as well as anybody.”

Din drags his eyes from you to Karga’s worn, haggard face. The older man isn’t wrong. The last year has been tough on the Guild, resources and willing hunters run thin, stretched like rations among too large a crowd. There’s more lucrative work to be found in the private sector, and Din doesn’t blame any of his counterparts for jumping ship and taking a post as security for some bigwig on Coruscant. He can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed his mind, either. 

He’s simply too tied to the stars, to the vast expanse of space and all he can forget there, for a job which roots him to the ground.

“Yes, I do,” he says. “You’ve run me like a dog.”

Karga grimaces, his eyes skittering to the floor. Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he nods, shoulders seesawing in an admonition of guilt. “Can you blame me? You’re the best I’ve got.”

“I’m almost all you’ve got.” 

“Which”—Karga’s face lifts, and he points to you, the girl hovering in the corner—“is why you need to take her with you. Train her, make her out to be as good as you are, better even! The more bounty hunters that model their skills after yours, the sooner you can retire, kick back and—”

“I won’t retire.”

A pause, swollen with obstinance on either end of the debate. Karga works his jaw back and forth, focus tightening on the smooth curvature of the helmet, the center of Din’s forehead; Din tilts his head and, though his eyes are obscured, he’s sure Karga can feel the indifference in his unblinking stare.

Finally, Karga speaks. “Fine, take a day off, whatever.” There’s another pause, as though Karga expects Din to respond, but when the silence stretches a beat too long, he just gives a pinched-lip smile as he digs a hand deep into a pocket at his hip. “Take this as a down payment. There will be more at the end of the year. And consider yourself promoted with a fifty percent raise on every bounty, too.”

Din weighs the offering—a slim ingot of beskar—in his hand, brow lifted beneath his helm. The metal weighs heavy, appearing dull in the hazy light of the storeroom. He brushes his thumb over the seal in the bottom corner. 

“Where did you get this?” he asks. Never in all his years at the Guild has Karga offered him beskar. The sight of it now—unsullied, clean, weighty in his hand—twists his gut with something akin to… longing? Forlornness? He’s not sure. Sliding the ingot into his back pocket, he looks up, pushing the tug in his chest to the side.

Karga shrugs. “No matter. I have my connections, as we all do.” He again glances at you before swinging his gaze back to Din, eyes gone round and soft. “You’d really be helping me out here, Mando,” he says. “She’s good. I know it.” 

“She’s got a tongue on her.” 

Across the room, tucked between the door and a shelf that scales the chipping wall, you fold your arms over your chest. “I can hear you, metal man. And yes, I’ve got a tongue. I’m not afraid to use it either.” 

Din huffs. Little brat.

Only—he could use the money. Due to the untimely death of the Crest, he had to drain his accounts in order to purchase the Sunder. Not a cheap investment; not one he particularly enjoys, either. His pockets remain empty—the Sunder too—and, though he’s by no means a creature of comfort, with a new ship comes new burdens. Parts break more often on these sleeker, high-tech models; he’s learned that the hard way in the last year. So even with his regular bounty load, he’d be just scraping by, eking out an existence in the cosmos, after all is said and done and the Sunder kept well-maintained. A modicum of cushion where credits are concerned would be nice, he has to admit. 

He swings his head to the side. 

Fuck. It’s going to be a long year.

“I can see you thinking about it.” Karga grabs Din’s elbow. “I see those wheels turning. You need the money, I know you do. And after everything that happened with—”

Din yanks his arm from Karga’s grasp and skewers the old man with one long finger in the chest, the bluntest of knives Din is willing to use on his employer. For now. Through the orange fingertip, he can feel Karga’s heartrate ratchet higher. “Don’t talk about that. I don’t want to hear it.” 

“Okay, okay.” Karga lifts his hands in surrender, shaking his head in contrition. “My apologies, Mando.” 

“You want to be a bounty hunter?” Din’s addressing you now, his bulky frame across the floor in two easy strides. 

You push away from your spot against the wall and drop your hands to your sides; there’s no nervous twitch to your fingers, only clenched fists, knuckles tight and prepared. You nod once, resolute. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Most new bounty hunters are in it for the fun. The thrill of the chase and the excitement of weeks on end racing across the stars can’t be beat; it’s a drug as heady as any other. It’s not a terrible reason to join the Guild, but the high of hunting criminals doesn’t last for long. Soon the unending monotony of planets and foulmouthed villains and cuts and bruises that scar deep grates on the soul. The job wears the nerves thin and papery, like parchment withered with age. It forms the body to steel, rigid against attack. And the heart? Shit, Din can’t remember the last time he let himself get comfortable or—

A wrench in his chest like the twist of a butcher knife through the ribs. A pair of round, deep eyes between oversized ears swims before his vision, and he remembers. Yes, there was a time—recently, not so long ago—where the metal cage around his heart unlocked and he let someone in, if only for a moment. 

But it’s easier—so much easier—to lock that part of yourself away for safekeeping. Fresh bounty hunters don’t know all that: all the job takes out of you, all it forces you to become against your own will.

Din isn’t surprised when you do not hesitate before responding to his question; he anticipated as much from someone with your ego. He is, however, intrigued by your answer and the calmness with which you speak. 

“Because the people you catch take advantage of people like me. I intend to stop that.” 

Naive—foolhardy—idealistic.

As he did Karga, he levels his finger at you, though he keeps his distance. You stiffen, face folding in a frown, and push his wrist away with a swat of your hand. He lets you. 

“I’m doing this for the credits and the beskar. I don’t care about your personal goals, however lofty you think they are.” 

You lift one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug and return your arms to cross beneath your breasts. “Doesn’t bother me.” 

“You default to my orders. Is that understood?”

You blink, slow and syrupy, lashes fanning your cheekbones. Your lower lip disappears beneath your teeth as you consider his request. Din sets his jaw, leaning forward, his chest expanding on a deep inhale. 

“I said: is that understood?”

It’s another moment—Karga seething, Just say yes—before you nod, chin dipping toward your collarbone in a single sluggish movement.

Din backs off. “One shit move and I throw you off the ship without a second thought.” Then, turning to Karga, he motions to the door. “Now give me those fobs. I’d like to get out of here while it’s still light.”

//

DAY ZERO

Five fobs—five bounties—the start of the rest of your life. The pucks clatter against one another, strung together on the Mandalorian’s hip. A red light, solid and small as a pinhead, winks at you from the center of each fob—on, off, on, off. 

Find me, find me, find me. 

A smile tugs the corner of your mouth. Stars, you’re excited.

You trail behind the Mandalorian, a lone duffel thrown over your shoulder. The bag, half-filled as it is, slaps against your back as you navigate the uneven terrain. You keep your eyes forward though, despite the roll and twist of your ankles over the hardened edges of liquid fire; you won’t let him—that hulking mass of gleaming metal and boorishness—out of your sight. 

The lava fields of Nevarro smell like shit. It’s the sulfuric lava running hot beneath your boots, you know that, but damn, the scent curdles in your nose like rotten yolk. Everything on this planet is dim and gloomy, cloaked in a heavy shroud of darkness: the landscape, the sky, the small outcrop of buildings. You are as eager to leave as you are eager to smell something sweet. 

You hope the Mandalorian’s ship doesn’t smell like shit, too. 

Since leaving the cantina, he hasn’t spoken a word, and neither have you. You don’t have anything to say, and polite conversation has never been your strong suit, so it’s easier if you keep your mouth shut—for now. You get the feeling there are plenty of arguments to be had, plenty of words that will cross like swords, over the next year. 

Your skin still burns with the ghostly remnant of his hold on your neck. He hadn’t even so much as flexed his finger muscles, but in that moment you felt it—the insane depth of his strength. He could crush you like a glowbug, squeeze until you ooze pus and blood like an irritating insect to be wiped away. He wouldn’t even break a sweat pressing and folding and pinching your neck until you died of suffocation, face blue and eyes bulging from their sockets.

Okay, so at least you know who—what—you’re dealing with: an asshole with zero people skills and brawn to spare. Sounds like every other man that has come and gone through your measly, sad existence. Par for the fucking course.

Unannounced, the Mandalorian stops walking. You catch yourself, tilting forward on your toes, before you can ram forehead first into the solid plate of his back. 

“Hey—watch it!” You clear your throat at the shrill sound of your voice and step to the side, out from behind his towering form. A harsh tug to the strap of your bag bites the flesh of your armpit, but it distracts your focus from the heat rising to your cheeks.

He casts you a sideways glance, and hell, for a helmet so masking, you can practically see the loathing in his stare. He’s unimpressed by you on all accounts. Which, you think, is fair enough considering you know the bare minimum about everything in relation to bounty hunting. He’s got his work cut out for him. 

Turning away, he pushes a square button on his vambrace, and the ground beneath your feet shudders. You careen your neck back, releasing a low whistle as the entry ramp to a behemoth transport ship lowers to settle on the cracked earth. Pressurized steam swirls around the gaping mouth of the ship, and the Mandalorian strides up the length of the steel tongue, tattered cape swinging behind him. You hurry up the ramp in his stormy wake, only pausing long enough to admire two blaster cannons stacked atop one on opposite sides of the incline. Outfitted for a fight, apparently. The excitement settled at the base of your stomach swirls to life.

The Mandalorian closes the ramp as you step into the ship. He’s halfway across the cargo hold when the ramp thunders shut and daylight is snuffed out like a candle. Pale blue light filters from the floorplates, and a frosty chill skitters across your skin. You resist the urge to rub your arms for warmth. 

There is little time to survey your surroundings before Metal Man disappears behind a glass door at the far end of the cargo hold. In a whirl of sucking air and mechanics, he is lifted to the upper deck, and you are left alone, to wait in thick, angry silence until the turbolift is prepared and ready for your ascent. When you exit the turbolift, you step into a curved common area.

Your teacher or tutor or instructor—whatever he is—stands at the far end of the room, shucking his weapons into a narrow compartment built into the bulkhead. He does not turn when the turbolift whooshes back to the lower deck, empty.

“Dick move,” you say, dropping your duffel to a padded bench against the closest wall. “You could have waited.”

He says nothing. Just drops the five fobs onto a circular table by his side. You eye them with interest. And you’re sure he knows—he’s probably got eyes in the back of his helmet—so you look away, shoving your hands behind your back as you stroll about the anteroom.

“Nice wings.” You poke your head down a narrow hallway to your left. “Smells new. Is it new?”

He sighs, the sound grating, like durasteel dragged over sharp rocks. You startle, spinning around on your heel to see him standing directly behind you. Fucker moves like an apparition, silent despite the pounds and pounds of heavy armor on his person. You’ll have to get used to that.

“Yes, it’s new.” He flicks a switch on the wall upwards, and the hall is bathed in warm white light. You count four sealed doors, two on either side.

“What happened to your old ship?”

He pushes past. “Nothing that concerns you.” 

You frown. Fine—be that way. Asshole.

The Mandalorian opens the first automatic door on the right side of the hall. He faces you as he swings his arm across the threshold. “You’ll sleep in here.”

Brows lifting with anticipation, you walk forward. You’re sure the accommodations are cramped, as is customary on most starships, but nearly everywhere beats the shithole bed you rented on Nevarro and anything beats where you came from. This is a nice ship, afterall—a hell of a lot nicer than anything you’ve ever set foot on before. Maker, you can already imagine the clean sheets and the fluffy pillow and—

Your jaw drops when you look inside the room. 

It’s the galley. He’s offering you the fucking kitchen.

Your head whips to the side. “This big of a ship and you’ve only got one room?”

“No, there are two. You’ll sleep in here.”

You scoff, open your mouth to respond with something snarky and rude, but he’s already moving up the hall to the cockpit. You grit your jaw hard enough to send a sharp pain lancing through your skull.

Gripping the doorframe, you call after him. “Where is your fresher? I want to shower.”

The Mandalorian lifts your duffel from the bench in the anteroom and tosses it down the hall with a flick of his wrist. It lands with a thud halfway to the door; a bra strap slips from a small opening where the zipper won’t shut. 

“It’s there,” he says, pointing to the door directly across the hall. “Don’t use too much water. We have to conserve between the two of us. I’ll give you ten minutes before we take off.” 

You bend to scoop your belongings from the floor, clutching them to your chest. A sudden wave of exhaustion crashes over you, and all you want more than anything in the entire galaxy is to shut the door to your room and sleep. 

But the Mandalorian isn’t done talking.

“Oh, and don’t touch anything in the galley. Everything is—” 

You slip into the fresher before he can say anything—demand anything—more.

Nary a thought tumbles through your head as you stand beneath the scalding shower. Just the suds of a body wash you bought at Nevarro’s open-air market and the steam and the pounding water to drown out the voices in your head and your mounting hesitations. 

You shower for twelve minutes and towel dry, dressing in your only spare outfit, before slipping back into the galley. You seal the door behind you, careful to lock it from your end, though the thought does cross your mind that the Mandalorian can likely go anywhere he wants on his own ship, lock or no lock. He surely has all the override codes. Still, you hope the keypad in the hall now illuminated red is something he can respect.

The galley is modest in size—bigger than a shoebox, smaller than the least expensive room for rent in Coruscant. A steel table bolted to the floor, two chairs on one side, another padded bench against the wall on the other. On the far side of the room, a squat conservator tucked beneath a long counter and one cabinet scaling floor to ceiling. 

You drop the damp towel from your hair and the open duffel in your hand when you spot it: the caf machine, still snug in its packaging. 

Stars above! You haven’t had a good cup of caf in eons. Your fingers fumble as you rip the box open and unsheathe the magnificent hunk of white plastine. It’s a cheap model, one you’ve used before, and you’ll be damned if you let it gather dust in a box on the counter. 

You find caf beans included in the machine’s box, and it’s enough to prepare a single cup of caf. (You make a mental note to purchase as big of a bag of caf beans as you can get next time the ship lands. This year is bound to give you headaches, and nothing staves off the dull ache at the base of your skull better than some bitter bean water.) Drink made, you slouch on the padded bench and rest your head against the cold wall. Steam curls from the mug in your hand; it’s chipped at the rim, and you run your nail over the imperfection.

The ship has long since lurched into space. It glides through the stars with ease, and your eyes flutter shut as the hum of the engines vibrates through the vessel. A lullaby of old, from a long time ago, when things were better.

This is good. This will be good for you. 

You couldn’t exist on Inora anymore. Not as you were, anyway. Offering yourself up to the Guild seemed the only way out of that mess, and now here you are, secured an apprenticeship with a faceless Mandalorian who definitely has the skills and the weaponry to make you out to be the warrior of your imagination.

So you might be sleeping in the galley and your teacher might be a raging asshole, but you’ve dealt with worse. You have the scars to prove it, too. 

You want this. You need this. 

Defending the defenseless, protecting the prey—maybe this is how you make up for the loss of Jeelia…

Three hundred and sixty-eight days. A full year by the Galactic Standard calendar. 

Leaning over, you withdraw a datapad from your duffel. It’s cracked at the edge, but still usable. You open a new note and make a tally with the keyboard. 

You’re already counting down the days.

NEXT CHAPTER

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Merlin accidentally becomes Legolas/Katniss/Merida… you know the type;

He may be shitty at sword fighting, but Merlin begins to use a traditional bow and arrow and… actually becomes very good at it??

I imagine the first time he does it, it’s a complete fluke.

The five knights, The King, and Merlin are on their way back from yet another (frankly, ridiculous) quest.

They have been, of course, ambushed by a group of bandits, twenty to their six (six plus Merlin, though no one bar Lancelot knows about his magic, so he isn’t counted as a fighter). Though the knights outweigh them in skill, their sheer numbers makes it a… challenging, fight (meaning that they are winning, but far too slowly for their liking, and no one wants to admit it).

Now normally, Merlin hides behind a tree or in a ditch, and performs his spells quietly without being noticed, slowly helping and speeding up the fight. Except this time, the Gang was in the middle of a barren, open field, the bandits had disguised themselves with magic until the moment they attacked, and Merlin was right in the middle of all the action.

Everyone worried for his safety. There was nowhere for him to hide here, so they had to keep an eye on him, lest he get hurt (and Arthur sulked, or kicked off, depending on how badly he was hurt).

With nowhere to hide (and no branches to drop, or roots to trip people with), and one of the knights throwing a glance his way every ten seconds, he couldn’t use his magic.

He was currently on his hands and knees, Leon directly in front of him, Percival to his left, holding off four attackers between them (Merlin would marvel at how impressive that was if he weren’t otherwise preoccupied).

He keeps trying to get to Arthur, crawling between legs and over the groaning, injured bodies of bandits (he made a point to land sharp elbows and harsh knees into the more… sensitive areas), but with everyone moving around so rapidly, and the vicious swinging of swords and axes and maces inches above his head, he kept getting side-tracked and blocked and almost knocked out.

With a frustrated huff, he notices yet another bandit rounding on The King. Said huff turns into a pained gasp when he realises that Arthur hasn’t seen him yet.

The bandit raises his weapon in the air, seconds from bringing it down on Arthur’s back, but Leon is right there, and there are no branches to drop on him, and Arthur still hasn’t noticed!

The noise is too loud, grunts and yells and clashes of metal drowning out any sort of warning yell that Merlin could throw Arthur’s way, and he scrabbles around on the floor desperately; hands raking through sharp grass and over bloodied bodies as he stares in horror at the triumphant smirk on the future-King-killer’s face.

Time seems to slow (no magic, just adrenaline) as Merlin’s hands find purchase on a smooth, curved piece of wood. He picks it up without looking, at first intending to throw whatever it is as hard as he can in the bandits direction, before something (magic, instincts, periphery vision, who knows) tells him to look down.

He obeys, and widens his eyes as he sees the longbow gripped tightly in his right hand, and a stray arrow on the floor next to his left.

Merlin is no expert, only having actually hunted once or twice back home in Ealdor, when he was younger, but that was just enough knowledge for him to know roughly how to notch the arrow and fire. He pulls the two up quickly, a plan formulating in his head:

Step 1) Notch arrow.

Step 2) Close eyes.

Step 3) Magic? Hope?

Step 4) Come up with some sort of lie that explains how he managed to make the shot from sixty yards away, through a crowd.

Thankfully, it would appear that Merlin’s bad luck has given him a rest today; the first three steps go off without a hitch (the fourth will come a little later, when the battle is over), but he doesn’t have time to congratulate himself before he’s thrown into the fray, the bandits now obviously seeing him as some sort of threat.

Arthur finally defeats his own attackers, looking behind him in shock to see his unknown enemy lying on the floor, gurgling up blood and grasping weakly at the arrow through his neck. His head whips to the side, trying to find whoever had made the shot; his bewildered gaze meets Merlin’s for only a second before the servant is dragged to his feet, and promptly punched in the face.

He stumbles back and can just about hear Leon yell something from beside him but he pays it no mind, righting his balance once again and swinging his arm back, before bringing it down harshly on his newest attackers head. The resounding crack echoes over the field as the wood of the longbow splits in two on the bandit’s skull, and he drops like a sack of potatoes.

The fight doesn’t last much longer, each knight taking advantage of their enemies' fatigue, and Merlin using his now broken longbow to whack them in the shins or trip them up when they weren’t paying attention.

He was sad to see it broken, but two of his closest friends literally owned a blacksmith's, and he had easy access to the Castle’s armoury; he could get a hold of another one easily enough, as long as he survived the journey back home.

The battle finally came to a close. Everyone was exhausted, and each of them was sporting more than one hefty bruise, but they were all alive and there were no serious injuries, so they could be grateful for that. After Arthur had counted his men, and generally taken stock of things, he traipsed tiredly over to Merlin, who had abandoned his broken bow in favour of cleaning a still weeping cut on Elyan’s temple.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Merlin.”

The servant ignores him at first, biting his lip in concentration as he carefully wipes the grime away from the wound. It was small, so an infection wouldn’t be too worrying, but it wouldn’t be comfortable and would make the scarring worse, so best to avoid it if at all possible. He hums in satisfaction as he leans back on his heels, Elyan gives him a grateful smile, and Merlin finally throws a glance Arthur’s way, before focusing back on threading the needle in his hands; it would only need two or three stitches, thankfully:

“Hmm. I'm not fond of hunting, but we had to for food back in Ealdor. Except we didn’t have fancy crossbows or hunting dogs, so we had to make do with hand-whittled longbows.”

Arthur nods, frowning slightly:

“Still, if I’d known you were that good, I would’ve demanded you had a bow of your own; that way us lot wouldn’t have to spend so much time making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Merlin smirked and quirked an eyebrow, but doesn’t look away from Elyan’s stitches, whispering an apology at the man’s wince before he speaks slowly, concentrating:

“Careful Sire, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

Elyan snorts out a laugh, but Merlin tuts and lightly slaps his leg disapprovingly, and he stills again. Arthur rolls his eyes with a huff:

“As if. Hurry up, I want to get moving as soon as possible.”

~

Arthur wasn’t the only one that noticed Merlin’s outstanding shot, and over the course of the next few day’s journey home, he received a multitude of compliments from the other knights. 

Including an hour long excited infodump about the history and use of longbows from Leon, which Merlin eagerly hung onto every word of, a fond smile on his face (Leon was a noble, and had it practically beaten into him to not ramble, so Merlin always did his best not to discourage the man. That, and the fact that it was actually very interesting, and useful, if he were to keep up this charade that he was an expert marksman).

When Merlin finally had a moment alone with Lancelot, a few days after they had gotten back, he burst:

“Please please tell me you know how to use a longbow??”

Lancelot raises his eyebrow from where he was sat on the bed in Merlin’s room. Merlin was staring at him with unconcealed desperation, and the knight chuckled as he answered:

“Why? It’s not like you need any more training, that was a cracking shot.”

Merlin huffed loudly, running his hands through his hair as he looked back at the knight:

“I used magic!! I closed my eyes so no one would see and I guided the arrow with magic! Now everyone thinks I’m some master marksman! This is bad. What if next time I can’t use magic, or what if someone notices that I have my eyes closed when I fire?”

Lancelot clamps a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to stop himself from giggling, but he gives up quickly, bursting into laughter at the younger man’s panic. Said younger man fumes, sputtering as he picks up one of the knight’s discarded boots and throws it at him:

“It’s not funny, Lance! I’m being serious, this is an actual issue!”

Lancelot calms himself, rubbing the mirth from his eyes as he takes a deep breath:

“Ok ok, sorry. Yes, I can teach you to use a longbow properly. Have you ever actually used one before, or was the hunting thing a cover?”

The red fades from Merlin’s face slightly as he realises the other man is intending to help him, his panic lessening:

“Sort of. Yeah, I went hunting with a bow a couple times, but not enough to be that good at it.”

Lancelot sighs fondly and nods his head:

“Well, that’s a start at least. Come on, I’ve not got patrol until after dinner, and Arthur thinks you’re busy helping Gaius, so we’ve got a few hours.”

~

So I imagine that’s how it goes for a while.

After their last big adventure, Arthur was reluctant to head out as a group again, wanting to give everyone time to recuperate and get back into the swing of things.

Merlin’s skills with a bow were bought up constantly by everyone, news had even reached Gwen (who gave him a proud smile and a cute little dance to congratulate him) and Gaius (who raised an eyebrow, and had much better skill than Lancelot at holding in his laughter). 

Gwaine, Elyan, and even Percival were desperate to set up targets and watch him shoot shit (their words), Leon wanted to talk about the specifics of technique and crafting, and Arthur... well. Arthur sounded like he was taking the piss, but there was something else in his tone that Merlin couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

Affection? Pride?

Probably not, probably jealousy and annoyance that Merlin is so effortlessly good at something that Arthur himself was average at at best.

Merlin manages to avoid it for a while, showing his “skills” off, but he and Lancelot are running out of excuses, and Arthur is starting to accuse him of being a fake who got lucky. Normally, things like that didn’t bother Merlin, and technically Arthur wasn’t wrong... he had got lucky, and cheated with magic, but that wasn’t the point. It was nice for Merlin, to be good at something, really good.

He was good at plenty of other things. Magic for starters, though not even Lancelot knew the full extent of his power in that area. But he cooked well (shown by the fact that the knights always scoffed the lot), he was a good physician (shown by the fact that the knights trusted him just as much as Gaius when it came to treating injuries and sickness), and he was a BRILLIANT servant, if he did say so himself.

But he never got any actual praise for that. Merlin hated to think badly of the knights, his friends, but they only complained when Merlin wasn’t there, never praised him when he was. Well, apart from Lancelot. And that had just started a bunch of rumours that they were... uh... boinking. 

(False. Anyone with more than two braincells could see that Sir Lancelot was head over heals in love with the newly-promoted Housekeeper, Guinevere, and that The King’s Manservant had an affinity for certain a blond prat-King.)

ANYWAY

It was nice for Merlin to have a skill that others thought worth complimenting, and with Lancelot monitoring his practice sessions, correcting any mistakes and offering congratulations whenever he did well, he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he no longer had to come up with excuses.

Luckily, Merlin picked it up very quickly. 

Despite being clumsy by nature (though Lancelot is starting to suspect more and more that it’s all for show), the dark haired servant can consistently hit bullseyes from fifty yards within a month. The further away from the target he got, the less astounding his aim was, but that was to be expected, and another month later he could successfully hit a moving target from seventy feet.

A training session, around three months after he started properly practicing, he finally “gave in” to Gwaine’s begging. Lancelot helped him set up a bunch of targets, and fetched a bag of apples to throw.

Merlin put on quite the show, grinning at the uproarious applause he got from the knights when he hit every single bullseye, and every single thrown target. Thankfully the knowing, proud smiles between the servant and Sir Lancelot went unnoticed, and even Arthur gave him a clap on the back and an impressed nod.

~

The first time Merlin met the knights in the courtyard to find Leon holding a longbow and quiver of arrows out to him, he panicked slightly, but one reassuring smile from Lancelot boosted his confidence, and he took them with a quiet thank you.

(After the fifth time, Arthur huffed, and told him to just keep them. He was the only one that regularly signed them out of the armoury anyway, so it would just be easier if he just took possession of them.)

It settled everyone’s stomachs, knowing that not only did the group have a master marksmen, hiding in the trees and taking out enemies that they didn’t see coming, but that Merlin personally now had more than his frankly horrifying (or... horrifying as far as they were concerned) stealth skills to keep him safe.

And that (a master marksmen in the trees) is exactly what happened. 

In the early days, it involved a lot of bruises; Merlin could fire well, but firing and balancing at the same time? Took some getting used to, and involved a lot of falling out of trees at inopportune times.

The knights, Gwaine and Arthur especially, laughed endlessly at that, but quickly stopped after a particularly tired and irate and bruised Merlin fired an arrow so close by Gwaine’s crotch, that it stuck his trousers fast into the tree just behind him.

At first, it was meant to be just as back-up; Merlin was no knight. He still refused to wear armour, and Arthur didn’t want his manservant to make himself a target... at least that was his excuse.

Really, it was because (as far as Arthur was aware) Merlin had never deliberately killed before. Even now, years into his Kingship, and even longer into his knighthood, Arthur hated killing; it made him sick, and took a lot of practice at compartmentalization before it no longer bothered him as much.

Merlin was his manservant, his (best) friend, the love of his life (secretly). He was not a warrior, he was not meant to kill, he was meant to be protected from that.

But alas, Merlin did not get the memo, and the first patrol he went on with his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, he killed at least five bandits.

After the fight, it was Leon who approached him first, a concerned look on his face despite Merlin’s nonchalant expression as he checked over the string for wear and tear:

“Are you feeling alright, Merlin? You got a few good shots in there, you’re not feeling sick?”

Merlin looked up at the hand on his shoulder and the soft words, a confused look on his face:

“Why would being good make me feel sick?”

Leon tilts his head in sympathy, which just makes Merlin even more confused:

“The man you killed the other month was spur of the moment, protecting your King. But you... you killed a fair few men today, Merlin. I know that can be incredibly difficult at first, I just wanted to check in.”

The others had finally walked over to join them; Percival, Elyan, Gwaine, and Arthur looking equally concerned, whilst Lancelot hid his proud smile. Merlin just raised an eyebrow at them:

“You seem to be under the impression that I’ve never killed anyone before?”

Everyone (bar Lancelot) looks taken aback at that, and Arthur frowns whilst Leon drops his hand in shock. The King speaks slowly:

“Merlin, are you telling us you’ve killed people before?”

The manservant clenches his jaw at that and looks back down at his bow, resuming his checking of the string and its knots. He speaks lowly, and the knights can tell it’s not a topic he’s fond of:

“Hmm. It’s a tough world, Sire. I’ve done what I had to, to keep myself and the people I care about safe.”

At his dark reply, conversation stopped, and didn’t resume for the rest of the day as everyone contemplated Merlin’s words.

That is, until he was the first one to successfully catch dinner later that evening. At which he got an incredulous look from Arthur when he made it back to camp with his half of the patrol:

“I thought you despised hunting??”

Merlin didn’t look up from the hares he was skinning, and the rest of the knights tuned in, curious:

“No. I hate hunting for sport; it shows hubris and cruelty. Hunting for food is not only necessary and natural, but humbling, if you do it right and honour every part of the creature.”

Arthur, ever the eloquent one, stared at him blankly, and said, rather dumbly:

“...What?”

Merlin huffed, finally looking up:

“Going after helpless animals on horseback with crossbows and hunting dogs is like giving yourself a huge pat on the back for winning a tournament against an unarmoured, unarmed, unconscious opponent, and then calling yourself strong and brave for daring to fight in the first place. It’s an egotistical act of violence for no other reason than cruelty for the sake of cruelty.-”

The knights looks on him with shock, Percival and Leon at least having the decency to look a little ashamed. Merlin looks back down to the hares, and everyone notices the careful way he cuts at the fur:

“I’ve taken these lives to feed us as a necessity. The meat will be eaten, but that isn’t all. I’ll take the bones home for Gaius, the marrow is useful in a lot of medicine. The fur can be repurposed for winter gloves or socks. The organs and other bits that we won’t eat: I’ll take for the pigs in the farms, or the dogs up at the castle. In using every part of them we are... honouring them, in a way. As a thank-you for their... sacrifice.”

Arthur looks a little dumbfounded. As royalty, he of course had never really considered the waste that comes about with hunting, but Merlin, a farm-boy from a rural village who barely scraped by every winter? Of course he saw a deeper meaning in hunting. He would have to.

Elyan is the first to break the silence:

“You almost sound religious, Merlin.”

Merlin looks up at him, a strained smile on his face. As magic incarnate, he has a particularly strong, temperamental relationship with nature and her creatures, a bond that some might call faith. To be wasteful or cruel in any way hurts him in more ways than one:

“Not really, I just have respect for nature, is all.”

No one mentions the thinly-veiled insult, but everyone creeps closer, wanting to see the way he disassembles the creatures for future reference.

~

It’s been eight months since that first, perfect shot.

Merlin’s skills with a longbow had become a normal, expected part of The Gang’s experiences, but the knights never stopped praising and thanking him when he saved their lives (something that Merlin still hadn’t quite gotten used), and The King had apparently not stopped thinking about it for barely more than a second. 

Yule was approaching quickly: Merlin, Gwen, and the Steward being constantly busy with preparations in the castle, the knights being run off their feet escorting emergency aid to the border villages for the harsh winter, and Arthur himself having every minute of the day taken up with speech writing, invite sending, and his other general King-during-Yule duties.

That however, was all to be expected, and of course did nothing to keep Arthur and Merlin from their annual traditions.

It wasn’t official, it wasn’t even spoken of, but the last evening of Yule, the night before the new year, the two of them always spent together.

The last feast of the year would finish, Arthur would stay to see his guests off, thank the staff for all of their hard work, and finally retire to his chambers, his tired manservant barely a hair’s breadth behind him. They would sit in front of the lit hearth (in comfy chairs that only they used), work their way through a jug or two of wine, exchange small gifts, and fall asleep in front of the fire. Their hands, dangling over the side of their chairs, seem to be creeping closer and closer with each passing year; though have yet to become entangled by morning.

This year was somehow no different, and very different, at the same time.

The King and his Manservant settled in their chairs, tired and already a little more than tipsy from the wine drunk during the feast. Arthur looked up at Merlin, the fond smile dropping from his face when he sees the other man’s features pulled into a contemplative frown:

“What’s on your mind, Merls? I don’t think I’ve seen you this serious since the start of the celebrations.”

Merlin looked up at him suddenly, his eyes wide, but he smiles and shakes his head:

“Nothing, nothing. Just thinking is all.”

Normally, Arthur would raise an eyebrow and let a scathing tease on the state of Merlin’s intelligence fall from his lips, but not tonight. This is the only night of the year that The King allows himself to entertain the idea that perhaps he and Merlin were more than friends, or at least could be. So instead he resumes his smiling, and looks back to the fire, taking another sip of his wine before responding softly:

“What about?”

Merlin hums, copying Arthur’s wine-sipping, before taking a deep breath:

“The future, mostly. You, me, Camelot. Secrets and truths, and when one might turn into the other. Soon, I think... yeah. Soon.”

Arthur huffs slightly in amusement. He knows that Merlin hides a great deal of himself, but he always becomes more cryptic after a few glasses of wine, like he desperately wants to say something and doesn’t have the power to stop himself from hinting at whatever it may be.

He asks his next question good-naturedly, a smile sweetened by wine gracing his face:

“The hell does that mean?”

Merlin lets out a short laugh, looking up at the other man:

“Oh, you know. Thinking about spilling all my deepest darkest secrets to you, at some point soon.”

Arthur snorts, saying, only for the sake of keeping up the charade they’ve built:

“You don’t have any secrets, Merlin. Certainly not any that are deep or dark.”

Once, Arthur would have believed that. Then, when he stopped believing it, he was angry about it, and now? Now, he finds he doesn’t mind so much. He is confident, he has faith, in both himself and in Merlin. He knows that those secrets are there, and Merlin knows that he knows, but that’s ok. Nothing either of them could reveal would tear them apart, at least not for long, so Arthur was happy to wait until Merlin was happy to share.

Merlin chuckled at Arthur’s response, shaking his head slightly before reaching down and picking up a small wrapped parcel that he’d stowed away before the feast:

“Come on, I’m a little nervous about your gift this year, so let’s get it over and done with.”

Arthur nodded, accepting the change in subject, and set his wine down so he could pick up the (much bigger) parcel by his own chair.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. After the first gift-exchange happened, Merlin had put his foot down and made Arthur swear to not go overboard on the expense side of things. Arthur may have been a prince, and now a King, but Merlin was still just a servant/physician; he could hardly afford anything worthy of a King. 

He had a feeling that Arthur might’ve broken his word this year, but where Arthur had likely gone overboard with expense, Merlin had definitely gone overboard with sentimentality.

They swapped parcels, Merlin placing the large, heavy box carefully at his feet as he gestured Arthur to open his first. Arthur got to it, tearing the paper off without a second of hesitation, and Merlin allowed himself to smile fondly at the child-like excitement on the blonde’s face.

Arthur’s brow creased as he dropped the paper to the floor, stroking soft fingers over the worn leather of an old, well-loved book. Merlin took deep, fortifying breaths as Arthur carefully opened the first few pages, butterflies in his stomach as Arthur’s eyes wandered the yellowed paper in curiosity.

The King looked up at him, amused confusion on his face as he asked:

“Is this yours? I didn’t know you could draw, Merlin.”

Merlin gulped, and shook his head as memories of the exquisite sketches filled his mind; detail-perfect renditions of the castle, the town square, waterfalls and knights in action and people that Merlin didn’t recognise (for the most part. Arthur evidently hadn’t gotten to any of the pages with young Uther on them).

“No, not mine. This one requires a little explanation-”

Arthur nodded, carefully closing the book and holding it protectively in his lap as he gave Merlin his undivided attention:

“-I mentioned off-handedly to Leon a few months ago that I thought the lack of... of paintings of the late Queen in the castle was odd.-”

Arthur gulped at the mention of his mother, but nodded with a small smile when Merlin paused:

“-He said that when she passed, The King had everything to do with her moved to the vaults. He couldn’t force himself to destroy any of it, but looking at it, day in and day out, was too painful. We found the keys, with the help of Geoffrey, and went down to have a look, see what we could find. We didn’t tell you about it because we didn’t want to disappoint you, in case we couldn’t find anything.-”

Merlin once again looked a little nervous at this, and reached a hand out towards Arthur. When the man didn’t flinch away (if anything, he leaned into it), he moved to grip his shoulder blade, running his thumb over the exposed skin at the base of The King’s neck.

“-We found... a lot. Old clothes and paintings mainly, some jewellery. But then I found that;-”

He nodded at the book in Arthur’s lap, and tightened his grip on his shoulder. Merlin spoke his next words so quietly that Arthur almost doesn’t hear him, a soft smile on his face:

“-your mother was quite the artist, Arthur. I knew you had to have it.”

Arthur gasped softly, his eyes widening as he looked down at the book:

“You... you think my mother drew these?”

Merlin smiled at him, moving his hand to squeeze Arthur’s wrist slightly, before dropping it entirely:

“Check the back page.”

Arthur took a deep breath before doing what Merlin said, handling the book with even more care than he had before now that he knows who it belonged to. He turned to the very last page, to see an inscription written in beautiful cursive. Merlin recited it aloud, having memorised the words weeks ago:

“My dearest son, my silly sketches are able to hold only a fraction of our Kingdom’s beauty. I know one day that you will see what I see, treasure it just as much, and make it your own. You have my support, forever and always, your loving Mother.”

Arthur bites his lip harshly, lifting the book to press his forehead against the words as he shuts his eyes tightly, though that does nothing to stop the tears. Merlin replaces his hand on The King’s shoulder as the man shakes. He sniffles slightly, putting the book back in his lap, though keeping his hands wrapped around it securely, as he looks to Merlin:

“Merlin, I... I don’t even know what to say. This is... amazing. I... Thank you.”

Merlin smiles, shaking his head slightly:

“Technically, it wasn’t even mine to give, it’s always been yours. But I thought it might make a nice surprise. There’s plenty of other stuff down there, I’ll show you in the morning.”

Arthur nods his head, wiping his tears as he carefully places the book on his side table and gestures to the box at Merlin’s feet. He was itching to scour through the book, dedicating every single line to memory, but whilst Merlin had been nervous about Arthur’s gift, Arthur was buzzing about Merlin’s, and he was desperate to see the man’s reaction.

Merlin huffs out a laugh, but picks the box up, noting once again how heavy it is. He sets about removing the paper, much calmer and more methodical than Arthur had been, with his face pinched in concentration.

He frowns in curiosity as he sets eyes on the wooden box. It had a hinged lid, and a logo that he’s certain he recognises burned like a brand into the corner. He can feel Arthur bouncing in his chair slightly, and looks up at him in amusement, laughing once again when he nods excitedly back down at the box.

He lifts the lid, and takes in a shocked breath.

Inside was a beautifully crafted long bow; the wood smooth and varnished and carved, and a leather quiver. The patterns embossed in the leather and carved in to the metal at the base, match those carved into the wood of the bow, and Merlin traces soft fingers over the intricate swirls, stopping with a teary smile at the Pendragon crest, carved just next to a Merlin bird.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding as he looks up at the excited King:

“Arthur this is beautiful. Gods I almost don’t want to touch it, I feel like it should be on display behind glass.”

Arthur lets out a laugh, obviously pleased with Merlin’s reaction:

“Nope. It will be going with you every time you leave the city, and considering how much trouble we always seem to attract, I have no doubt that it will see a lot of use.”

Merlin laughs, closing the lid carefully and setting the box back on the floor, before launching himself bodily at Arthur. The blonde laughs, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s middle with no hesitation as the other man mutters endless thank-yous in his ear.

The servant finally pulls back, settling in his own chair again, and the two of them hope that the other puts the flush on their face down to the wine, and nothing else. They look to each other with wide grins on their faces, and Arthur breaks the stare first, taking another gulp of his wine before laughing jovially and speaking:

“Well. Here’s to an amazing year, and hopefully an even better one, starting in a few minutes.”

Merlin nods, lifting his own goblet to tap it against Arthur’s:

“Here’s to the past, that guides us-”

He gestures to the book on Arthur’s table:

“-and the future, that calls to us.”

He gestures to his new bow, and they both finish their wine off, a healthy flush to their cheeks and fond smiles on their faces.

They fall asleep in their respective chairs, the same as every year. 

In the morning, they wake with pounding headaches, a promise of a golden future, and hands intertwined.

~

THE END!!

We love a cutesy/hopeful ending😌

Like always lads, you wanna write it out in full, go for it, credit and tag me✌️

Head over to This List to see what I’m working on next, and cast your vote!

[unprocione]

❛ hard to remember what's reality, and what i've dreamt up these days. ❜ leon confesses matter-of-fact, breaking his gaze from her with a slight wince the moment the words leave his lips unintended - something that would likely get him discharged from service if he were anyone else. ❛ that makes it sound worse than it actually is. i know my own mind, of course, it's just that so much has happened since raccoon city. it all feels so long ago, and like it happened yesterday, at the same time. ❜

presented with the truth of the herculean task he's assigned himself, there's an abrupt light cast on justifications he's made to be in the position he occupies center-stage, rewriting his testimony, his exact motivations, to bend and flex to support a role in whatever new tragedy will keep him distracted from that ever-present hungry dark eating away at him from the inside. there is something to the act of self-immolation by blaze of glory that sates an undiscussed personal guilt for leon, the only end that will satisfy that critical emptiness inside him. playing heroics vignettes the unsightly effects on the world outside his dichromatic lens that following along at the the heels of his handlers ever-so-dutifully has wrought, and renders in blinding saturation the good that has come of being all bite, no bark.

it is only fitting for her to be the one to pull at the threads that make up his fabrications, sewn with just enough truth to be compelling, just enough lie to be palatable.

the specter of operation javier refuses to rest, even with the time that spans between now and then, leon can feel the humid breath of the tropic wilds on the back of his neck at a mere passing mention. her description isn't off by any regard, but it still has leon looking at her in indignant distress, mortified, bristling particularly at her stress on eager. ❛ hey! i wasn't eager, i was earnest, there's a very clear difference! ❜ after sixty-three weeks of special operations training to become a fully fledged member of the anti-umbrella pursuit and investigation taskforce, after being confined to the slate grey compound, being released into the emerald south american junglescape had stunned him like any flashbang. it was too loud. it was too bright. it was too beautiful to comprehend, only taken out of his fervent trance with a flash of steel and split scale.

after operation javier, there was much debate about what to do with manuela hidalgo, her presence an unexpected and volatile souvenir from the highly-classified military operation. it seemed only reasonable in the end that she would be placed in the care of derek c. simmons, both due to her medical conditions and the confidentiality concerns. over the years, it wasn't that leon had forgotten about manuela by any means - out of sight was certainly not out of mind. in fact, that was the problem. the more time that passed, the more distance that was put between operation javier and manuela's identity, the less leon recognized her. the last thing leon wanted was for the shade of operation javier to constantly tower over her, but as manuela's life evolved and her wounds scabbed over, leon would doggedly pick at his own until they reopened. a visit twice a week when allowed, slowly evolved into a visit once a week and a phonecall, to two phonecalls, to an occasional phonecall a month, until around the point of ashley graham's abduction. after returning from spain, his encounter with jack krauser still fresh on his mind, leon had neglected any form of contact until the next holiday, sending a card stamped with the standard well wishes and little else, from there becoming only a ghost in her life, a name heard in passing. leon wasn't blind to his own faults, and as much as he knew that phasing out of manuela's life without explanation was cruel, serving as a continuing reminder of the worst day of her life with his own viciously irregardless self-sabotage was crueler - easier to cowardly distance himself from manuela and any paternal instincts over her, than confront and kick his myriad of bad habits.

❛ i don't think i could keep up with more than one life, would only end up tangling everything together. being one guy on a thursday who i was supposed to be on a wednesday, you know. ❜ humor lets him recollect himself from where he had been knocked mentally sprawling, it always has. tension beads away from his shoulders, ebbs from the taut musculature of his back outlined by grey lycra. leon never slouches these days, not even while on the brink of exhaustion. ❛ for someone who apparently has all the answers, christ, you almost sound worried. ❜ concern bleeds into his words, an attempt to be blithe disintegrates instantly when played against his more protective instincts, and has leon meeting her eyes searchingly with an incline of his head, bending ever so slightly at the waist to look into her face straight-on.

❛ this is about more to you than me just getting myself killed, isn't it? what are you talking about, ada? companies worse than umbrella, men with insidious plans hiding in the shadows waiting for us to clear the way, that's all pretty specific, more than a ghost story. ❜

the moment he releases her hand she feels the cold bite at her warm skin, a chill of desolation and abandonment that has become something closer than second nature but so too is there relief. no more is his thumbs sat upon the pulse of her inner wrists, a poor man's lie detector test in a heartbeat trapped in the jade green veins that snake their way along her delicate wrists. she is not good around people for extended periods of time-- no, not even him. she stays in character, of course, the coquettish feline persona that is attached to this name and this stab of scarlet, but it makes it far more difficult when a good man is attempting to crack his ribcage open and show her the flowers he has grown for her in his lungs. all she knows is thorns and thistles. cyanide and stilettos.

" javier was a long time ago. " two dozen dead little girls with missing organs and a sample of a virus that should never have escaped the icy cage of the polar south of their planet. all for the sake for a cartel leader's daughter, now locked away from the world by a man just as bad, worse by many accounts. does he visit her, an idle thought that means nothing but would say something about how leon views those he saves. she never looks back, the moment a different persona is slipped on like a new wardrobe, she no longer thinks of those she has helped or harmed. every time she puts away the butterfly wings the cosmic balance is reset. nothing carries over, not even him. " you were very young. impressionable. eager. " finally let out of his cage, he was so desperate to do whatever he had to, to prove he was still worthy of the title ' hero '.

" i would have been fine on my own. " she slips from his grasp completely, monolids dipping slowly before her attention is pulled off on some distant point. " i've many lives, you're stuck with the one. " he had cut her down from osmund's rope, a bit of bait to lure him out once the president's daughter stopped answering his call. she did not think it would work, she did not want it to. ada wong was meant to be the weakness of leon, of course by design but a vulnerability to exploit by no one but herself. just as easily has she ended up on the sacrificial stone table, awakening to the incessant chanting of parasitized cultists planning to slaughter her. her reflexes saving her from executioner's ax moments before she was beheaded, only a thin scar on her thigh left as a reminder. a story he will never hear but tied to their time in spain.

" i've no idea what you're talking about, leon. " her head cants a little in his direction. " you're never going to make a difference like this. cut off the head of the snake all you want but there will be a hundred more. a thousand. there are companies worse that umbrella. men with far more insidious plans for this world waiting for the power vacuum that you and your altruistic comrades will open up for them and they won't have to lose a single man or spend a single dollar. "

[cdroloisms]

this is checkmate.

aka: dr3 tries their hand at the strategist c!dream interpretation. do they succeed? who knows. please be nice i dont have a single idea how chess works ;-; 

tws: blood, violence mentions, implied torture, abuse, unhealthy mindsets, mentioned manipulation, dehumanization, suicide, exile arc, prison arc, c!dream critical ? (not really? but he’s like. kinda absolutely an asshole a la strategist!dream (or any c!dream)), dark content, dark imagery

this is checkmate.

he is not gentle. he is not kind. even when he donned the wool of a sheep's skin, he knows that his teeth flashed wicked and sharp from beneath its corpse - he is no fool, and when he pours poison into his words he knows the taste better than anyone else that may hear it.

to say he meant well is a lie. to say that he was kind is a worse one. and he will not pretend to tell the truth, either, not when he has built this façade brick by careful brick (the same hands that had laid down the stones of a house they laced with trinitrotoluene to destroy)- he is not far gone enough to pretend that the red that bleeds from his sword and eyes and mouth is anything other than blood.

it goes like this: a chessboard is an eight by eight grid with sixty-four squares in total, thirty-two black, thirty-two white. there are sixteen pieces on either side. the objective is to checkmate the opposing team - leave its king under attack, and unable to escape.

there is much to say about cruelty. about mercy. when he takes the time to think about it, in hours that blend into seconds or maybe blend into days (it's not like he has a clock that will tell him which) he thinks they look much like the same thing.

was it cruelty or mercy that led to a death trap, blood on blackstone brick, button still stained with the fingerprints of the one that pressed it last? was it cruelty or mercy that led to bows drawn over an oak wood path, half a heart beating to the rhythm of a war's end? was it cruelty or mercy that led to a deal for so-called independence that only shackled them all to a nation that saw too much death in its creation and too much gunpowder in its end? cruelty or mercy, when it was by his hands that it died and brought everything it took with it? was it cruelty or mercy, when he chipped and broke and shattered items and homes and shard by battered shard of a child's trust and love and hope, pulled him by his throat to death's edge and then held him back with the same hand? cruelty or mercy, when he did not let him die?

(he laughs through a mouthful of blood and salt and rotten potatoes, unable to hold himself up and unwilling to try. the pain doesn't dull. he learned that long ago, but it surprises him all the same. he knows the answer to that last question. sometimes, it's better not to.)

chess, more than anything, is a game of strategy. 

and he is self-aware, despite it all. he knows that he has no tongue of silver, no heart of gold. there is nothing kind in the curve of the smile on his mask and nothing beautiful in the face it hides underneath - but he has pored over battle plans, knows the art of the fight and the grace of teeth against knuckles and the allure of the scrape of a blade against another just as well as he knows the pulse of his own (still-beating) heart. 

charm is not the only way to get what you want.

it does not take fake smiles to lay the foundations of his victory, does not take any softened words to get the information he needs. it takes nothing at all to make them all hate him, because they always would and they always will. it does not sting, because he cannot let it. 

he has no part to play but that of the monster he is and he will not pretend that he cannot stop, because he can. he will not act like he is not in control of every step he takes, not when he wears his armor so much he half-thinks it must be stitched to his skin. he does not sleep, because he has no appearances to fake. logstedshire is gone, but there is a prison growing on the horizon and a vault beyond the mountains. his words taste bitter in his own mouth, and it's fine. he no longer needs them to seem sweet.

because - in the end, the point they all forgot and what will always have him moving forward and always leave them wanting - any chessmaster knows that to learn to win, you must first learn to sacrifice.

even a fool knows the necessity of losing a few pawns. a better player may tell you that there is no piece not worth losing, if you know what you're doing.

and dream?

the SMP is a far cry from a chessboard, nowhere near as neat, littered with the scars of fights long past and burdened with history too heavy for it to bear. the sides are not simple, and nothing resembling even. paint it black and white, and it becomes unrecognizable.

still, the principles remain, and dream plays the game that he knows no one else is willing to, takes the mantle of villain left for him and goes where no one else will. 

(people are not chess pieces, but play your cards right and they can become something scarily close.)

so he learns the meaning of sacrifice and then teaches them all in turn, says he does not give a fuck because his greatest crime will always be that he gave too many. the ground under logstedshire is littered with caverns from TNT - it's a lesson, though he is not sure for whom. he takes the crown from george's head and looks down the point of a crossbow bolt aimed at his throat by someone that once might have been a brother, wears the hatred that only grows in others' hearts just as he does the armor that he no longer takes off. punz leaves because he told him to and ranboo does not because the server has yet to know. the community house was laid down brick by brick, but its end is nowhere near as quick and nowhere near as kind.

he is no stranger to sentiment. still, with the frayed strings of fate dangling from his hands, threads cut by his own axe one by one, he can fool them all but he will not deceive himself. he can still care. he did care, once. 

caring will not get him to his goal.

loyalty will not bring the sparks to burn the bridges that let others pull him back, kindness will not let him take the steps that he needs to move him forwards, attachment will leave him a foot short from the goal he has (lost everything) done everything for and let him fail.

it goes like this: to win a game of chess, you must checkmate your opponent's king. it must be under immediate attack with no means of escape. 

so when it all ended and everyone ran through the portal, weapons drawn, to the vault he built? 

dream never made himself a way out.

[dumdumsun]

And Dusk

A/N: Prayers for poor Olga 🙏🏾

Warnings: blood, violence, straight up murder

Word Count: 4096

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Chapter 13: Öga för Öga

Clicking steps echoed the hall Sir Reginald Hargreeves currently walked down, leaving a very discontent Five behind. Once the man disappeared down the hall, the boy left the lounge, growling and rubbing the back of his neck. Mind racing, he hopped on the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Just as the doors were about to close, (Y/N) slipped between them, Pennycrumb under her arm, and grasped onto Five’s arm. Eyes wide, the boy watched her in shock. “(Y/N)? I thought you left already. What are you doing?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” She whispered. “Five, I’m sorry… about lying to you. I-I was gonna tell you all about living with Dad a-and being adopted by him again, but then I didn’t and it was selfish and stupid-”

“(Y/N)-”

“But what I’m sorry about the most was for not speaking up about us. It wasn’t fair to you,” She shook her head. “I just… I’ve been doubtful about us lately. It’s like, everyone’s saying we shouldn’t be together… And after hearing it for so long…”

Five placed his hands on her shoulders firmly. “No,” He breathed. “I’ve waited too long for this, dammit. Listen to me, (Y/N). Don’t let what others say determine your opinions. What we have is fine. I know it seems fucked up, I know it seems wrong. But does any of this ever feel wrong to you?”

Glancing up at him, she shook her head. “No…”

“Exactly. This… Our entire upbringing was so dysfunctional and confusing. Nothing ever felt like true family. We were strangers in our own childhood home. We’re just now behaving like an actual family unit and it’s still confusing. So, no one has the right to tell us how to love. Especially not Reginald Hargreeves. The man who caused this.”

The two rested their foreheads against each other as the elevator doors opened, but they didn’t bother leaving just yet. As the doors closed again, (Y/N) sniffled. “So, you’ve never thought this wasn’t going to last?”

“I’ve never, ever doubted us. I know… compared to you, I know next to nothing about love. But this? This is real. And I promise you, Starlight, once the timeline is restored… I’m making this official. If you’ll have me.”

Snapping her head up, (Y/N) let her tears fall. “Are you… You’re serious?” She grinned. When Five nodded, she quickly elevated herself on her toes and pecked his lips repeatedly. “Yes. Finally.” She whispered. Five grinned and tightened his hold on her, blinking them both out of the building and outside.

“Well, then, why don’t we speed up the process? Here’s what's going to happen,” He started and pulled away, gently wiping her tears away. “I’m about to meet up with The Handler. She offered me a deal to kill the entire board of directors of the Commission in exchange for a briefcase to get us all home to 2019. No more World War III, no more apocalypse.”

(Y/N) glanced down at her pup, who peered up at her, tongue hanging from his mouth. “How can you trust her?”

“I don’t know if I even should. But I’ll have to. She’s our only… our only option.”

From the way he sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets, she could tell he was already regretting his decision. Gently caressing his cheek, she offered him a small smile. “You don’t want to kill, do you?” She whispered, receiving the shake of a head as an answer. “I-I don’t even know what to say to that… Just… Just know that I won’t think any differently of you. You’ll still be my Five. And I’ll be right there beside you if you need me.”

“My god, I don’t deserve you…” He sighed. Quietly chuckling, (Y/N) set her pet down and pulled Five into a hug. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I appreciate you, I really do. I’m gonna get us out of here, but I don’t want you helping me on this. The Handler already knows about you. I can’t have her using you or anything like that against me. So… just wait for me.”

“Wait? Five, I can’t just let you do something like this alone.”

“I know I’ve asked you too many times at this point, but this will be the last. I promise I’ll get you as soon as I come back.” The boy tried a smile as he pulled away. When she gently bit her lip, he sighed. “(Y/N), you can’t come. I’m sorry, but you’ll be by my side after this is over. I promise, okay?”

She shifted her eyes away from him. “You don’t have to keep promising. I trust you.” She whispered. Five exhaled and gently picked up Mr Pennycrumb, placing him in her arms before pecking his love on the lips. With a small smile, he turned around to leave. Just as he blinked away, (Y/N) very gently pinched the back of his blaser, allowing herself and her pet to be teleported with him.

(Y/N) considered herself very lucky for the fact that Five hadn’t noticed her presence. Or maybe she had her stealth to thank. She would quickly duck behind walls, corners, tables and so on whenever she felt that Five was becoming suspicious of her. After all, she knew him like the back of her hand; she could tell when he was subtly glancing over his shoulder or out of the corner of his eye. She waited outside the door of the room the boy had entered, keeping her hand over her pet’s mouth to silence him as she attempted to eavesdrop on the muffled conversation between Five and who she assumed was The Handler.

She had to admit, it did set her blood boiling at the thought of him being alone in that room with another woman, but she knew he would never be disloyal to her. Not after his confession and proposal. So, she shook off her jealousy and hid once again when he exited the room, briefcase in hand.

She gave herself a great pat on the back when she successfully managed to blink with him for the second time. And the third. And when he used the briefcase to teleport. By this point, she was light-headed and nursing her whimpering pup as she followed Five from a distance. She had no idea where or when they were, but judging by the cars people drove and the hairstyles they wore, she wasn’t in the sixties anymore. Most likely the late seventies or early eighties, she assumed.

Setting Mr Pennycrumb on the ground, (Y/N) grabbed hold of his leash and kept a close eye on her love as she blended in as a teenage girl, in outdated clothing, walking her puppy towards an inn. After watching Five enter, she walked onto the porch and sat herself in one of the rocking chairs. She tapped her fingers and toes to the rhythm of the upbeat polka music sounding from the inside. To pass the time, she reviewed tricks with Mr Pennycrumb, clapping and excitedly petting him in praise whenever he’d succeed. What the puppy expected, though, was a treat. It was then that she realized neither of them had eaten in quite some time.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, baby…” She whispered to the pup, who only whined and pawed at her ankles. Huffing, she jumped to her feet and led the two of them inside. Everyone seemed to be dressed for polka dancing, considering their attire and the music playing from a nearby room. With a polka party, there had to be food. Turning to her left, she was met with a nest of blonde curls. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Well, hi there,” The woman looked up with a jolly smile. “I just told the young man before you, we don’t put out the cookies until three.”

“That’s amazing,” (Y/N) smiled. “I was actually wondering where the… polka dancing takes place.”

The woman assessed the young girl with a raised brow. “Very… interesting choice of clothing. And I’m afraid we can’t allow the dog.”

“Ah- Yes, my mom’s actually in there with my clothes. I just need to find her and change. And this is her… service dog.”

“He looks a little young to be a service dog, sweetie.”

“That’s what I told the doctor,” (Y/N) chuckled, smiling down at her pup. “But he does his job very well for the cute little thing he is. However, he cannot do his job if he isn’t at my mom’s side, so…”

Sighing, the woman gestured to her left. “All the way down that hall, dear. Just keep an eye on the dog, will ya?”

“Of course. Thank you.” She nodded before leading her and Pennycrumb in the direction of the room jumping with cheery music and the clicking of dancing feet. She found herself a table in the corner of the room after meandering her way past attendees. Just as she sat herself down, she was greeted by smiling faces, allowing them to gush over and pet her puppy. This eventually resulted in them wanting to feed him their scraps of food, much to her delight.

(Y/N) helped herself to the buffet as she watched the door carefully, wanting to keep an eye on Five’s whereabouts. What she didn’t expect after eating the majority of her plate was to be pulled onto the dance floor. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she genuinely had a blast learning to polka dance, as embarrassing as it was to her. She caught on rather quickly and allowed herself three dances before she politely excused herself, collected her dog, and crept out of the room. Just as she entered the hall again, she saw the blonde attendant from earlier storming away from a broken vending machine and into a room for a meeting labeled ‘Midwest Soybean Society’.

That doesn’t even sound like a real thing, she thought. That must be where the board is meeting.

Deciding to wait out Five’s ‘work’, she strolled over to the vending machine, wincing at the broken glass that once contained the delicious snacks inside. Squinting her eyes, she noticed a certain candy bar, the Fudge Nutter, was leaning just out of its slot. It was just hanging by a thread. That’s when (Y/N) realized, Five hadn’t eaten in a while either. This must’ve been his doing. Using her foot, she kicked the glass out of the way and stuck her hand in, plucking the candy out of its place and pocketing it. Just when she did so, she heard Mr Pennycrumb’s barks aimed in front of them. (Y/N) blinked at the sight before her.

A man- could she even call him that? - with a fish tank holding a goldfish for a head came running in her direction in a panicked hurry, huffing and puffing through what looked to be an intercom of some sort. Tightening her hold on the leash, she swirled her way in front of the fish-man any time he’d change his direction. “Out of my way!” He hissed, but (Y/N) continued to block his path until Five blinked right in front of her. From where she stood behind him, she saw that he was drenched in blood and could only imagine what he looked like from the front. The boy clutched a paddle in his hands, his movements fidgeting. The fish-man gasped in shock at the boy. “Surely, we can come to some form of agreement that benefits both parties,” His British accent quivered. “Quid pro quo? What do you say?”

“Why not?” Five shrugged. “Here’s your quid.” The boy swung the paddle into the man’s side, eliciting a shriek from him. “Here’s your pro.” Then to his leg, sending him to his knees. “And here’s your quo.”

“No! No! Please, don’t!” He whimpered as Five aimed the paddle to his glass tank containing the goldfish. “No!” He cried as the boy smashed the paddle through the tank, glass shattering and water pouring all around. The body fell to the ground with a thud as well as the goldfish. Five loomed over the fish just as Mr Pennycrumb happily barked and skittered to the boy. Blinking, he turned to the dog in confusion.

“Mr Pennycrumb?” He whispered. From his peripheral, he spotted (Y/N) joining his side. “(Y/N), what are you doing here?! How did you even-”

“I’m surprised I made it this far,” She hummed and crouched down, a bag of water in her hand she had fetched the moment Five had blinked into the hallway. “No, baby, you just ate. You fatty.” She chuckled and gently pushed her very hyper golden retriever away, preventing him from gobbling down the fish.

Five watched as she delicately picked AJ up with her index finger and thumb, plopping him into the bag of water before holding it closed. “What’s the poor bastard’s name?” She asked and stood to her feet. Five let out a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling.

“AJ Carmichael…”

“Well, then… It’s nice to meet you, AJ.” She whispered to the bag. The teens quickly looked up when two giggling women exited the polka association room. They stopped in their tracks, observed the scene, and headed straight back inside without a word spoken. (Y/N) sighed and handed the bag over to her love before picking up her pup’s leash. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She perked up and fished the candy out of her pocket, tucking it into Five’s instead.

“For your hard work.”

“Thank you, my love.”

Not a word was spoken between the two after Five took them back to 1963 via the briefcase. “Why couldn’t we just use this to get back home?”

“Because of that,” He pointed to the case that sat on the gravel before them. It shook and sputtered and crackled, an electric blue light emanating and swallowing it whole until it was gone. “She’d never hand me a ticket out of here until she got what she wanted.”

“Yeah, I guess I should’ve thought of that…” (Y/N) whispered and turned away.

They stood in the middle of an alleyway, awaiting The Handler’s arrival as (Y/N) took her handkerchief out of her breast pocket and began ridding Five’s face of the blood splatter the best she could. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers no matter how hard she tried to capture them. She could practically see the gears turning in his head, with the way his brows scrunched and his bloodied fingers rubbed against each other. Once she finished what she could of his face, she gently took his hands in hers and cleaned those as well. Their eyes finally met, both pairs filled with concern for the other, just before the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard.

The Handler, in all her glory, walked towards the two, briefcase in hand. Five wouldn’t even face her, even went as far as to keep his back towards her even after she stopped to stand in front of (Y/N). “We meet again, dear.”

“I had a feeling…”

“Do you bring the mutt everywhere you go?”

(Y/N) shrugged at her pet, who was busy scratching himself behind his ear. The Handler hummed and turned to Five. “Well?”

Without a word, the boy stretched his arm that held the bag behind him. The Handler gasped and set the briefcase down, moving her veil out of the way and taking the bag into her hands. She cackled, cooed and sighed at poor AJ before settling her sights on Five, who was now turned to face her. “You know, you’re really starting to fill out those tight little shorts of yours. Isn’t he, (Y/N)?”

Said girl only watched her love, who looked anywhere but at her. She realized he was ashamed, he was regretful. The Handler frowned at him, hand on her hip. “What’s wrong with him? He’s never this quiet after a job like this. I thought you’d be buzzing after this morning’s slaughter, Five.”

“All this killing,” Five sighed. “I’m done with it.”

The Handler raised her brows and moved forward, going to caress his cheek as she usually did, but (Y/N) stepped to his side, hand firmly on his arm. Chuckling, she turned back to Five. “Am I supposed to take that seriously?”

“What I did today, I did for my family. I did it to save the world.”

“Please. Spare me your little assassin with the heart of gold routine, will you?” She tapped his nose before picking up the briefcase and stretching it towards them. “Here. Per our agreement, this will get you, your siblings, and dear (Y/N) back to 2019.”

To spare him the humiliation of taking the briefcase, (Y/N) did it herself, glaring at the woman.

“You have ninety minutes.”

(Y/N)’s stomach dropped as Five snapped his head up. The Handler turned to walk away as he quickly followed her. “You said nothing about a time limit!”

Glancing at her watch, she smiled. “Actually, you have eighty-nine minutes and thirty seconds. Better hurry.”

“You fucking-”

“This is impossible, okay?!” Five interrupted (Y/N)’s insult in a panic. “My siblings are scattered across the city!”

“Nothing’s impossible. You proved that this morning when you killed the board.”

“I need more time.” Five rushed, glancing at his love for a moment, the girl clutching the briefcase in one hand, Pennycrumb’s leash in the other.

“Any more time, and people will start asking questions,” The Handler’s neutral tone contradicted Five’s rushed, panicked voice. “The sooner you get home and out of this time period, the better off we’ll both be, so ticktock, ticktock.”

Growling, Five charged up to (Y/N), the girl watching as the she-devil happily waved at them before Five blinked them out of the alleyway. The blood-scrawled message on Elliott’s floor was hard not to notice when they appeared in his home. (Y/N) widened her eyes at the message written in Swedish:

ÖGA FÖR ÖGA

Five snatched the briefcase from her hold and sighed before he hurried up the steps. (Y/N) followed close behind, the voices of Diego and Luther becoming more apparent the closer they got. Reaching the top of the stairs, they noticed a chair with a sheet-covered figure laying in it. (Y/N) dropped the leash and approached the chair, slowly uncovering the figure and gasping at the sight of a bloodied Elliott. His face was frozen in agony, the light within his dark eyes vanished. She and Five let out a simultaneous ‘damn’ before she covered him back up. “The three psychopaths…”

She looked up as Five wandered the lounge room, searching for a safe place to store the briefcase. As he did so, (Y/N) entered the kitchen, watching her brothers share a single brain cell.

“My name? Is, uh, Luther Hargreeves, and-”

Diego snatched the phone out of Luther’s hand and put it up to his own ear. “You killed one of ours, Olga,” The misinterpretation had (Y/N) rolling her eyes to the back of her head. “Now we’re coming after you. You will be dead by nightfall.”

“Hey!” Five called as he entered the kitchen, beginning to take off his blaser. “It’s Öga För Öga, idiots. Swedish for ‘an eye for an eye’.”

(Y/N) moved behind him and assisted in removing his blaser, glancing up at her brothers. “The Swedes killed Elliott. Not poor Olga.” As she pulled off Five’s vest for him, Diego slowly turned back towards the wall.

“Wrong number. Have a lovely day.” He smiled before hanging up the phone. (Y/N) scoffed and held the boy’s clothes out of his reach when he tried to take them.

“Shower.” She demanded, Five clenching his fists.

“(Y/N), we don’t have time-”

“We’ll have plenty of time. You shower while I wash the blood out.” She explained and began unbuttoning his dress shirt. Five gently swatted her hands away.

“I can undress myself!”

“Then hurry and give me your disgusting clothes!”

“Fine!”

Five scoffed and moved around his brothers, ignoring whatever they had been calling out to him. (Y/N) shook her head and set her love’s clothes into Elliott’s kitchen sink. Diego and Luther leaned against the counter on either side of her as she began washing the blood from the vest.

“You gonna explain what the hell happened?” Diego whispered.

“Why’s he covered in blood?” Luther leaned closer.

“I tried to clean it, I really did.” (Y/N) shrugged.

The brothers gave each other a look before moving their attention back to their sister. Luther cleared his throat. “How’d he, uh… get the blood on him?”

She didn’t give him an explanation, though, and picked up the pile of clothes Five had just dumped outside of the bathroom door before returning to the sink. When the two saw she wasn’t going to speak on Five’s behalf, they both sighed and left her to her work.

Despite his irritation, the boy couldn’t help the swelling of his heart when he cracked the bathroom door open to find his slightly damp, but clean clothes neatly folded on the floor. Grabbing the clothes, he quickly tugged the uniform back on, save for the tie and blaser. Swinging the door open, he was met with a smirking (Y/N). He rolled his eyes as she approached him, taking his tie and putting it on for him. “Doesn’t that make you feel a bit better?”

“No,” He mumbled, but caught the amusement in her eyes. “Maybe a little… but it doesn’t matter because we’re losing time.”

“Well, sorry for not wanting you to smell like you just killed twelve people.” She whispered and pecked his lips, exiting the bathroom after his tie was fastened. Glancing in the mirror, Five adjusted his clothes as Luther did the same just outside the bathroom.

“So, I found a way home.”

“What? How?”

“All the details are irrelevant, but… I made a deal to get back to our timeline.”

(Y/N) watched from the lounge room as the boys spoke, gently petting her dog. Diego joined in the conversation as he pulled a jacket on. “What about doomsday?”

“Won’t happen.”

“And the 2019 apocalypse?”

“Everything will be back to normal,” Five sighed and exited the bathroom, blaser in hand. “Now no more questions. We gotta go. We have to find the others, right? Luther, you get Allison. Diego, Klaus. I’ll get Vanya. Now, we meet back in the arrival alley in seventy-seven minutes.” He pulled on the blaser and picked up four watches, handing one to each person in the room. “I’ve synchronized these watches.”

(Y/N) stood to her feet once the watch was given to her. “Five, what should I do?” She raised her brows. Five shook his head and busied himself with fastening the watch on her wrist.

“Starlight, I want you to gather your things, say your goodbyes to Mr Pennycrumb, and meet back in the alleyway as soon as possible-”

“Wait, what? We’re leaving Penny?” She widened her eyes. Five exhaled through his nose and wordlessly nodded. “Five, why? N-Nothing will happen, he’s just a dog.”

His eyes flicked up to her when her voice broke, his hands coming up to hold her jaw. “He may be just a dog, Starlight, but he isn’t insignificant. Every little yawn he takes, every bark he makes… it all matters, okay? We can’t risk it. I know Mr Pennycrumb was a comfort for you and I’m so sorry… but we can’t take him.”

(Y/N) shakily inhaled, desperately trying to blink back the tears in her eyes, but Five saw them long before she even noticed. Glancing down, he saw the puppy chewing at the toe of his shoe. With the utmost care, Five picked the puppy up and placed him into her arms before leaning down to look into his eyes. “Thanks, buddy… for taking care of her,” He reached forward, Pennycrumb instantly nuzzling his nose into his hand. “You did what I couldn’t. And for that, I am eternally grateful. Goodbye, Mr Pennycrumb.”

“I’m glad you two met.” (Y/N) whispered. Five smiled and sweetly kissed her before stepping back. Clearing her throat, she held her puppy close and walked down the stairs. She only allowed herself to cry when she stepped outside, the door shutting behind her.

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