#as if you were a shaky table with a love letter folded under the leg

[omtai]

dreamt of my old laptop that died in 2021 before i got my desktop… now im grieving again

[yes-ihavealwaysbeengreen]

Little Sparrow - Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand/F! Reader

A/N: I sat down to write Sleepy Sex with Oberyn because @wasicskosgirl​ had me thinking some thots today and this is what came out. It��s not sleepy sex but I really hope you like it. Thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and liking. There will be at least a part two to this, possibly more. 

Pairing: Oberyn Martell/ Ellaria Sand/ F! Reader 

Warning: 18 + (Language, smut, vaginal sex, kissing, oral (F! receiving) mentions of blood, violence) It’s Game of Thrones....

Word Count: 3.8 K 

My Masterlist 

Part One 

It was a beautiful day, the sun high overhead, the ocean waves crashing against the Cliffside as you held your arms across your waist. The boats in the distance swayed in the gentle breeze, and behind you the excited chatter of the spectators fill the stands. The lions on the banners seem to come alive as they snap in the wind. Growling at you and causing the pit in your stomach to grow deeper. 

Oberyn was insatiable last night training in the room, twirling his spear in preparation for the fight of his life. You’d escaped with an escort to walk the shit smelling cesspool of Kings Landing to this very spot where you had seen him. The Mountain. Man after man being cut down as his sword sliced through them like bread. His deep baritone laugh sent a quiver through your heart. 

You jump as Oberyn wraps his arms around your waist, his chin dropping to your shoulder. Both of you watching the water. “Why do you look so worried my little Sparrow?” he coos pressing a kiss to your neck. “I am going to kill that man. I am going to get him to confess to raping and murdering my sister and her children. I will win, for Elia, for my family, for you.” 

He turns you in his arms and brings your hands to his neck like that night so long ago. His forehead coming to rest upon your own. You let out a shaky breath, “I refuse to lose you, Oberyn.” 

He pulls away slightly started, “You only call me Oberyn when you are cross or in insane pleasure my love, and since I’m not buried in your delicious cunt, I believe you are angry. Is that correct?” 

You look into the depth of his eyes before dropping them to the ground. “Keep your eyes on me. Never look away from me, do you understand?” You nod and he lifts your chin before kissing you passionately. His arms coming to engulf you completely. 

“You’re going to fight that?” Ellaria’s alarmed voice breaks the moment, the tension in your shoulders returning. He kisses you softly again before going over to the table and taking a sip of his wine. 

“I’m going to kill that,” his confidence is electric and you step closer to Ellaria. Her hand reaching for your own as you both watch him with bated breath as he comes to stand before you. “Are you worried?” he teases her and she scoffs before pulling him close. 

“Don’t leave us alone in this world,” she begs before kissing him. Their tongues twisting together and you feel your mouth water at the site. He pulls back as the crowd roars to life. 

“Never,” he looks from her to you and back. “I love you.” He spins the spear and turns on the charm, the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. You watch as he taunts the Mountain of a man before him, before the Viper strikes. 

The scene replays over and over in your head. The moment he stabbed his spear through the thick armor of his belly. The way your heart clenched in elation at after so long receiving his most treasured of wishes. Seeing the man who brutally raped his sister and murdered her children confess his sins. Then in a moment, the elation bled like the golden skin of your lover. He was overturned and laid beneath the giant, a breath away from being crushed to death. The gloves the size of two golden pumpkins on a harvest feast table began to crush the head of the man you loved. 

Ellaria screamed, grasping her head in horror, Tyrion standing there in shock. You don't think, running across the courtyard, unsheathing the knife from your thigh, and plunging it through the head of the giant. Blood spurting from his wound as the tip of the knife exits through his eye. 

Shocked, he fell to the ground, dead, Oberyn using what strength he had left to push him off. His face a mess of blood and sweat, left eye wide and dazed. Jaw most likely broken from the punch to his face. The right closed tight and crushed from the thumb of the monster you'd slain. The crowd erupts into outrage as your chest pants and anxiety sucks the air from your lungs. 

Ellaria ran over to you and embraces you as you collapse to the ground before your Prince. His broken body reaching out for you both. You feel his hand graze yours and look into the beautiful brown iris of the man you love. The roar of the crowd fading as you focus on him, feeling him pull you from the water as your lungs re-inflate. 

The maester comes and declares the Mountain dead before you are ripped from the arms of Ellaria and Oberyn by the King's guard. By order of the Hand, you are to be imprisoned by meddling in a match to the death. You let out a breathless scream as Oberyn tries to get up, and Ellaria reaches for your hand. The ghost of her fingers slipping through your own. The Dornish guards coming for her to pull her back. One paramour is lost they would not do if both were to be taken. You fix your eyes on Oberyn as the doors shut in your face, and you dragged away to the dark, desolate dungeons of the lower kingdom. 

Two days. Two days of shivering in the darkness. The constant drip coming from outside as a summer rain drags down upon the concrete walls of stone, driving you mad. This must be what insanity feels like. No reprieve in sight for the unending torment you shall endure at the hands of these Northerners. Footsteps in the distance sounds, and you lift your head from your knees. The golden yellow dress adorned with the Martell suns now dirty and covered in filth. Your beaded headpiece you borrowed from Ellaria is cradled in your hands, your fingers grazing over the beads, soothing to the touch. 

You remember the night of the wedding when you went to bed with her. The way she watched you through her dark lashes as her tongue buried itself in your cunt. You laid bare for her in nothing but the beaded headdress against the soft pillows and furs. Oberyn standing in the shadows watching, his mouth curving into a smile as he takes a sip of his wine. The memory fades, and you look upon the cell door to see the vision of your fantasy, Ellaria, draped in a dark cloak, almost blending in with the shadows. 

"Little sparrow, are you alright?" her voice coos among the harshness that surrounds you. You crawl to your knees and stand on shaky legs. "You look pale. Have they fed you?" You shake your head no and place your hands through the bars, reaching for her hands. She lets out a gasp at the chill of your skin and furiously rubs your hands between her own. 

"Is...is he alive?" your voice is hoarse from disuse, but she knows who you mean. 

Nodding, "Yes, very much alive and raising absolute hell. He has been advised by the master, you know the old fat one who you said made your skin crawl?" You tremble, thinking of how his beady eyes followed the curve of your breasts in your dress. "He told him to rest, but he will not until you are released and in his arms again. He wanted to come here himself, but that Lannister creature refused, thinking he would release you and run away into the night." 

"How are you here then?" you ask, holding tightly to her hand as the other runs across the skin of your cheek. 

"I am like a cat in the dead of night; no one would suspect me to come and see you. I brought you some things." She releases your cheek and brings around a satchel from under the cloak, removing a chunk of crusty bread, some hard cheese, and a small pouch of wine." You eagerly reach for the food taking a bite of the bread and uncapping the wine, taking a large gulp. 

Food had never tasted so good before, the cheese you placed in the fold of your dress for later with the other half of the bread. Who knows how long you would be in this hell before you found reprieve and were rejoined with your lovers.

 You may never see them again. You may never see your daughter again. The gravity of the situation sinks in, and you feel the sob swell in your chest before it breaks free. The tears falling freely down your cheeks as she shushes you, cupping your cheeks through the bars. 

"Sweet love, we will get you out of here. You do not need to fear; Oberyn and I will return home to Dorne with you very soon." You sniffle as she rubs your tears away, pulling you toward her and placing a delicate kiss on your lips. "I have something else for you," she whispers against your lips before kissing you again and pulling away to reach under the cloak. "This is from Oberyn." 

She holds it out to you, and you tremble hands shaking as you reach for it. Hand opening and closing in hesitance before you touch the envelope. The smooth parchment warm under the icy fingers clenched around your throat. "Does," you look down at the paper, "Does he hate me?" 

"What are you talking about? Did you not hear me tell you he is tearing Kings Landing apart to get you out of here?! Why would you think such a thing?" her hands grasp yours, and you look up at her through your tears. 

"I denied him an honorable death; I wounded his pride. He is the Red Viper of Dorne and his, whore, is the one who killed the Mountain. What if he is only trying to save me so he can kill me himself?" Speaking your fears from the last two days aloud made your heart splinter and crack. 

Her hands tighten, "My sweet sparrow, please," she begs, "read the letter. Let it ease your mind and heart." You hear the sound of footsteps down the corridor, and she tightens her grip, "I must flee, back to our Prince, but please do not despair. You will be back in our arms and bed soon." She pulls you closer and kisses you again, slipping her tongue past your lips as her fingers glide against your skull. She pulls away abruptly and disappears into the darkness of the night. 

You retreat to the shadows of your cell as a guard passes the door and sneers down at you, spitting into the cell, "Dornish slut." He walks off, and you let the tears fall like gems down your cheeks pulling the envelope close to your face. The smell of fresh citrus and bergamot drifting into your nostrils, and they flare as your transported back to your first night with him. 

*******

A light mist from the ocean drifting over your heated skin as you looked upon the night sky, stars twinkling like gems, each one unique and special upon the ebony backdrop. You hear the gentle footsteps behind you; he wants you to know he is coming. The Red Viper could easily sneak up on you before he strikes, but every click of his heel is intentional. Your eyes droop closed as you feel the warmth of his chest behind you, enveloping you like a cloak as his arms come to wrap around your shoulders and clasp around your chest. His chin coming to rest upon your shoulder as you drop your head back and lean it against his own. 

"I wasn't sure you would be here," his moist breath tickles your neck, and you shiver. 

"I wasn't sure either, but I can't deny that I want this. That I want you," you slowly open your eyes and turn in his embrace, his hands coming down to your hips. 

"What made you change your mind?" his thumbs rub gentle circles against your waist, and you look up into his russet eyes, deep and velvety. 

"I realized I was only living half a life. Going through the motions but never really existing, until you touched me. My Prince, your touch ignited the flame deep inside me, and I burn for you," he takes your hands in his and brings them to his shoulders and up to his neck. His fingers trailing down your arms and towards the gentle swell of your breast. Breath catching as his thick fingers grazes the edge of your heated skin. 

"Will you promise to be mine then?" his voice, accented and thick, send a tremble down your spine as he steps closer and places a kiss on each of your cheeks, his mustache tickling against the soft skin. Pulling away, he is but a breath away, his lips a ghost against your lips as his eyes bare down into your own. "I am a selfish man; I will want you all to myself." 

"What about Ellaria?" you feel his lips graze your own, and he smiles. 

"Do you want her to join us, my little sparrow?" He kisses you softly, and you emit a small gasp as he slides his tongue against the plumpness of your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and letting go with a light pop. 

"I want all of you," you whisper, "and that includes her. She is as much a part of you; the moon belongs to the night sky." His eyes glow in the moonlight, and he moves his hands down to the clasp of your wrapped dress, dark blue in color, such a contrast to the warm golds and yellows that surround you. 

"May I see you?" he murmurs, and you nod. His fingers move deftly to unclasp the small hook on the side of your dress, pulling it open. Your nipples hardening as the chill runs across them and his eyes widen at finding you bare beneath. "Exquisite," he lets out a breath and allows the dress to slip over your shoulders and down to the floor. He steps away and circles you, your skin vibrating as the viper prepares to strike. His hands leave a blazing path as the pads of his fingers rough run over your flesh. When he comes around full circle, his eyes have darkened obsidian, and he reaches for your hand. 

Taking steps backward and leading you back into the room. The bed in the center of the room is large enough for five people, and you are sure it has held many more than that before. "Lay on the bed," his voice is low and deep, and you do as your told, falling back amongst the plethora of pillows and rich furs. "Spread your legs," you drop your thighs to the bed, and he groans as your cunt is displayed before him, glistening in the moonlight. 

He takes his time and strips off his robes, letting them drop to the ground in a heap. Your heart-stopping and restarting in quick succession as you see his impressive member. Thick and long curved up against his belly, he strokes himself as his eyes devour you whole. Mouthwatering as he pumps himself at your body bare before him. "Where do you want to fuck me, my prince?" 

He growls before taking a step toward you, "everywhere." You clench, and a whimper escapes you as the bed dips, and he kneels between your legs, looking down at you. He starts at your neck and trails his hand down over each swell of your breast, his fingers twisting a nipple and eliciting a gasp as you feel the coil tighten in your belly. Lowering them to your stomach and down your thighs. Stopping at your knees before coming back to the place you want him most. 

His fingers gliding among the seams and then slowly dipping into the heat pooling at your core. Collecting your slick onto his finger and bringing it up to his mouth to taste. "Seven hells you taste better than the sweetest Dornish red," he moans, and you watch with bated breath as he licks his finger clean, his tongue sweeping out to collect your pleasure. "I want to taste you little sparrow, make you take off into the heavens on a cloud." 

You whine, "We have all the time in the world, my Prince, please, please put your cock inside me. I'm weeping for you," you've never begged in your life, but you don't seem to care as he lets out a small chuckle. 

"You are soaked for me," his finger running back and forth between your lips, making you drench him. "Should I give this little cunt my cock? Do you think she's ready?" 

You nod, biting your lip, and he leans forward, notching his cock at your entrance, his body hovering above you. "Don't close your eyes," he whispers, bringing a hand to your chin, "You will keep your eyes on me this whole time, do you understand?" 

"Yes, my Prince." He smiles as he slowly pushes inside of you, both of your moaning as he sinks deeper into your tight heat, and his eyes burn into yours. You bring your hands up to his arms and squeeze as he moves further in, inch by glorious inch until he's seated fully inside you. 

You'd had a couple men over the years. Quick fucks in the stables or the woods where you once lived in the North. Stable boys who finished before you'd even begun or been too drunk to keep it up. Not a single one had made you feel as full and complete as the man above you. So deep, you could feel every ridge of his cock press against the soaked confines of your pussy. "Does that feel good little one?" 

"Yes," you gasp as he pulls out slowly and then quickly shoves back in. The delicious snap of his hips against yours as your skin develops a thin sheen of sweat. He continues his slow, torturous pace until you are withering beneath him in agony. "Seven Hells, please move faster, harder; I want you to fuck me, Oberyn." 

He stops, eyes widening in surprise, "What did you call me?" Your hand goes to your mouth in shock, you'd never called him anything but Prince since your first meeting, and you worry that you've offended him before his voice drops an octave. "Say it again." 

Eyes never leaving him, you whisper, "Oberyn." 

"Louder," his hips start to move faster but still not enough. 

"Oberyn," you say it louder this time, nails digging into his broad shoulders. 

"Louder," he brings a hand down to rub at your clit between you as he moves faster. 

You moan, "Oberyn," it's louder this time, and you feel the heat coming to a crescendo as he shouts at you again. 

"Louder!" 

"OBERYN!" you scream his name as he pounds into you furiously, sure to leave bruises on your flushed skin as you cum, squeezing his cock and gushing around him. He works you through your orgasm, rubbing your clit in time with his thrust before he slows down and moans above you spilling inside. His cum hot and thick, painting your walls as you squeeze him tight, milking him for all he is worth. He collapses to his forearms, and you exhale shakily, trying to catch your breath. 

He slips out of you and collapses next to you on the bed, his hand on his waist. And his other arm coming to wrap around you and curl you closer to his chest. You take a deep breath inhaling the sweet scent of citrus and bergamot that clings to his skin. His fingers tracing patterns on your back. "Would you come take a bath with me, little sparrow?" He looks down at you, his eyes alight with mischief. 

"That seems foolish, my dear Prince," you grin deviously at him. 

"Why is that?" 

"Because I have a feeling we will just end up dirty again," he lets out a booming laugh, and you smile at seeing the joy split across his face. 

"That is very true, but please, indulge me. I want to lay with you in the hot water and wash your beautiful body with my soap so that everyone who gets within in a foot of you will know your mine." He bites the tip of your nose before smiling and getting up to draw you a bath. Watching his backside walk away, his golden skin gleaming in the moonlight. 

******* 

The tears drip onto the envelope, clenched tight in your palms. The edges cutting into your soft skin marred with the dirt from the floor. You squint in the dim light of the fire to see your nickname written in his elegant scrawl. 

Little Sparrow 

Your fingers trace the letters as you turn it in your hand and dip it below the wax seal, a golden sun of house Martell breaking it. Your hands tremble as you take out the letter unfolding it. Your chest feels heavy as though a thousand rocks lay precariously, waiting to crush. You heave as great sobs swell, and the tears flow down your cheeks, almost making it impossible to read in the dim flickering of the light but somehow you manage. 

Little Sparrow, 

I faced death. I could hear the screams of Ellaria, the light closing in as that monster lay above me, crushing my skull beneath his fingers. The sun peaked through, and I prayed to the seven that I would one day see you and Ellaria again. My children flashed before my eyes smiling and running through the gardens of our home. Until I heard the sound of a goddess charging in battle with a cry, and the great evil was slain. The sun returned to my vision, and above me stood you, my golden goddess. 

You saved my life. I have always loved you, from the moment I laid eyes upon you to the moment I believed they would shut forever. I will always love you. I will tear this shit hole of a city apart brick by brick and kill anyone who gets in my way before I let them take you away from me. 

They will rue the day they touched a hair on your perfect head. The Red Viper lays in wait, my little Sparrow, and soon, very soon, he will strike, and you will be back in my arms. We will be home with Ellaria, the girls, and our beautiful Serena; she will know what a fearsome warrior her mama is. 

I love you more than words can express. Soon, my love, I will show you all the ways I love you. Soon. 

Your Prince 

Taglist: @josepedropascal​ @mrschiltoncat​ @mrsparknuts​ @ghostwiththemostbitch​ @zannemes​ @xjaywritesx​ @oldstuffnewstuff​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @heythere-mel​ @justanotherblonde23​ @artsymaddie​ @anetteaneta​ @lunarthoughts​ @aellynera​ @lucifer-​ @houseofthirst​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @chicken-ona-stick​ 

[blackrosesandwhump]

The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy, Part 1

@whumping-out-of-time @forthetaintedsorrow-whump

CW: minor/immortal whumpee (he's 17), death, restraints, poison, referenced pet whump (it's just a reference to his past, but I wanted to include a warning anyway)

A/N: Bram is from my archived series Inherited, but I decided to write a new story with him since I didn't much like the original one.

Musty wood. Close, stale air. Voices murmuring, a gentle creak and sway under him, rope digging slightly into his wrists. His legs felt cramped, folded into a corner of the box. His left foot had fallen asleep. Sweat clung to the back of his neck and the palms of his bound hands. Not comfortable in the least. But he was used to coffins, and this wasn't much different.

He opened his eyes. Darkness, slatted with lines of light. The view hadn’t changed since before he’d managed to doze off. But beyond the scope of voices, he could hear a strange bustle, languages he didn’t understand, mysterious noises he didn’t recognize. Where was he? What was this place?

Bright sunlight flooded in abruptly, blinding him. A pair of rough, scarred hands reached in and pulled him out. He stood up, shaky from being cramped for so long, hands tied in front of him. Too many pairs of eyes. He kept his head down.

“Spindly little lad,” someone remarked in a thick, strange accent. “Not what I expected for someone who can’t die.”

A different pair of hands lifted his bound wrists, examining his arms, peering at his chest and profile. He forced himself not to shrink away. He couldn’t handle a punishment just yet.

“Still,” continued the voice, “he’ll make a perfect new attraction. Who could resist seeing for themselves the Marvelous Resurrecting Boy?”

---

The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy. That was his new title, his new name, his new identity. He was no longer an inherited pet.

A breeze caught the letter from his old master, casting it into a patch of fresh mud just outside the tent flap. He didn’t bother picking it up. His old life didn’t matter anymore. He was a legend now, the prime attraction in a traveling show of monsters and curiosities. Crowds of well-dressed onlookers paid the expensive viewing fee over and over again, eager to watch him rise from the dead. His death was the attraction. His death, and the awe-inspiring, breath-taking moment afterward when he opened his eyes, alive.

Bram pressed a hand over his stomach. A dagger in his gut. His last death had been on the spectacular side, the melodrama heightened by a rehearsed dialogue between him and his handler. Just what the audience loved. He still felt sick at the memory of their thunderous applause.

Someone ducked through the entrance of his tent. Bram swallowed hard, glancing at the pocketwatch that hung at the foot of his bed. Almost time for his next performance. Almost time to die again.

“You ready, boy?” The stage-hand, his face pink from working outside all day, looked him over. He seemed satisfied with Bram’s appearance, but barely.

Bram nodded. It felt like a lie. He wasn’t ready. He never was.

“Coming.” The word tasted like cotton in his mouth. His throat had already gone dry. He swallowed again, letting his mind grow blank as he followed the stage-hand to the wings. The crowd gasped and clapped passionately as the act before him finished and the horned girl emerged from her pool of fire, unscathed. Bram’s stomach knotted. It was his turn, his turn to perform. But his feet wouldn’t move. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t die again, not this time—

“Move!” the stage-hand hissed, shoving him forward. He stumbled onto the stage. The crowd broke into applause yet again. They knew him. They couldn’t wait for his performance to begin.

This time, it was poison. The vial was waiting for him, displayed on a table in the middle of the stage, catching the light. His handler was waiting too. At his cue, Bram stepped forward and took the vial in his hand, showing it to the crowd so they could see it clearly.

They gasped as he drank. It didn’t take much. His body spasmed. He felt himself collapse—he couldn’t breathe—his lungs were paralyzed—he arched backward once, fighting—and the world winked out.

---

He jolted back to life with a ragged gasp. His heart pounded; a few seconds of silence, then the crowd erupted.

Bram’s head felt foggy. He staggered to his feet and turned in a slow circle, showing that he was very much alive. The crowd’s appreciation doubled, a barrage of applause and cheers, the same he’d heard every time he came back to life. Sickening, just as it had been the first time, and the fifth, and the tenth.

Sleep. That was what he needed. Death was exhausting. At least this time, he had a few days before he had to do it all over again.

He collapsed onto his cot and sank into a dreamless doze just as it began to rain.

[ilove-cedricdiggory]

Fallen

Draco x Reader

Requested? - nope, but I'm sorry for this one 😅

Summary - The reader finds herself in a huge fight with Draco, their hearts both left broken. But, she was far more broken than him.

Trigger Warning - Mentions of Suicide, attempt of suicide, Draco being a rude arse jerk, cussing, angst.

I can make this into a part two if you guys want.

Two years after the war. Two whole years. You had met Draco in Diagon Alley, the both of you attempting to get your groceries before the rest of the rest of the wizarding world woke up, busying the streets, along with the isles of the store.

You had just gotten out of work, having found a job where you could work nights. You had incredible anxiety after the war, worried about every person around you with the possibility that they were still a death eater under cover. Your best friend, absolute best friend, for 6 years turned death eater, having no remorse when she tortured your parents right before your eyes.

From that moment on, the fear of someone being a dark wizard undercover. While the war was over, your fear was long gone. Meeting Draco, the both of you found yourself comforting each other through your fear. You were surprised with how easily you trusted Draco, if you're being honest with yourself. A confirmed death eater that let in the same ones that destroyed your school, the same one that walked into Voldemort's arms after his father called him to the wrong side.

But, you knew what it was like to pick the wrong thing, heck, you had the wrong friend for years and you had no clue. You expressed to Draco, when you first got together, that while you understood his position with his family, you also knew he technically always had a choice. Just like Sirius Black, he had a choice to pick right, he just didn't, and now he was learning how to pick right.

The two of you had grown to each other, learning how to protect the other when they needed it most, how to help them grow, and how to let the other breathe - or, you thought you did.

When you woke up this morning, you weren't expecting it to go the way it had. You had switched to days after a year of being with Draco, really wanting to spent the time you had awake, with your boyfriend. The two of you worked in silence for the first thirty minutes or so, always did. You both would brew your coffee, move to your "designated" seats, and sip the hot liquid as you silently planned your own days. This morning, you decided to owl for some breakfast before getting into the day.

You weren't sure how it started.

You had asked him a question about a few letters you found on his nightstand table while searching for a few coins, to which he replied casually. A few minutes later, it was him asking about a work assignment you said you needed to finish. The both of you were on your guard suddenly, when the owl flew in from his parents.

Lucius.

The way you despised his dad was different to your being. Growing up, you didn't hate many people, but even that hate wasn't even close to the level it was with his father. You met him twice, each time as horrible as it comes. Only, this letter seemed to be a reply to one? A reply in which, two paragraphs in, Lucius was telling Draco "I told you she was wrong for this family, wrong for you."

Each piece of your heart that you had ever pieced together crumbled into specs, the clear liquid filling your eyes after many nights of feeling free.

You guessed you actually did know how it started.

Your tears fell before a single word was spoken - yelled really. He was scolding you for reading his mail, you were broken from the words screamed. A fight worse than any fell upon the two of you, all silent plans for the day cancelled.

"You fucking bitch! My own shit, that's all I ask! You to leave my shit alone! Can you do anything fucking right?" Words like this coming from Draco hurt more than any others combined.

"How the fuck was I supposed to know it wasn't from the bakery, dipshit!" You had tossed the letter at his head, it crumpled into a ball. "Fuck, Draco, you act like I'm some know it all that can tell when things are meant for just you! And I open your mail all the damn time!" You had walked into the living room, slamming the bedroom door shut, leaving him to glare at the shut piece of wood.

He ripped open the door, slamming his feel on the floor as he made his way to you. The two of you screamed for hours, making your way through plenty of topics, leaving you both as broken as you were when you found each other.

"I don't know why the fuck I ever looked at you. You're fucking pathetic." He spat, his spit flying out his mouth and landing on the couch between the two of you. "Get the fuck out." You whispered, your eyes squeezed shut.

"What?" He asked, his eyes wide, your words leaving him stunned.

"I said, get the ever loving fuck out, Draco Malfoy! Fucking leave!" You yelled, rushing to the shared bedroom, yanking his clothes off of hangers and throwing them out a window you smashed open. You'll fix it later.

"Y/n, wait, wait, stop." He spoke, entering the room. "No, I won't stop. I didn't do a damn thing to you besides fucking love you, stand beside you. Get the fuck out!" You tossed his sock drawer out of the window before turning to him. "I will not fucking hesitate to call Arthur. I won't even call for ministry, I'll call for him and the rest of the boys to come over and drag you out their selves."

His eyes were wide, unshed tears filled to the brim. You pulled out your wand, raising it to him. "I swear, I will hex you so hard, Molly won't even know how to fix you." He stepped back, his eyes closing before he nodded once. You watched as he left, your eyes following him as he waved his wand, his clothes folding themselves and plopping into a bad you assumed he transfigured.

Once he disapparated away, your tears fell harder than before. You mumbled a quick fixing charm on the window before falling onto your bed, your sobs filling the air.

Worthless

Pathetic

Waste of space

Problematic

Your head filled of every word you ever told yourself, every word you ever heard, as it rebounded off the walls of your skull.

With a shaky breath, you pulled out the letters you wrote a year ago, each to a different beloved friend of your own.

Harry

Hermione

Ron

Ginny

Fred

George

Molly

Arthur

Draco

You took a deep breath, walking to the spare bedroom where you kept your owl, clearing your throat softly. "Take these to the Burrow, I'm sure they will all be there." You whispered softly, letting the bird from it's cage before tying the notes to it's leg. "This one to Draco." Your voice faltered at his name, tying his letter to its other leg.

Once she flew out your window, your feet walked to your bedroom, glancing around it with heavy eyes, before grabbing your wand once more and disapparating to Hogsmead, your feet carrying you to the school you were oh so familiar with.

It had taken about half a year, but Hogwarts was back to its former glory, the wonders of magic. It was July, the warm air around you as you entered the building. It's familiar hallways, the magic buzzing off the walls. Home.

Your feet carried you up to the astronomy tower where you had spent plenty nights, staring out into the wonders of the sky. It was late now, the sky almost black, as you stepped back out into the summer night air.

You wiped your nose, slowly stepping onto the ledge as you glanced out into the night.

"I wonder what it'll be like to see you again, Sirius." You whispered, your heart clenching.

You turned around, your back facing the sudden drop before you looked up to the sky, "See you soon, Pads." You took out your wand, lifting it up as you had, the night you all found Dumbledore, the tip of your wand lighting as you leaned backwards, the weight of your body slipping off the edge, you falling.

The sky was dark, the only light from your wand before you shut your eyes, a final breath filling your lungs.

Fallen.

[svtkillua]

milk and tea > 4

rating: [pg-13 / angst] genre: soulmate au pairing: todoroki shouto x reader warnings: cursing, heartbreak, angst! word count: 6.1k

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1 - 2 - 3 - chap 4 - 5 - 6 [final]

The sky was dull every day during the week that passed, like the rain had sucked all the color from it and drained it away, clouds thick and dark like a threat from up above. Most people had been staying inside, couped up with their mid day coffees and bundled in blankets, cuddled up with the person they loved to keep them warm. Part of you wondered if that was where Todoroki was, if he was at home curled up in Momo’s lap with his head on her shoulder, if he’d already washed away the emptiness from the week before. The same emptiness that was eating you whole, swallowing up any joy left inside you every time you remembered the way his lips had felt against your own. 

Todoroki was gone when you woke up that morning a week ago, the smell of his cologne still bathed into the sheets when you hugged them just a little bit tighter to your chest. The apartment had felt dead, as hollow as your chest did when your eyes opened to find nothing there beside you in bed. Everything was unfair, all of it, getting to kiss him once but knowing you never would again, getting to memorize how he sounded when he said ‘ I love you ‘ but never getting to utter it back to him for the rest of your lives. It had made your eyes burn, made you scream into your pillow to muffle the sound as much as you could, made your nails dig into your palms until they left marks. 

Your apartment had been suffocating, the ghost of Todoroki still vivid on your bed and beside your front door, still following you in a way that made it hard to breathe. You didn’t think you could be there for a while, could be in the place where both your desperate ‘I love you’s‘ were bouncing off the walls, reverberating into your bones and making them shake. You couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t keep on acting like you were fine and continue trying to bottle everything up inside. The seal on your feelings had been broken and you couldn’t stuff them all back in where no one could see them, everything now up at the surface, letting you appear cracked and broken. 

Somehow that had lead you to Midoriya’s, where you cried into his chest for a solid hour while he held you on the sofa, where he listened to the words that poured past your lips without anything spewed back from his own mouth. He’d been more than kind, promising it would be okay, bringing you tea making you stay in their guest room so you wouldn’t have to go home just yet. He didn’t judge you, didn’t tell you how horrible you’d been to catch feelings for someone who was accounted for, his eyes full of worry for your distressed state every day since you’d shown up at his place one week ago. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as your head tipped back, body curled up on the sofa in Midoriya’s living room, his soulmate out of town, himself in the kitchen making the both of you lunch, his hums loud enough for you to hear. Todoroki had tried to call you every day, but you’d been too scared to talk to him just yet, guilt like a weight on your chest every time you hit the ignore button. Every time he’d send you a text after, simple texts that held so much love behind them, the words laced with worry and aching and all the pain you could feel in your chest mimicked in jumbled together letters. Everything hurt, like you’d worked out far too hard but didn’t stretch afterwords, like your muscles were contracted and too tight to loosen back to normal. 

When you opened your eyes again you caught sight of it, the diamond still placed on your finger as the ring twisted from the way your hands were wringing together, lungs burning like they were full of smoke as you skimmed your touch over it.

Todoroki hadn’t taken it when he left, the jewelry still on your finger when you’d woken up, and despite how heavy your chest felt, you couldn’t bring yourself to take it off. Maybe if you kept it on long enough you could pretend it was a part of you, maybe it could be what you looked at on days you were the most lonely and could think of Todoroki without the unimaginable pain that came laced with his image now. 

You wondered if it would get easier eventually, if maybe in a few months you wouldn’t regret getting to kiss him or tell him you loved him, that maybe you’d get to look back at it and feel thankful rather than devastated. It didn’t feel like it would, like a wound that was too big to heal, a gaping hole in the shape of your heart blown right through your rib cage. Maybe one morning you’d wake up beside another man and think that you loved him even more than you loved Todoroki, even if the mere idea made bile rise in your throat, the thought enough to make your head shake as Midoriya’s figure approached you on the sofa. 

“Here.” He hummed, hands extending as he plopped down beside you, passing over a bowl of whatever concoction he’d come up with, the tangy scent enough to make you mutter a soft thank you before you took a small bite. You weren’t hungry, you hadn’t been much of anything past upset all week, but Midoriya had been pretty insistent on making sure you ate and kept yourself from moping all the time, and at the moment you didn’t feel like arguing. He was being nice enough to let you stay there, you didn’t want to come across as rude to the one person you felt like you still fully had. “Taste okay?” 

“It’s great Midoriya, thank you.” You hummed faintly when your head bobbed in a nod, eyes downcasted to the bowl propped in your palm rather than focusing on his face. You could feel him staring at you, the concern oozing out of his pores like water raging down a river. He wanted you to talk about things, wanted you to open up and let yourself feel something openly rather than keeping things to a vocal minimum. Slowly your eyes floated over to his worry filled features, his huge eyes widening ever so slightly when he realized you’d caught him staring, lips pursed as he licked a bit of sauce off of them. “What?” 

“What?” 

“You’re staring at me.” 

“I’m not.” He shook his head dismissively and looked away, legs folding up under himself as he reached for the remote, flicking the volume up a few notches before smiling to himself. Your eyes rolled as you shoveled another bite of food past your lips, stomach unconsciously grumbling as your eyes flickered once down to your phone, watching the screen flash with light when it buzzed. “But if I was, it’d just be because I’m worried about you. Is that really so bad?” 

“I don’t want to talk about things.” You sighed and glanced at him, your phone buzzing again under your knee, the vibrations making it slip down the couch cushion towards your legs. “I know you just want to help Midoriya, and you are a lot, but you don’t get how I’m feeling. You never will. The only person who could come even close to getting how I feel is maybe Todoroki, and he’s the last person I want to talk to right now.” 

It was a lie, you wanted to talk to Todoroki so bad you could feel it in your bones. The problem was that you couldn’t handle it. Even saying his name out loud made your stomach twist, throat constricting until you forced down another bite of food. Everything felt harder without him, like you’d gotten tossed to the bottom of a mountain and told to climb back up with your bare hands, like you supposed to run a marathon with two broken ankles. You weren’t sure how to feel now besides depressed, weren’t sure how to make yourself move on from the hollow sensation in your chest when the person you wanted to fill it was in the arms of someone else. 

“You should talk to him, even if you don’t want to.” He sighed, leaning back on the couch once he abandoned his half empty bowl on the coffee table in front of him. Your eyes danced over his palm when it landed on your knee, savoring the comforting squeeze while you blinked away the burning hiding behind your lashes. “Todoroki, I mean. I know you don’t want to but I can guarantee he’s just as miserable as you are, maybe even more.” 

Your head shook as you set your bowl down, arms folding over your chest before your phone buzzed again beneath your leg, fingers clasping around the device and moving it up to rest on your blanket covered lap, glancing at Midoriya rather than the screen. He was staring at you again, eyebrows knitted together as he fidgeted his fingers in front of his long stomach, lips pressing into a thin line when you both recognized the sound of your phone vibrating another time in your lap. 

When you peeked down at the device you let out a shaky breathe, eyeing the string of messages all followed by Todoroki’s name, the text bubbles seeming like ghosts that had come back to haunt you. 

Todoroki [ 15:18 ] : 

You’re not at work again. 

Todoroki [ 15:20 ] : 

I don’t know if your okay or if you hate me now or what. 

Todoroki [ 15:22 ] : I miss you so fucking much. 

Todoroki [ 15:22 ] : 

Please talk to me.

You swallowed, hands shaky as you tossed the phone away from yourself, eyes drooping shut as Midoriya sighed beside you, arm looping around your shoulders before you were falling in his chest and crying quietly. His arms held you a little tighter the longer you stayed like that, like he was trying to protect you from the world still turning, like he wanted to shield you from your own thoughts that were trying to devour you. It’d been the theme of the week, you trying to shut yourself away from everyone else and Midoriya being there to help you when the cracks in your armor got too big to ignore. He wanted to help you but didn’t really know how, wanted to ease the pain in your chest but had no clue how to put himself in your shoes. 

Things had been easy for Midoriya, he’d met his soulmate right after highschool, their marks perfect matching swirls of blue. They’d gotten married, moved into an apartment, never had to be separated for more than a few days since they met. Their love had blossomed from day one, their relationship the perfect depiction of what soulmates were supposed to be, their personalities complimenting each other and their hearts beating in time with the others. You envied it so much, loathed yourself for how jealous you got on the nights his soulmate came home and you could hear them laughing quietly from their bedroom, despised watching them cook breakfast together before one of them left for work because they looked so genuinely happy and you’d never get that with Todoroki. 

Hell, maybe you’d never get that with anyone. 

It took awhile for you to calm down, the song of Midoriya quietly humming like the soundtrack lulling you back to calm, heartbeat slowing to its normal tempo as the sun peeked through the clouds out the window, flooding the floor beneath it with light. Everything was quiet when you shifted from his grasp, rubbing at your eye sockets as Midoriya took your phone and turned it off for you, setting it aside as his palm landed on your shoulder and left a comforting squeeze. Silence fell for a few minutes as the both of you stared at the television screen, though you weren’t taking any of it it, your body drained and eyes heavy from the crying, lungs exhausted from sucking in air so hard. 

“I’m gonna ask you something and I don’t want you to get upset with me.” 

Your head turned to look at him, vision hazy from the bit of moisture clinging to your eyelashes, Midoriya leaning forward to retrieve his drink from the coffee table. He took a sip, your eyebrow raising as if telling him to go on, arms folding over your chest lazily while your foot bounced unceremoniously against the carpet. 

“So I have this friend, Awase, he doesn’t have a soulmate either.” He huffed when you interjected him with a small groan, hands raising to your tired face as your head started to shake, already having a feeling you knew where his question was going. “Relax, I just want you to get lunch with him, not like a date. I just thought maybe talking to someone who has a better idea of what you have to deal with could be good for you. Please? For me?” 

You exhaled heavily, fingers parting from where they were resting over your eye sockets so you could look at him, his emerald eyes wide and pleading, like he was desperate for you to say yes. You knew he meant well, that he wanted to help you, that he wanted to let you live a life that wasn’t so clouded over with darkness but wasn’t sure how to get there. It made your stomach twist, a small bubble of guilt floating up your esophagus for all the stress and worries you’d dumped onto him. You felt like a burden at times even if he insisted you weren’t, like your suffering was making him suffer and it made you want to disappear. Sometimes it made you want to run away so you could start fresh where no one could hurt you and you could hurt no one, but you knew that was irrational. 

None the less, the guilt combined with the way his teeth gnawed on his bottom lip made you reluctantly bob your head in a nod, the shy but content smile that spread on Midoriya’s face enough to make you feel like it was the right decision. Even if it seemed useless, even if the idea of having to leave the house felt like too much work when everywhere you looked reminded you of what you didn’t have. You doubted it would work, were unconvinced simply talking to someone else could change anything, but if humoring Midoriya was all it took to make him feel even an ounce better than it was worth it. 

Because you knew how it felt to be miserable, and because of that, you’d never wish that upon someone else. 

The café was quiet when you walked inside, fingers clasped tightly together like a knot in front of your lap, the light spring breeze brushing your hair away from your neck as you peered around the outside seating area. It was beautiful, the few trees lining the courtyard dotted with flowers and bursts of green, the tables set with shining copper colored silverware. You felt out of place, eyes darting down to your black sweater and blue jean skirt, sneakers scuffed up on the ends from dragging your feet just a bit too much. You felt nervous, on edge, like somehow your heart knew something was happening but you didn’t know yourself, anxious with the arranged meeting with a guy you never knew, almost unusually scared by the idea of meeting someone like yourself. 

You didn’t know if you could handle it. On the one side you figured maybe Midoriya was right, that maybe talking to someone who also lacked a soulmate would help you feel a little less alone. Maybe he was content being alone like the rest of them, or maybe, just maybe, he was like you, desperate for love and affection, miserable watching the rest of the world get all the things he wanted. You weren’t sure you wanted to see so many similarities between the two of you, scared of what it would make you think of yourself, afraid that you’d see that depression sunk into his irises like it was your own. You couldn’t ignore your problems when they were staring you head on, even if having to admit how upset you were felt like you were getting your teeth pulled. It had taken a lot to make you even tell Midoriya. That longing for someone to care had been the nudge that pushed you into his apartment days before, and eventually led you to now.

Awase was easy to spot, his hair spiked upwards, poking out from under his blue patterned headband, his pale blue flannel unbuttoned and fluttering when the wind blew, white shirt beneath rising and falling with his breathes. His jeans looked a bit loose on him when he shifted in his seat, a large bandage poking out on his wrist from beneath a glove that was encasing one of his hands, free hand grabbing at the cup of coffee in front of him. He was handsome, a few girls glancing at him as they walked past to head back into the café, but his head didn’t lift up once, his phone beside his cup when he reached forward to check the time on his phone. 

“Awase?” 

Your voice made his head lift, a small, polite smile spreading on his lips as he pushed out from the table to stand, eyes never leaving you as you approached. You pretended not to notice the slight dark circles around his eyes, wondering if he’d notice your own as well, the pair of you settling into seats opposite each other as he waved the waitress over. You ordered a coffee, shifting in your seat as you took a nervous glance around, like if you avoided his gaze long enough he would disappear. 

“Midoriya told me a lot about you.” His voice was deep, soothing, the kind of sound you could fall asleep to if you listened long enough. Your eyes trailed back over to his face, wondering if he could see how bloodshot they were, questioning if the gentle laugh that fell from his lips was genuine when his head shook side to side. “He also told me you probably weren’t going to want to talk to me much.” 

Your eyes rolled, a small laugh bubbling up in your throat, his lips spreading into a gentle smile when he got a reaction from you. You shifted slightly in your seat, in an effort to get more comfortable, hands resting on the table top as he took a sip from his mug again, the light breeze making a few flower petals rustle above you. You tried to ignore the way the light caught the ring still on your finger, tried not to feel the rock that grew in your throat when you let your eyes focus on the jewelry. 

Looking at it was becoming some weird form of self torture, a constant reminder of who you were missing and why you were missing them, a physical representation of all the things you wanted but would never get to have. Despite that, you couldn’t bring yourself to take it off, like if you did that night would have just disappeared. Like if the ring was gone you’d forget how it had felt to have his lips on yours, like the memory of his heartbeat pounding against your eardrums would cease to exist. Then again, maybe that would be good for you, to just forget everything, to not find yourself unable to sleep anymore because you kept repeating his voice saying ‘I love you’ in your head like a broken record. 

It was hard to sleep when your desires were chasing you, strangling you with their bare hands and defining you with their whispered voices. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, necessarily, I just don’t really know what to say.” You shrugged, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you blinked away your thoughts, eyes tearing away from your ring to instead glance at the waitress as she set down your coffee with a polite nod. “It just seems odd to dump all my feelings onto anyone, let alone someone I hardly even know. I don’t usually like to talk about the things that are bothering me.” 

Awase’s head bobbed in a nod as he pursed his lips slightly, a gentle ‘ah’ falling from them as he glanced away from you to instead look at the flowers on the tree above you. A petal fell down and landed near your hand, your fingertips grazing the soft surface, careful not to break it, feeling like it was as fragile as your heart had become. Somehow however, its fragility was beautiful. Yours felt like a flaw, like you were defined by how delicate your well being had become. When people looked at you, you doubted they saw a soft and gentle person. Instead they saw someone who was heartbroken and horrible at hiding it, someone they pitied, someone who didn’t know their place in the world. 

Someone who wasn’t even sure they had such a place anymore. 

“Your soulmark is beautiful.” Your eyes trialed down to your palm when Awase’s finger tapped against it, the line of gold seeming darker today than normal, brighter, like it was laughing at how hollow you had become. You swallowed down the nerves that spiked up every time you stared at the mark, trying to quiet down the self destructive thoughts that were threatening to cloud your conscious. “It’s a shame you probably hate it.” 

“Don’t you hate yours?” His lips spread slightly at your question, a sad smile gracing his features as his eyes trailed to his hand covered by a glove, shoulders hunching like the weight of the world had been dropped back onto them. For a moment you felt guilty for asking, fidgeting in your seat and picking up your cup to take a gulp of your scolding coffee as a distraction until he looked at you again. 

“Of course I do. Everyday.” 

The conversation started to blossom, Awase talking about what he struggled with, how the few people he’d met without soulmates always seemed so different than him. How everyone else seemed content alone, but he never could, how everyone else was happy but he never really seemed to feel that way fully. Every word that came out of his mouth felt like you had said it yourself, every syllable and emotion and wince that twitched across his features were once you’d also gotten used to, that familiar ache of being different than everyone else around you dissipating if even for a few seconds. 

Midoriya and Todoroki would try to sympathize for you on the odd times you vented to them but they never really could understand, no one ever had before besides Awase, because he actually understood how you felt when you poured out words about how lonely you were. No one else had ever grasped how incredibly depressing it was to feel empty all the time, to look around and see everyone else getting to have the things you so desperately wanted. Midoriya and Todoroki had soulmates, they didn’t know what it was like to know you were meant to be alone, didn’t understand how hard it was to keep on fighting every day when all your heart wanted to do was give up. 

You talked for well over an hour, about the world and your emotions and how similarly difficult things were for the both of you, your coffees being emptied and refilled twice before they were abandoned and began to grow cold. The sun had started to dip in the sky when you took a glance at the time on your phone, Awase’s voice trailing off as he laughed softly at something he had said, lips wrapping around the edge of his mug as he sipped at his chilled drink, a sense of calm washed over the both of you from the mutual comfort of having someone understand. He made you feel a little less alone, even if once you both left the restaurant you’d go back to remembering exactly what had been making you so upset. That it wasn’t just the lack of soulmates that was making things hard, but rather being in love with someone who already had one. 

Your phone buzzed when you locked it but you didn’t look, flipping it so the screen was facing the table as Awase pulled down on the sleeves of his shirt, which had been bunched up around his elbows. It buzzed a second time, his eyes drifting to it before lifting to your face, a faint smile on his lips as you cleared your throat and folded your hands in front of yourself on the table top, nodding once towards his glove covered hand before tipping your head to the side, admiring the way the sun was bouncing off his cheekbone. 

“Why are you wearing that, by the way?” 

“My palm got cut at work.” He lifted his hand up some, tongue poking out to wet his lips as he pulled the glove up just barely, so you could see the bandages covering his wrist. “It’s mostly healed now, but my doctor suggested I keep it until I have a check up with him again, so it doesn’t get infected. The bandages don’t really stay on that well alone.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s annoying.” You sipped your coffee, cringing from the temperature of the liquid as it slid down your throat, ears faintly picking up the sound of the door opening behind your back, not bothering to look. His shoulders rose and fell as he let the glove go, glancing down at his fingers as he wiggled them slightly, his eyes glued to them like a little kid watching their favorite show. 

“It’s not so bad, though it gets hot sometimes.” He pressed his lips into a thin line, free hand raising to scrub at the back of his neck when his head lifted properly on his shoulders, foot barely knocking into yours as he let his blue eyes flutter shut when the wind blew past the pair of you. “It covers up my soulmark, which is nice, I don’t have to stare at it all the time when I write or cook or clean. Sometimes, when I can see it, I just focus on my mark and think about how much I wish it wasn’t there, that soulmates weren’t even a thing. Sometimes I wish I could just carve it out of my palm and never have to see it again.” 

“I wish that all the time.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

Your head whipped up as your spine locked up, Awase’s eyebrows bunching together as a shadow blocked the sun that had been hitting his face. He looked as confused as you felt panicked, eyes following your body as you turned enough to stare up at Todoroki, hands shaking on the table top as his irises locked onto your own, stealing the air from your lungs. For a second you almost thought you were imagining him, that you’d finally lost your mind and were just picturing him wherever you looked. 

“Todoroki-” You felt like you couldn’t breathe, taking in the way his lips were red and chapped, like he’d been biting them too much, something he always did when he was anxious. His eyes were underlined with deep blue circles, much like your own, like he hadn’t slept in days, his hair a mess and sticking in to many directions. Somehow he still looked beautiful, even with his sweater bunched oddly around his waist, his hands fidgeting inside his coat pockets as he blinked between yourself and Awase twice. 

“You haven’t been answering my texts all week. I thought something happened to you. I thought-” He trailed off, swallowing hard enough for you to see his adam’s apple bob, his jaw tightening and relaxing repeatedly, like he was trying to stop himself from screaming. He looked so small, like the world had crushed him into a ball and was forcing him to stay there, like you pulling away from him had been enough to make him start to lose his control on things. He could usually compose himself, could handle the weight of everyone pushing him in all directions, but he looked like he’d lost that now, like he was in the middle of a maze with no map to know how to escape. “Who is this?” 

“I’m Awase.” Awase awkwardly scratched at his hair, able to sense something was happening even if he didn’t know what, his eyes flickering between yourself and Todoroki as you stared at each other. Todoroki didn’t even glance at him when he spoke, taking a step closer to you as his eyes danced once to your shaking hands, your heart leaping to your throat when his lips parted as he stared at them, taking a glance and noticing the ring as it caught the bit of sun still poking through the tree branches up above. “I can give you guys a minute, if you want.” 

You could feel the pull in your chest, could sense the way your heart was dying to have his arms wrapped around you and feel his lips against your ear while he whispered to you. You were so desperate for him, so miserable just looking at him and knowing you couldn’t touch him, not there, not in public where anyone could see you. It made your eyes burn, them welling with tears so quickly it almost seemed fake, his tongue poking out to wet his lips as his bottom lip shook just slightly, nostrils flaring and head shaking side to side. You missed him so much you could taste it on your tongue, could feel the bile rising in your throat when his eyes tore away from your own as the door opened back up behind you. 

“Todoroki, c’mon, we’re leaving.”

Momo’s voice made your spine lock up, eyes glued to Todoroki when his gaze maneuvered back to your own, feet unmoving from his spot while his mouth opened and closed, like he had a thousands things to say but had forgotten how to speak. You’d of given anything to of been alone with him then, to get to say all the things you weren’t allowed to now, to have a few more hours of touching eachothers hands and tasting each others lips, even if it would only be more fuel to torture yourself with later. 

“Todoroki.” Momo’s body came into your view but you didn’t glance at her, her head down as she grabbed onto Todoroki’s hand and gave him a gentle tug in her direction. Everything was happening so fast, his feet scuffing on the concrete as Momo tugged on him once more, her hair covering her face from your view as you struggled to stop yourself from crying. You barely noticed the way Awase’s head rose, didn’t focus on the way he sucked in a sharp breathe as Todoroki got reluctantly pulled away from you “The cab is waiting, we have to go.” 

Your body turned to watch him as he left, whipping around like you were engrossed from a film and didn’t want to miss the ending, elbow knocking into your coffee mug and sending the liquid spilling out all over the table top. Your vision was blurry as you forced yourself to look away from the couple, choking slightly on air as you grabbed a wad of napkins and tried to clean up the mess, sniffling as Awase jumped back a bit while the coffee dribbled off the edge of the table onto the ground below. It’d splashed a few dots onto his shirt, his glove completely soaked as he laughed quietly, not mentioning the tears brimming in your eyes as he tugged the fabric off his fingers and tossed into onto a dry patch of the table. 

“I’m so sorry.” You breathed, using your sleeve to try and dry your eyes, swallowing down the emotions bubbling up in your esophagus, forcing the tears back down to let out later, when you were alone and the world couldn’t see you. It was almost funny how a few seconds of being in Todoroki’s presence was enough to totally derail you, mentally slapping yourself for not thinking about how close the café was to his and Momo’s apartment. Your body turned, arms extending as you took a few napkins off a nearby empty table, turning back around to Awase as you reached for his damped, now bare, hand, his bandages having lost their grip from the coffee soaking them, now laying beside his discarded glove. 

“It was an accident.” 

“Still.” You sighed, shaking your head as you dabbed the napkins onto the face of his palm, his skin warm as he didn’t fight you off, his eyes lingering on the door Todoroki and Momo had slipped out of, a look on his face you couldn’t quite place. You flipped his palm, pressing the bandages onto the skin gently, in case his cut was still sore, not glancing at it as you focused on his face for a moment longer. “I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s okay, really.” He smiled lazily, head shaking as he blinked a few times, like he was trying to snap himself out of a daze. Your head dipped down, throat clearing as you moved the napkins away from his palm and tossed them onto the table top. You paused, eyes squinting as you stared down at his skin, heart speeding up in your chest when you felt all the hairs on your body stand on end. His soulmark was visible, even with the small cut running across his palm, your fingers shaking as you traced hesitantly against it. 

Because there on his palm were dark, blueberry colored lines, branching out from the middle onto each of his fingertips, like the branches of a tree. Because there on his hand was his soulmark, bold and unmistakably recognizable, one you had memorized the shape of a long time ago, one you couldn’t forget if you ever even wanted to. 

You had seen his mark before. 

Because his mark was the same as Todoroki’s.

-

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things we could burn in one go (eminence) - chapter 7

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Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes Additional Tags: post-s2, Canon Compliant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, starts forlex ends malex, other characters may appear - Freeform, tags subject to update

Chapter Summary: Alive but weak, Michael wanders Alex’s house as he tries to come to terms with the past few days.

Excerpt:

 At night, Alex slept in his bed, and Michael slept in the guest room, but the sheets were Alex’s, the pillows were Alex’s, the walls and floor were built to hold him, he picked out the curtains. Alex was inescapable. And now, neither could Michael escape knowing that he still slept in old band shirts worn soft and peeling, that he composed music with his eyes closed and hid his written notations in books around his house, that he kept all his condiments room temperature and screwed up his nose at the thought of cold sauce on hot food. All these domestic details he’d lived and loved without, stuffed inside the empty spaces in his skull after only a few days.

 What was he supposed to do, knowing this? The little details made up friendships, too, for certainly Michael knew plenty of his siblings’ idiosyncrasies, even kept shelves in his heart for lovely little scraps old one or two-night lovers had left him as parting gifts.

 But things would never, ever be so simple and nostalgic and normal with Alex. Too many years had passed for Michael to even attempt to fool himself. His ribs sung like a tuning fork struck pure, and Michael longed, with the oldest, basest longing, to be anything so useful for Alex to set the music of his life to. And here he was, sharing Alex’s house with Alex and Alex’s boyfriend’s dog and Alex’s boyfriend’s toothbrush on the sink and Alex’s boyfriend’s clothes in the laundry.

 So he’d live with it.

--

 “Fuck!”

 Michael’s water glass flew to his hand but bumped the edge of the table and skidded the last few feet, spilling water across its surface. Still cursing, Michael shoved his chair back and got to his feet to clean shit up the old-fashioned way, on weak and shaky legs, with weaker and shakier lungs.

 Max kept healing him, checking for any possible little injury, but it seemed that Michael was just weakened by the enormous strain Jones’s “teaching” had put on his body, and he’d have to build back his strength.

 So there it was. All his fears about not being to protect anyone, all the needy clamor in his head, all of them led him here, by nothing but his own recklessness and desperation. Weak as a kitten. More a burden on Alex, quite literally, in his life, taking up his space, invading his home, leaning on him to get from point A to point B.

 Fuck.

 He was, at least, too tired to wallow in much, in between long jags of ragged sleep, torn apart by vivid dreams of light and letters and scraps of knowledge just out of reach. But despite the awful aftertaste of near-death those dreams represented, they were almost better than his waking hours, hovered over by a furious Isobel and a Max worried half to death, Valenti inspecting him head to toe the normal way, Maria trying to cheer him up, and      Alex    .

 They hadn’t spoken much since Michael awoke. Alex had to work, and when he didn’t, they, well. Cohabitating was a lot to get used to. But no matter how awkward things got, he offered a perfect porcelain protection, and Michael studied him obsessively for flaw, for the true Alex underneath the façade brought on by Michael’s own foolishness.

 “Everything going okay?” Max asked, emerging from the guest bedroom, Buffy at his heels. She’d become his shadow in the days since Michael’s near-death; it was almost endearing enough to keep Michael from snapping at him, but only almost.

 “Fine,” he snarled, but far from driving Max off, his tone brought Max forward, to sit across the table from him and fold his arms.

 If snapping wasn’t gonna keep people away, why had he been working so hard to not be a total asshole for the past few days, through every well-meaning coddle and condescension from any one of their friends, from everyone but Isobel, who wasn’t talking to him.

 Max sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, and a twinge of guilt disturbed Michael’s surly mood.

 “Go ahead,” he said a little too loudly, before those thoughts could get to him. “Tell me what a hypocrite I am. One of you has to, and it might as well be you. I was fucking stupid after getting on your case constantly, and it almost killed me. Go ahead!”

 “You seem to have gotten a head start, so I don’t see the need,” Max said wryly.

 Michael scoffed.

 Picking up Michael’s abandoned glass, Max ran his finger around the rim as he spoke. “You know, I know what it’s like to lose this. When my heart was still so weak…I pushed myself too hard and almost…well. You know. So I understand. Give yourself time. Let your system settle and see where you are.”

 The words were too kind and too logical for Michael to bear, so he let out another bratty huff and didn’t respond.

 Max just sighed again. “Well. Anyway. Kyle’s going to be here soon. I know you hate him, but he’s—”

 “I don’t.”

 “Huh?”

 “Hate him. Kinda hard to hate the guy after what he did for you. I don’t like the doctor shit, but…”

 That brought out a small smile on Max’s face, and the knot in Michael’s stomach unclenched. “That’s good,” he said.

 A knock on the door saved Michael from having to find a dignified answer, and he stood hastily to answer it—a little too hastily, it turned out, because the world tipped and took Michael with it.

 “How ‘bout you let me,” Max said as Michael dropped heavy back into his chair before falling. He clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Alex’d kill me anyway if it was trouble and I let you answer it.”

     Alex.    The too-casual reminder that he might have some kind of stake in Michael’s well-being sent him reeling. What was he supposed to do with that information, that perspective? How did he earn it, how was he worthy of it, and how did he keep it from flying away? All questions that were too much to answer—questions he’d asked his ceiling and his eyelids and his stars every night for a decade and was farther than ever from answers even now that he was coming to accept the core truth of the problem’s existence.

 Of course, there was no trouble at the door; it was just Kyle, as expected, and he pet Buffy with one hand while waving at Michael with the other.

 “Hey, Guerin. How’s it going?”

 Michael marshalled himself to answer.

 “How do you think it’s going, Doc? A newborn deer’s got fancier footwork than me right now. But I’m alive, so…”

 “Can’t complain,” Kyle finished the sentence with an amused shake of his head. “That’s one way to look at it.”

 His exam was quick and efficient, something Michael was grateful enough for that he’d die before he ever let Valenti see it, and when he was done he took a seat across from Michael.

 “It’s not exactly a clean bill of health, but your condition seems stable and improving. The condition of your body, at least. It’s hard for me to give any diagnosis about what might be impacting the use of your powers.”

 “Yeah, yeah, wouldn’t expect you to. I’ll figure it out. You’ve done enough,” Michael said, scratching idly at his temple where Max’s handprint lay, thankfully hidden by his hair. “Tell me this, Doc.” He glanced around to make sure Max wasn’t in earshot, and when he spied him through a window throwing a ball for Buffy, he continued, “Have you had a chance to check out Max yet? The healing he did, with his heart—”

 Kyle smiled, and Michael glanced away from his knowing face, shifting in his seat.

 “I did, and you have nothing to worry about. He’s fine. It was a significant strain, but considering the alternative, the outcome could have been much worse.”

 “But what about his condition otherwise?” Michael powered through. “He’s been dealing with depression and exhaustion for months since—"

 The back door swung open and Buffy bounded in for her water bowl, Max following. “How’s it going?” he asked them both, but mostly Kyle, voice full of false cheer.

 “All good,” Kyle said easily, getting to his feet. “It’s going to be fine,” he tacked on the firm reassurance to Michael. “I should get going so I can get ready for work. Catch you later, Max.”

 “Thanks again, man.”

 “Free drinks at the Pony for life, you know my price.”

 As little as Michael cared to socialize with Valenti even now, awkward silence descended when he was gone and it was just the brothers again. What did you say to the guy who saved your life—again—when you had nothing but your own stupidity to blame?

 It didn’t help that Max’s ability to make Michael feel small and stupid and guilty as hell without even trying was still unparalleled, or that he was still too weak to pace it out, or that he was hyperaware of how everyone would perceive him if he sampled some of Alex’s liquor cabinet to take the edge off.

 “I’m going out to the back to get some light exercise,” he said eventually.

 “Okay,” Max said, not arguing or inviting himself along.

 “Thanks,” Michael replied, not elaborating on what for as he passed him at the fastest shuffle he could manage.

 Outside, under the sun, Michael’s head was no clearer, his muscles no stronger. Alex’s backyard was featureless, incomplete, clearly not somewhere he spent much time, unlike the front patio, which at least had some furniture, some lived-in rested energy. And, Michael thought, of course: Alex would spend his leisure somewhere he could anticipate most attempts to accost him.

 Letting out a heavy sigh, Michael ambled from one end of the fence to the other. As he went, Alex’s cameras followed him, and Michael tried not to feel weird about that, weirdly paranoid despite it being      Alex,    weirdly comforted to know Alex could watch him. The whole thing was weird. Living in Alex’s home was…weird.

 At night, Alex slept in his bed, and Michael slept in the guest room, but the sheets were Alex’s, the pillows were Alex’s, the walls and floor were built to hold him, he picked out the curtains. Alex was inescapable. And now, neither could Michael escape knowing that he still slept in old band shirts worn soft and peeling, that he composed music with his eyes closed and hid his written notations in books around his house, that he kept all his condiments room temperature and screwed up his nose at the thought of cold sauce on hot food. All these domestic details he’d lived and loved without, stuffed inside the empty spaces in his skull after only a few days.

 What was he supposed to do, knowing this? The little details made up friendships, too, for certainly Michael knew plenty of his siblings’ idiosyncrasies, even kept shelves in his heart for lovely little scraps old one or two-night lovers had left him as parting gifts.

 But things would never, ever be so simple and nostalgic and normal with Alex. Too many years had passed for Michael to even attempt to fool himself. His ribs sung like a tuning fork struck pure, and Michael longed, with the oldest, basest longing, to be anything so useful for Alex to set the music of his life to. And here he was, sharing Alex’s house with Alex and Alex’s boyfriend’s dog and Alex’s boyfriend’s toothbrush on the sink and Alex’s boyfriend’s clothes in the laundry.

 So he’d live with it.

 His pocket buzzed frantically, and he swore loudly, startled, before he realized it was just his phone ringing.

 “Fuckin’ spam calls,” he muttered as he fished it out. “Why the hell does anyone carry this shit around all the—”

 But it wasn’t a spam call at all.        Ortecho    sat dead center on the screen, and, not knowing what ring it was on, Michael answered immediately.

 “Mikey!” Liz’s breathless voice shouted before he could say a word.

 “Well it’s about damn—”

 “Thank god, are you okay, why am I hearing from Maria that you almost      died,    what the hell?”

 “Glad to know that’s what it takes to get a hold of you,” Michael snarked back.

 “Listen, I—”

 Michael just sighed. “I know. I get it. But we’ve been calling you a damn lot, Ortecho.”

 “…I know.”

 Despite what he said, he didn’t understand. He’d never understand the running, not as someone so stuck in the ground he’d been planted in that he’d die if he tried to rip himself away. But he couldn’t love Alex after ten years without accepting what he’d never understand and knowing how to survive it.

 He hadn’t thought, until now, that maybe he and Max could talk about this shit. But maybe it’d be worth a try. If there was one thing that Michael      did    know, it was that Liz and Alex wouldn’t talk about how the situations made them similar until they’d exhausted all possible escapes from that conversation.

 “Well…” Michael said into the silence. “How’s California been? How’s the Genoryx lab; they better be letting you do all the mad science shit, or else what good’s a shady government drug company…”

 “Don’t change the subject! You haven’t even answered me.      Are you okay?    ”

 “I…”

 What was the harm in being honest? Liz wasn’t even here, wasn’t even talking to anyone who wasn’t dying, so who would she tell? Maybe Maria, but Maria could read it from him like an open book.

 “Gotta tell you, I’ve been better,” he admitted.

 Liz let out a soft, sympathetic noise. “What happened? You can…you can talk to me, if you want. I know I haven’t been the most reliable, but we’re friends. We are. Okay?”

 Shaking his head, Michael paced the length of the fence again, one hand on it to steady himself.  He reached the house and kept walking to the front, leaving the barren back garden behind.

 “There’s not that much to say. Maria probably told you already. I made a bad gamble on Hyde, and Jekyll had to haul my ass out of the fire. That’s it.”

 That version of the story left out the part Isobel played, but Michael didn’t have the words to describe walking his own head as it melted around him, images flying past bright enough to sear his eyes, snatches of conversation, aphasia in every sense, and how empty and cavernous and      bereft    he felt now, knowing what Jones had stuffed inside him—the knowledge of his entire people—knowing he wasn’t      enough    to contain it, weak, corrupted, and now he might never get it back. And knowing Jones did that to him on purpose, gave him more than his body and mind could handle to make him feel this way, didn’t make the feeling it any damn easier.

 Liz went silent on the other end. There was a question she wasn’t asking, but Michael let it ride, gave her the space.

 But finally, he answered it for her. “Max is okay. His heart held up, and so did the pacemaker. And I’ve got a handprint six inches from my nose, so I can call him on it if he tries to bullshit me.”

 “I—okay. Thank you, Mikey.”

 “Don’t thank me. Seriously, don’t. I, uh, said a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have in your voicemail, about Max. But it’s up to you if you want him in your life at all, so, uh. Yeah.”

 “No, no, it’s fine.”

 There was a thunk on the other line like she’d dropped or hit something.

 “Look, I should go,” she said.

 “Okay,” Michael replied.

 “I’m—really glad you’re okay.”

 “And, uh, it was nice to hear from you.”

 “Okay.” Her final reply was soft and hesitant and awkward as Michael felt making an earnest overture a friend might make. “Bye, Mikey.”

 “Don’t be a stranger.”

 She hung up.

 Michael dropped his arm and let his phone dangle at his side for a little while. His legs shook a little, so he held onto the back of one of the patio chairs to steady himself, but he wasn’t ready to sit just yet.

 Friends or not, clearly he and Liz had plenty to work on if they were that fucking awkward without a project between them.

 Still, this was something. Something unexpected. Michael was too tired to sort through feelings right now.

 But he should have—

 Before he could second guess himself, he pulled his phone back up and dashed a text off to her.

     We all get together on Thursday nights. Open invitation. -G  

 Then he dropped his phone face-down on the seat and sat down several feet away so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it if she texted him back.

 All the chairs on Alex’s patio were tilted subtly to watch different angles of the approach to the house, so Michael settled in the one that was shadiest. It was too fucking hot to be relaxing outdoors without water or sunscreen, but the air indoors with Max hovering and Alex…everywhere…was just as stifling.

 Max hadn’t asked him why, yet, even though the question itched at Michael’s head, even through the careful distance they were keeping from the handprint bond between them. Which was good, because, in the sunlight, on the other side of the storm, his arms wrapped around his own stomach, holding himself, Michael couldn’t have answered it himself.

 Eventually, though, people would ask. And what would he tell them—should he admit he thought that the pollen would be enough to keep himself from harm, should he confess that he’d been willing—or thought he was willing—to accept the risks if it meant no one would have to take a blow for him?

 The street stretched long and quiet as far as Michael could see. Every now and then, a car would pass from one point on the line to the next, disappearing down some other driveway or just continuing until the heat haze swallowed it whole. The sun hurt his tired eyes, so he blinked slow, and let minutes trickle past, waiting for something to happen.

 Maybe his phone would ring again; maybe Max would come looking for him. Maybe Flint Manes would leap out of the bushes and shoot him. Maybe Alex would come home from work and smile when he saw him. Maybe Forrest would come home early and try and fight him for shacking up while he was gone. Maybe Jones did something to him that was lying in wait and would detonate his heart any second.

 Thinking of possibilities was an endless sort of entertainment for a man who never knew what to do with having a future and who just nearly lost his lease on it.

 As Michael watched the road, a truck appeared on one side of the horizon, moving faster than most would on a residential street like this. It whipped up dust as it went, and Michael rolled his eyes and slouched deeper into the chair. Fucking assholes in their screaming steel overcompensators almost universally considered themselves above getting work done in a junkyard, and that didn’t exactly give Michael a better opinion of them.

 And this piece of shit in particular, Michael recognized. What the hell was Wyatt fuckin’ Long doing on this side of town? Michael tensed as he roared by, just waiting for him to slow or stop—did he drive by often, harassing Alex for dating his cousin? Or looking for his cousin to harass somewhere off the farm where a real adult might stop him?

 He didn’t do either, though, and in seconds he was gone, cowgirl mudflaps dangling behind him.

 Asshole.

 What time was it anyway? Narrowing his eyes, Michael focused on his phone where he dropped it in the other chair and, slowly, tried to pull it toward him. It took seconds and enough strain his head hurt before it moved, but move it did, wobbling slowly towards him. Halfway there, it changed velocity and came shooting toward him, and he only barely managed to catch it before it overshot and slammed against the wall behind him.

 Still, progress.

 It was later than he thought. Shouldn’t Alex be home from work by now? Should he be worried?

 He was just hovering his thumb over Alex’s contact, deciding whether or not to call, when another car hissed along the drive and slowed. This one, though, turned into Alex’s driveway, and Michael relaxed.

 Alex pulled the car to a stop, and Michael stood up to greet him, stretching as he did. Unexpectedly, Maria was also in the front seat, but her presence answered the question of why Alex was late. If he wasn’t talking to Michael, at least he was talking to someone.

 “Hey,” Michael greeted them.

 “Hey, Guerin,” Maria replied.

 “Is everything alright?” Alex demanded.

 “Yeah, it’s fine. Kyle was by earlier. Seems like I’m still on the mend.”

 “That’s good to hear,” Maria said, as Alex said nothing.

 Michael gave her a smile. “Yeah, it is. So…are you staying for dinner? Maybe I can cook something…”

 Side-eying Alex, who stood as stiff and stoic as Michael had ever seen him, shoulders and back soldier-straight, Maria returned Michael’s smile and said, “Oh, Alex just asked me to take Buffy out for her walk for the next few days, so I’m here to see her.”

 “I didn’t want to impose on you for that,” Alex added.

 Michael rocked on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets, chewing on his tongue to hold back any indication of how desperate he was to be imposed upon. The weakness in his legs kept him from making a real argument; despite her age, Buffy was a hell of a walker.

 Was that the reason Alex was asking Maria to step in? Was his leg okay? Michael rocked forward again, swaying toward Alex and tugging himself back, an old, familiar dance.

 “You could’ve. You’re puttin’ me up, I oughtta work for room and board,” Michael joked.

 It didn’t exactly land. If possible, Alex shut down harder, face cold and hard, though his voice was soft.

 “You don’t have to work for me to take care of you when you’re in need,” he said, every syllable clipped and careful.

 Michael should have known something was up then and there, seen it, seen Maria’s downcast eyes and crossed arms, the way she hovered close between them and kept to herself; he should have expected it, Alex to pull some kind of bullshit, but his head didn’t go there. Not yet.

 “So…you going somewhere?” he asked, licking his lips. The thought might have sent a bolt of panic through him, but now that Alex had a life here, a house and a job and roots, the threat was less immediate.

     That didn’t stop Liz,    his mind whispered, but he shook it off.

 Alex wasn’t answering, so Michael continued, “You heading out to meet Forrest in DC? You should have gone with him in the first place, man, take some time off.”

 Maria shot Alex a loaded look, but Alex’s face just hardened.

 “And been across the country when you almost died on my doorstep?” he demanded so fervently Michael took a step back, and Alex closed his eyes, chest rising and falling with a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry.”

 “No, uh, it’s fine. You’re right. I’m glad you were here.”

 Somewhere deep in his heart, Michael thought that it wouldn’t have mattered where in the universe Alex was when he lifted his foot and stepped across space to get to his door. His thoughts were inside out, tripled and rearranged with pieces missing, he couldn’t have said what he did or the powers he used or how he could do it again, but he could say this: for a brief moment, he’d possessed the ability to reorder the universe to put himself at Alex’s side, and no technicalities of time or distance would have stopped him.

 He didn’t have that power anymore, though, and neither did he have the ability to read Alex’s mind.

 “Seriously, though,      are    you going somewhere?” he asked again.

 “…I should get inside. My phone’s dead, I need to charge it,” Alex said.

 “      Alex,    ” Maria said in a scalded voice.

 Michael, though, was cold. Frozen. It barely registered when Maria reached out and squeezed his wrist to reassure him; he wasn’t reassured, though he was pathetically grateful to her for trying. She was a good friend—better now than she was or he was when they were two isolated points on a severed line, ten years as two stars on an unintelligible constellation, half its lights gone out.

 But that friendship, as cherished as it was—could it hold him up if the new foundation he’d built for his life was ripped away again? Again, he’d built it up around Alex without expectation or intention. It was reflexive, habitual, migratory. He followed a pattern etched into his bones. He didn’t know any other way to build.

 “Alex, I told you,” Maria said.

 “I know. But—”

 “No! No buts. If you can’t even be honest about what you’re doing, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

 “It’s fine,” Michael said. His voice was distant inside his own skull. “I get it. You don’t have to tell—you don’t owe me anything.”

 For some reason, Alex turned back around to face them, then, his face so openly wracked with pain and indecision that Michael had to close his eyes.

 Even less than he could stand to watch Alex walk away again, he couldn’t stand to watch it hurt so bad and him choose it all the same.

 “I’m      not    leaving you, Guerin. Michael. I’m—not. I’m not!”

 He said it again and again, like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t Michael or Maria, both of whom were silent. Maria pressed closer to Michael, leaning her weight against him, wordless but telling him:      I’m here.  

 “I’m not leaving,” Alex said again.

 Michael forced himself to open his eyes. A few feet in front of him, Alex took up the same amount of space he always did, posture helplessly perfect, hands helplessly flat at his sides.

 Through a tight throat, Michael said, “Okay. Then why…”

 Alex struggled for the words. At his side, Michael felt Maria breathe in and release a heavy sigh.

 “Talk to us, Alex. Please,” she said.

 Dropping his eyes, Alex replied, “I’m just going to be busy and out of the house a lot for the next few days and won’t have time to give Buffy the attention she deserves.”

 “Really? That’s it?” her voice was close to tears, and Michael unlocked himself to wrap his arm around her. She continued, “I asked you to      talk to us,    not just repeat what you told me before. What business, Alex? You’re scaring me.”

 “What am I supposed to do?” Alex cried, spreading his arms wide. Then he dropped his arms just as suddenly, head snapping back and forth looking for anyone who might have heard the outburst, then he dragged a hand over his face. He continued, quieter, flatter, “I get so wound up about one threat, and another one starts swinging from my blind side. I’m not waiting for Fields to come calling while Michael is here. And Jones—” That awful blankness crossed his face again. “—What am I supposed to do, let what he did to you go without doing something about it? Wait until he tries again? Absolutely not.”

 Every word stung Michael’s senses; he had no response, mouth parted but silent, eyes wide.

 Maria let out a frustrated growl. “And would you have told anyone these plans if I hadn’t forced you? Oh my god, of course not, you both suck so bad! What part of this one,” she jerked her thumb at Michael, “getting his gray matter pureed forty-eight hours ago makes you think now is the time to run off with some lone wolf Rambo act? What’s the point of being able to see the future if no one ever asks or listens?”

 “Did you? See something?” Michael asked.

 “Well. No. But I might have,” Maria replied.

 “Wait, nothing at all? It’s been how long now?”

 “Too long,” she admitted. “It’s not nothing, I just keep seeing our bearded friend standing in a field. I can’t even tell if it’s now or if it’s from before or even if it’s from the home planet. He doesn’t look at me, just…stands there.” She shivered.

 Alex’s eyebrows drew down. “Can he…block your sight? Is that possible?”

 Shrugging helplessly, Maria said, “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure we can’t just ask him. What are we going to do?”

     We.    Part of Michael wanted to protest, in the face of the danger that alliance would pose to two of the people he loved most in the entire world. Standing alone already almost got him killed, left him weaker than he’d ever been, but still part of him would try again, and again, until he was out of second chances, if it meant sparing Alex and Maria anything.

 But that wasn’t in question, was it. They’d made their choice. It was time for Michael to learn to live with it.

 “Thursday’s coming up,” he said. Maria and Alex turned to look at him, and he lifted and dropped his shoulders, curling in on himself. “If you guys are still available. We can talk about a game plan.”

 “      Guerin,    ” Maria sighed. But she smiled when she reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. “Of course we’re available.”

 Alex didn’t reply. Silence fell between the three of them, until Maria sighed again and headed toward the front door.

 “I already came all this way, I might as well spend a little time with Buffy. Since I won’t be walking her after all.”

 As she passed Alex, he made a soft noise, and whatever it was, she understood perfectly, because she turned to meet Alex’s raising arms, and the two of them hugged tightly.

 “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You were right. I’m sorry I didn’t--I shouldn’t have made you--”

 “Stop with the ‘shouldn’ts’,” Maria replied. “Just...don’t make us watch you destroy yourself alone when we’re here for you, okay?”

 Michael flinched. Neither of them looked at him, but her words hit home anyway. He was part of that grief, too.

 Alex nodded against her shoulder. “I won’t.”

 Then she gave him one last squeeze, he let her go, and she went inside, leaving Michael and Alex alone.

 And alone, what was there to say? They hadn’t found it so far.

 Michael’s heart still beat uncomfortably fast in his chest, a frantic effort to keep him standing and sane while his brain and body figured out that Alex wasn’t going to disappear from before his eyes, and it only pulsed harder when—he blinked to clear his eyes and—Alex got closer, closing the space between them in a few long, uneven strides.

 On instinct, Michael took a step back, but Alex stopped six inches away, just staring at him with his dark eyes. They scanned from his feet to his hair, taking in every minute tremble of his damaged muscles.

 Jittery, Michael licked his lips and said, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer--”

 Alex took Michael’s shirt in his fist and pulled him in. They hit, chest to chest, Alex’s arm trapped between them until he pulled it away, down and out, clamped it around Michael’s back and held on, held on for dear life. He didn’t need to hold on so tight; Michael froze with the shock of Alex around him and couldn’t have budged for love or money, not until his mind caught up with his body and he slumped in Alex’s safe arms.

 “I’m so mad at you,” Alex said in his ear, close enough that his hitching breaths stirred Michael’s ear.

 “I know. I know,” Michael spoke back, lips moving against his shoulder. He let his eyes fall shut again. Like this, he didn’t need them, dropped every sense that wasn’t touch, anything that didn’t tell him the only thing he needed to know. Alex was here. Michael was here. They were alive. They were together.

 “How could you? What did I do wrong?” His breathing hitched harder, enough for Michael to feel it in Alex’s entire body.

 Gripping him tighter, one arm around his lower back, one arm around his broad shoulders, Michael murmured, “Nothing, God, nothing. I was stupid. I just wanted—I just had to—”

 “I wanted to protect you. That’s all I wanted—did I push too hard?” Hot, wet heat hit Michael’s neck. “I’m so shit at this, Michael, every time I try, I just make everything worse!”

 “No! No, hey, hey.”

 They were too tightly entwined for Michael to do much, but he maneuvered them enough to press their foreheads together.

 “I just wanted to protect      you,    ” Michael rasped. If he looked at Alex this second, this close, he wouldn’t be able to stand it, so he squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know how to—be protected. You making that sacrifice for me, I don’t know how to be worth it. It’s not your fault.”

 “You don’t have to do anything. Ever. I’m so fucking—sorry, for all the times I made you feel like you had to—earn...”

 They swayed slightly back and forth, half because Michael had pushed himself too far on his weak legs, half because it was an old self-soothing motion one or both of them fell back on, completely alone in the universe as children. They did it together, now.

 “We’ll figure it out,” Michael swore, clasping Alex’s sweaty hand in his own sweaty hand, in the nonspace between their chests, knuckle to sternum, palm to palm, sternum to knuckle. The words tasted like hope on his tongue.

 They opened their eyes, Alex first, then Michael, and they stood like that for a long time. Alex’s eyes were red from crying, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

     We’ll figure it out.    Neither of them believed it fully, but if both of them held a half, maybe they’d manage to make it work.

 “We should get back inside,” Michael said eventually, dropping Alex’s hand, stiffening his own to keep the shape of it held to his side as they parted.

 “Actually, could we, um.” Alex cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we could sit out here a while longer. It’s a nice sunset? And maybe we could catch up on normal stuff.”

 Michael looked over his shoulder at the sky. It really was stunning, broad beyond comprehension, all alien with pinks and purples and golds.

 “Normal stuff sounds great,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

[platypan]

A Strategic Proposal (Pt. 2)

Part 1 That night, Billy came in their rooms quietly, and didn’t immediately drape himself over the back of Steve’s chair. “I’ve been given a quest,” he said, and Steve turned to face him, fondness welling up like a geyser at Billy’s startled frown, and his clumsy, exhausted hands trying to unfasten his armor. Steve trotted closer to lift Billy’s chin for a soft kiss, and then helped him unsheathe himself from his carapace.

“What is the quest?” he asked.

“The Serpent of the Fens,” Billy said, his cheeks bunching under Steve’s hands as he smiled wide at Steve stopping to kiss his stubble.

“Oh,” Steve breathed, pressing their foreheads together. “I would come best it for you, but I’m to ride with the entourage north—”

“As if I need you,” Billy grumbled against his mouth, and Steve pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’ll miss you, next to me,” Steve realized aloud. “Be safe.”

“Will I be rewarded for my safe return?” Billy asked, laughing, and Steve lifted him off the ground with the force of his embrace.

“Fit for a king,” Steve promised, and Billy curled around him that night in bed, with Steve pulling him in closer.

When Steve returned two weeks later, hungering to get his arms around his husband, Billy had already ridden out again.

“He performed well,” Her Majesty said. She sounded a bit crisp, Steve would realize later, but in the moment he felt only pride. When Billy crawled into bed behind him two mornings later, before it was light, Steve pulled him close, kissing along his ear and jaw, and feeling him shake with exhaustion.

Billy was quiet the next morning, falling back willingly as Steve pushed him down against the bed to touch him everywhere—but strangely still, for Billy Hargrove. He hung back all day, until Steve blocked his path and reeled him in, and Billy finally relaxed in his arms, laughing.

The next morning he was gone again, and Steve stomped in to guard duty only to have his queen and his fellow knight look at his face, and burst out laughing.

“Somebody’s a storm cloud,” said Robin, and Steve sighed.

“I should thank Your Majesty for the long honeymoon,” he said, “—but I’ve gotten used to him. Here.”

“Now I’m not busy abroad,” Robin told him, “—you’ll see more of me.”

Steve nodded, honestly pleased, but his hand itched to reach over and brush Billy’s. “He was exhausted, last night,” he sighed. “If I’d known he was leaving again, I’d have got leave to join him.”

“You’re needed here,” said his queen.

Billy didn’t return for a week, and then two. Steve tried to wheedle the details of his location out of Robin, and then his queen, but both pretended ignorance until he demanded to know.

“It’s diplomacy,” Nancy said, her jaw set. “Help with a monster on the borders of Hagenton. If you go charging in, they’ll think we don’t trust them.”

“And you sent Billy?!” Steve yelled back, but Robin pushed him back out of the door.

“You do not yell at the queen,” she said, and Steve groaned, running his fingers through his hair until it was wild. Robin sighed. “I will find out where he is, and send it to your room.”

“Thanks,” he said, the fury in him still drawn up to strike, but now met with the need for gratitude. He nodded awkwardly, and stalked back to his—and Billy’s—rooms.

There was a small shape slumped against their door, which resolved itself into a squire, then, into Billy’s sister. “Max,” Steve called.

She sniffled, and threw the heavy book she was holding to thump on his foot, which let him know more than anything else that she was distraught—she had fantastic aim, as a rule. “You bastard,” she whispered.

She was also as polite as her brother. “What?” Steve asked, dropping to a crouch. “What’s happened?”

“You sent him out again,” she said thickly. “He-he nearly died, what do you—what do you want from him?! You…” Steve tried to help her up, and she smacked his hand away. “You told him you loved him,” she hissed. “He was gloating for days, why would you—”

“That was...wrong,” he admitted, sitting cross legged to face her. “I—I didn’t expect—it was—” he felt his face reddening, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I couldn’t have predicted Billy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What, you...you’re saying…”

Steve waited, blinking at her.

“You didn’t know?” she breathed. “About—that he—how could you not know—”

Steve clenched his fingers in the coarse fibers of the carpet, groaning. “Do you know where he is?”

“...not exactly,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“You know he isn’t safe,” he said, nodding, and tried to keep his jaw from clenching. He frowned over his shoulder, back down the hall. “I will ride out as soon as I know, and bring him back.”

She studied his face. “But you’re a liar,” she said hoarsely.

“I lied,” he nodded, grimacing, “—for—” he opened his mouth to say good reasons, but couldn’t make it stick. Imagining Billy’s startled smile as he opened Steve’s love letters now brought up a burning shame. “I have a lot to make up for,” he said instead, “—and I’ll bring him home.”

Max swallowed, her shoulders relaxing a little as her hands came unclenched from her trousers. “Good,” she said huskily, reaching a foot over to kick his knee.

Once she’d tromped away, her footsteps louder than knights three times her size, he dug through his wardrobe for Billy’s letters.

They were fat with layers of cheap, folded paper, and there were, he’d thought at the time, far too many—four and five a week right up until the day the contract was signed. Steve sighed, braced himself, and opened one at random.

He was treated to a bemused but detailed set of answers to questions he vaguely remembered asking. “In regards to your inquiries after my horse,” it began, and continued on with its height in hands, name (Bellerophon, Steve thought, after studying the letters in bewilderment), and favorite treat, which Steve now learned (months later) to be carrots.

Billy was funny in his letters, Steve found, his eyes stinging as he laughed at a description of Max as a toddler, climbing across the beams in the Great Hall of Hargrove House, and Billy running around underneath her, holding a large basket and yelling insults out of sheer terror.

He made reference to Steve’s life as though he knew it well, offering chicken for trade at dinners, and Steve was whirled away in his mind to the long tables at Harrow, and his dismay over kidney pie.

The next letter was less sure—Billy began with “If you find time to read this,” and continued with phrases like “I know it’s of no importance,” and “I won’t expect you to remember, but—” and Steve groaned as it dawned on him how obvious it must have been that he wasn’t reading Billy’s replies. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling it tuft up like scrubgrass, then crossed his arms, took a deep breath, and dug further into the pile.

Eventually he found the first missives from Hargrove House, where Sir Neil Hargrove, Billy’s father, said Billy would do whatever they asked if only they’d overlook that it was Billy, and Billy had scribbled in a postscript wondering what part of him Steve had so sadly missed.

All of him, Steve thought, crumpling the letter. I missed all of him, though I didn’t know it, quite, yet. He glared at the door, paced in a circle, and then dumped an armload of letters on the bed, and collected his quill, ink, and paper. He began penning replies.

When a knock came to the door hours later, he sprang to his feet, then fell into the wardrobe as the foot he’d been sitting on gave way. His yells brought Robin in, and she snickered at his uneven walk, and showed him where Billy was on a map. Her face was solemn. “He was meeting the Hagenton guard there, to help fell a chimera. It’s killed every knight that’s fought it, so now they’re sending an army. He should be helping plan.”

“He won’t stay in the tent and plan,” Steve whispered, grabbing her hands. “I need the unicorn horn, chimeras are poisonous—”

“Hold on there,” she said, squeezing his hands.

“And the vial of phoenix tears,” he told her. “I need to go—”

She grimaced. “I will see about the horn.”

“He’s fighting a chimera,” Steve told her, his voice shaking.

“I thought your fever for him had...cooled, watching you,” she said carefully, and Steve shoved away to start pulling on his underarmor.

“It’s burning ever hotter,” he muttered. “And I hate it that I’m telling you first, I need to tell him—”

“Probably should,” she nodded, eyebrows raised.

“He’s exhausted,” Steve told his trousers, “—he has doubts about whether I...even want him to return. I need to find him before he’s…” he trailed off, pulling chainmail over his head, and Robin ran to help. “Why is there a chimera,” Steve asked her, when she pulled it down so he could see again. His voice had gone high and shaky, and she clapped his shoulder, smiling tightly.

“Go get horsed, and find him. I will meet you in the armory.”

“I’ll find him,” he nodded, feeling steadier. “I—I’ll tell him. I’ll make sure he—knows.”

She nodded, her eyes narrowed at his expression. “You’ll find him. I’ll bring the unicorn horn.”

Robin did not, in fact, return with the unicorn horn. Steve looked up from trying to saddle his anxious horse—she had caught his anxiety, and kept side-stepping just as he tried to slide straps through buckles with shaking hands—and instead of the glint of armor, there stood his queen, shivering in a tatty robe and knitted blanket. She held the unicorn horn over the stall door, and he grabbed it, taking a shuddering breath of relief.

“You shouldn’t need it,” she said, reaching in to pat his horse’s nose and hold her still. “He wasn’t to engage the chimera—”

“Why would you send him,” Steve hissed, yanking the cinch around his horse’s belly. “Why send him at all, if he—if he isn’t—” He took a deep breath instead of yelling at his queen, and tried to swallow down thoughts that Billy wasn’t a strategist, there was no reason to send him, unless. Steve took another deep breath, swallowing hard. “Why—why would…”

“It was an excuse!” she hissed back, flailing an arm so her blanket fell, and cursing as she gathered it back up. “It was near—” She cut off, and Steve waited.

“Near what,” he asked hoarsely, trying to remember the map Robin had shown him. “...it’s near his home,” he realized, feeling the tightness in his shoulders ease. “Is he—why not say he—”

“He is late,” she said, opening the stall door. “He may have encountered the chimera unintentionally, he—he may very well be in danger. I have been trying to find out—Sir Hagen is not responding—” She took a slow breath as well, rubbing the skin between her eyebrows, and he felt bouyed up to know she and Robin were helping. Steve swung up onto his horse, and she grabbed his stirrup. “Wait! Robin is assembling more knights—if he’s fighting, you’ll be little use alone—”

“She can catch up with me,” Steve said, smiling down at his queen, still regal in her favorite soft robe with the holes in the elbows. “I need to find my husband.”

He rode through the night, expecting to reach the hunting ground of the chimera just after dawn. As the sun rose in a reddish, smoky haze, it wasn’t difficult to find where the chimera had been—where the intact armor wasn’t filled with ashes alone, charred bones in melted armor lay under still-glowing craters in boulders. Steve’s eyes stung and watered from lack of sleep, the fumes, and the realization that the fallen knights were scattered, some fleeing, and armed with swords, not the spears and crossbows they’d have taken to fight a beast with fire breath. Travellers.

He resisted the urge to yell Billy’s name, tying his horse in a copse of trees and grass near the road, and trying to keep his steel boots quiet as he walked, watching for the chimera. He found claw marks, once or twice, and his heart nearly stopped at the sight of a knight skewered on the jagged stump of a burned tree, though when he ran closer, he could see the armor was too small, and the curls hanging from her crushed helmet were too gold to be Billy’s.

Steve bent to lean his hands on his knees, breathing shakily, and stuffed his handkerchief inside his helmet to wipe his eyes.

He walked by a pile of half-eaten horses and two knights, and took another few deep breaths before he stepped in close to crouch, his sight blurring, to see whether it was the armor Billy had brought with him. Steve wondered, abruptly, rubbing his eyes, whether Billy’s armor was good enough, good as the Queen’s Guard, and his lungs shuddered in his chest at the thought that Billy’s family might have pinched pennies and Steve’s husband had fought a chimera armed with some sort of—gilt tin. He leaned his face in his hands, remembering it lying around the room, and wondering why he’d never thought to take it to the castle armorer, and made sure it was the best. Steve groaned, trying to remember buckling it on, and whether it had felt oddly heavy or light, but all he could remember was buckling it wrong because Billy was smiling, and had to be kissed.

“If he’s alive, I’ll commission a figure for your chapel,” he muttered, touching the St. George inscribed on his hilt. “I’ll have Billy model. You couldn’t ask for a better model—you—he’s beautiful, he’s strong—he’s brave, he—he’ll—just keep him alive ‘til I find him, I’ll buy candles, I’ll—” he cut off as his throat closed, and he coughed. “Protect his body from harm,” Steve whispered. “Def-defend the happiness of my home from all those who may conspire to destroy it. Give me the strength of your faith and fill me with hope and with the love of God—”

He brushed the ashes and blood away, and didn’t recognize the armor. “...amen.” His whole body trembled, a bit, with relief, and he stood slowly, letting himself mumble the prayer again and again, since St. George himself seemed to be listening. His sword started to glow.

The road seemed as good a place to look as any, and Steve wished Robin would hurry and help him search, wondering how many miles of wreckage he’d have to kick through, and how long Billy had, even with the intercession of Steve’s patron saint. “I will never ask for anything again,” he whispered at the sky, as loudly as he dared.

As he crept along the road, he heard a soft cry, and found one of the Hagenton knights, her leg charred off at the thigh. “Help is coming,” Steve told her, helping her drink a few swallows of water. She nodded, weakly punching the air, and he tied his handkerchief to the tree she huddled under, in view of the road. “Have you seen...anyone else,” he asked, swallowing, and she squinted, her eyes not quite tracking his face.

“Routed,” she rasped. “We were routed.”

“Thank you,” he told her politely, his voice thick, and she squeezed his hand, trying to sit up.

“Some...ran,” she said, her breath rattling as she tried to focus on his face. “May-maybe they survived.”

Billy would not have fled, leaving the others behind to die, he wanted to say, but she was pressing his hands, the white of a rib sticking out of her crushed armor as she tried to touch his face, so he just nodded, helping her ease back against the tree. “Thank you,” he said again, and again, “Help is coming.” He hoped for her sake and his own that they made it in time.

He kept up a series of pleas to St. George, as well as some gentle chiding—it would be much easier, after all, for Billy to stay alive if Steve’s saint was any help at all in finding him, but praying with his eyes closed didn’t give Steve the urge to walk in any particular direction, and he opened them again, rather than fail everything entirely by breaking his ankle by falling into a ditch. “Protect his body from harm,” he whispered. “Defend the happiness of my home from all who may conspire to destroy it.”

His heart thudded in his chest when he saw the curled gilt of Billy’s showy armor on a shape lying crumpled in the underbrush. “Billy,” he muttered, scrambling over the crumbling stone wall at the edge of the road, and running to his husband’s limp form. He yanked the helm up, crouching to see Billy’s wide eyes, hazy and flicking around under the pale, sweaty skin of his forehead. Steam wafted from under his armor, and out of his mouth, and Steve yanked at the wrapping on the unicorn horn, hissing, “Billy.”

“Harrington,” Billy whispered.

“William Hargrove,” Steve said back, wiping his eyes, as he tried to unknot the ceremonial bindings. “Thank you, St. George,” he mumbled, hoping the sincerity made up for the lack of formality. “I’ll get you those candles—”

“I’m dying,” Billy said, oddly forthright.

“No,” Steve hissed, yanking the knots free. “No, you’re alive, I’m here to save you.”

“You can marry someone else now,” Billy laughed unsteadily, and Steve yanked at his husband’s gauntlets, trying to find somewhere he could press the horn against greyish, steaming skin. His veins were black.

“I don’t want to marry someone else,” Steve hissed, “—I want to be married to you,” he said, fighting with the buckles on Billy’s left gauntlet, and squeezing Billy’s unnaturally hot fingers around the gleaming unicorn horn. “Hold this,” he whispered, taking a shaky breath as it glowed and pulsed against Billy’s skin, and his palm turned pinkish again. “Protect him from harm,” Steve whispered again, squeezing the horn so hard against Billy’s skin that his knuckles went white.

“I’m about to turn to ash,” Billy laughed again, tears evaporating into bursts of steam as they slid from the corners of his eyes. “May I touch you?” He pushed the horn away, trying to reach for Steve’s face, and Steve scrabbled for the rolling iridescent spiral and clapped it back in Billy’s hand, sniffling, laughing and grabbing his surcoat to wipe his eyes and nose.

“You’re touching me, you are,” Steve yelped. He held Billy’s hand around the horn, reaching his other arm around to try and unbuckle his husband’s helmet. “You won’t turn to ash,” he hissed. “I won’t let you—Billy, is the chimera dead?”

Billy’s eyes widened, and he tried to push himself up. “Wounded it,” he gasped, as Steve pushed him back down.

“Do you know which way it went, m-my love?” Steve asked, feeling awkward, but Billy went still.

“Oh,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on Steve’s face.

“I love you,” Steve said again, leaning close to see Billy’s expression through the slit where his helm lifted. “Where is the chimera?”

“I died,” Billy whispered, frowning.

“Knight of my heart,” Steve hissed, “You’re not dead. I followed you—where is the beast that felled you?”

“I thought there would be more pain,” Billy mumbled, “—turning to ash,” and Steve groaned, grabbing his husband’s helmet and pressing a kiss to it.

“Shut your mouth, idiot,” he told Billy, pushing himself up to a crouch so he could still hold Billy’s hand around the horn, and watch for the chimera. “You’re alive, and I love you—of course I would love you, you—”

“I can feel your hand,” Billy mumbled some more, sounding aggrieved.

“Yes,” Steve told him, sighing and biting back a smile, “—because I’m saving you, idiot. You can’t die, I replied to all your letters.”

“...my letters?”

“I missed you sliding your hand around my cock all night,” Steve rolled his eyes, feeling his cheeks flush, “—so I read all your letters.”

“Burn them,” Billy whispered.

“They were very interesting,” Steve told him, grinning, and taking a shaky breath at the sight of the pinkish glow showing through the join at Billy’s neck. He squeezed his husband’s hand. “I brought your horse carrots. Now I know her favorite treat.”

“I hope she’s alive,” Billy sighed. “Do you think if we’re both dead, I’ll see her again?”

“You aren’t dead,” Steve growled, banging his free hand on Billy’s armor.

“I don’t mind,” Billy said. “It’s good here.”

Steve thought, biting his lips together. “...I don’t love you.”

“Ah,” Billy sighed. “And I hurt. I am alive, then.”

“Ha!” Steve grinned, leaning in to try and kiss him, again, and having to kiss his helmet. “But I do love you!”

Billy opened his mouth, and closed it again, looking both bewildered and annoyed.

“I would have told you before you rode out,” Steve told him, raising the hand he was pressing the unicorn horn to and kissing it, “—but you rode out while I slept.”

“...you love your queen,” Billy mumbled.

“I love my husband more,” Steve told him, feeling a little awkward at the thought his saint was listening, but sure a saint would understand that Billy needed to hear it. He sent up a silent apology as he reached into Billy’s helmet and pressed a finger over his mouth. “I—it isn’t only—” he bit his lips, thinking, with Billy’s eyes fixed on his face. “You aren’t only my best friend, and—and the person I—I want to show things. Tell things to, talk about—I—I miss you,” he whispered, “—I miss you when you—when you’re on the other side of the room, I…”

Steve trailed off, staring in horror at the tears trailing down Billy’s cheeks. “I love you,” he tried, and Billy made a choking noise. “I’m sorry,” Steve said, watching his husband cry, and yanking at his armor to try and see whether the unicorn horn was working, or whether he was talking like an idiot while his husband died.

“Don’t stop,” Billy told him, laughing as Steve shoved his fingers in every cranny in his husband’s armor, feeling for unnatural heat.

“Protect his body from harm,” Steve hissed around the lump in his throat, wondering whether St. George had stopped paying attention. “Defend the happiness of my home from those—”

“I am well,” Billy told him, grabbing both Steve’s hands away from their frantic prodding. “I am safe, I am well—”

“You are crying—” Steve informed him, feeling his own eyes welling up at the thought that it hadn’t worked, he’d been too late, he’d failed. He’d arrived just in time to tell the truth, and maybe that was all his saint could do, he realized, and he cleared his throat. “I love you,” he said hoarsely, “I—I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner, I—would have told you—”

“Stop,” Billy said, too loud, yanking at the ties on his helmet, and pulling Steve down against him in a clash of denting armor. “I am well, I am saved. Why are you here,” he whispered between kisses, and Steve tried to remember the living chimera wandering about somewhere.

“Had to tell you I loved you,” he panted, still trying not to bawl himself. He rubbed his thumb up and down Billy’s cheek, salt-smeared from his tears, and the sweat from the heat of the chimera’s poison. It felt warm, but nothing like the heat of before, and Steve took a shuddering breath.

“An urgent missive from the queen,” Billy whispered, smiling down at where their hands were still locked around the unicorn horn. “...is...is this a national treasure?”

“Yes you are,” said Steve, hoarsely, feeling clever, and Billy started laughing until he choked, then groaned as he rested his head against Steve’s chestplate. “You need to drink some water, I think,” Steve whispered into his husband’s curls, and Billy hummed, squirming closer. “You taste like you lived on nothing but whiskey for the last fortnight,” Steve coaxed, and Billy started laughing again, shaking in Steve’s arms. “Can you stand?” Steve asked, wiping his eyes and nose, and kissing his husband’s hair. Thank you, St. George, he prayed silently. Please help me get him home.

In the distance came the shriek of the beast.

They both listened, and Billy flushed, smiling down as Steve’s hand tightened on his wrist.

Billy sighed. “It drug people away. They might…”

Steve frowned, sliding his hand up the back of Billy’s head and pulling him into another kiss. “They might be someone’s Billy Hargrove,” he said, nodding, and Billy’s eyes widened as he turned inexplicably red. Steve checked that the unicorn horn was against his husband’s skin again, worried about the heat, but Billy smacked his hands away like Steve was being unreasonable, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“...it worked,” he whispered in Steve’s ear. “I was gray as ashes, remember? I am tired, and...” he swallowed, trailing off as Steve frowned into his face.

“Keep the horn against your skin,” Steve told him, with the narrowed eyes of one expecting to be obeyed.

“I will,” Billy said, smiling. “Only because my husband is worried.”

“Of course I’m worried,” Steve hissed. “I have to get you back to our bed. I have to—I have to commission you better armor—”

“Armor,” Billy blinked. “My armor is—”

“You were poisoned—”

“Its breath is—”

“Maybe I can convince Her Majesty I’ll fall ill if she sends you away again,” Steve mumbled over him. “It happens in ballads, lovers pining—”

Billy started laughing again and crying, and Steve grabbed his shoulders, wondering whether his actions had driven his husband mad. “...let us search,” Billy wheezed, wiping his eyes. “So you may carry me back to our bed.”

“Yes,” Steve nodded, ignoring Billy snickering again. Sorry, St. George, he thought, for talking about beds. Then it occured to him that St. George might have had a Billy as well, and he just prayed,—and thank you. Again. As they walked, he continued to update the saint with as we’re still looking for the chimera, we could use some more help, and could you look for Billy’s horse, and you probably know what we’re doing, from up there, do I need to tell you?

“Do you believe me yet?” Steve asked, and then as Billy grinned at him and stumbled over a charred tree limb, and Steve grabbed his arm, “—not about the bed. Of course I want you in bed, anyone would want you in bed—stop laughing.”

“This is a very strange day,” Billy told him, sighing, and leaning into his side. “I think I...will believe you, but…” he shrugged his shoulders, and Steve nodded, thinking.

“I woke yesterday morning, and I was glad,” Steve said, clearing his throat as they walked north, following the trail of smoking, empty armor and the ever-heavier ash filling their throats and lungs. “I don’t like waking up,” he continued.

“No one does,” Billy put in.

“But I did,” Steve told him. “I smiled before I opened my eyes. I thought I would roll over, and you’d be there, and when I put my arm around you, you’d lean against me, and I’d smell your hair.”

Billy burst out laughing so loudly Steve shushed him, feeling wrong-footed, and wishing he could speak properly and be clear, but Billy dropped into a crouch, hiding his face, and Steve forgot his frustration leaning over him.

“I’m sorry I’m doing this wrong,” Steve whispered. “I thought—I thought you should...know.”

“I love you so much,” Billy whispered back. “So much, I can’t—I can’t even—I can’t—”

“You can’t...believe me?” Steve asked, crouching to try and lean to see Billy’s face.

“I—I’ll try,” Billy said huskily, and Steve nodded, leaning to kiss his husband’s exposed ear.

“I will keep telling you,” Steve told him, “—until you’re sick of it. I told St. George it was important you knew, and if you were alive, I’d never stop telling you—”

“You don’t even go to church—” Billy sniffled, and Steve shrugged, pulling him around for a kiss.

“I think St. George would rather I kept fighting monsters and telling you I love you,” he said, licking his lips, and Billy cried in earnest while Steve kissed him for hopefully not the last time, and busied himself putting both their helmets back on.

[terrifictomholland]

Maybe they're walking home from a nightclub and they're a bit tipsy, and Tom gets pulled by his chain/hoodie tassles into a dark covered shop door and they fuck? Is that any better?

Yes okay so, I’ve changed pretty much your entire prompt hahah (I’m sorry love!)  Please enjoy!

special thanks to @worldoftom

NSFW UNDER THE CUT! 

You could feel your study buddies’ eyes on you before you heard the murmurs. You glanced up at them, seeing that they were staring at you. Or rather, at someone behind you.

“This seat taken?” a silky smooth voice asked. The one voice you never expected to hear in the campus’ library, let alone on a Friday evening when there was sure to be a much more interesting party happening at one of the frat houses.

He was clad in a pair of jeans and a blue, loose hoodie completed with a cap keeping his hair out of his face. He had one hand on the back of the chair, the other went up to adjust the brim further down his face. It shielded his eyes, giving him somewhat of a mysterious look. In other words, he looked fucking delicious. 

“Uh, no, knock yourself out,” you murmured, getting your things that you had splayed out all over the table, putting it in a more tidy stack. Tom grinned and took the seat right next to you.

“What’re you doing here?” you couldn’t help but ask after a while in a hushed tone, the question burning inside of you. Your eyes swept across the tables, seeing your buddies quickly divert their gaze to their homework, trying to make it look as though they weren’t chomping at the bits to know what you and Tom were saying.

His eyes moved over your torso for a second, licking his lips before it turned into a wolfish grin.

“Nice shirt,” he pointed out in such a casual manner as though he hadn’t fucked you silly in it a few days ago, making your cheeks burn.

“I-it was the only clean thing I had,” you stuttered and his grin widened even further.

“Mmh.”

“Don’t change the subject on me.” You straightened up feeling his eyes on you the entire time, his hand resting on your back rubbing it and his foot sliding over to yours, making you lose focus all over. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was looking for you, wanted to know if you wanted to come to a secret party.”

Your eyebrows lifted as you stared at him skeptically, trying to read him and what his intention behind this was. “A secret party?” 

He moved closer to you, fingertips dancing gently along your wrist and you felt your pulse pick up and breath hitch in your throat. “Yeah, a secret party. For the two of us.” With a smirk, he pulled back from you, loving the reaction he got out of you from a single touch. 

It took you a moment to realise what he was insinuating. You saw the light flush on his cheeks, felt yours warming up too, stomach filling up with fire at his words. You subtly squeezed your legs together, but of course Tom noticed it as his hand slipped down to your inner thigh giving it a rub.

“What do you say, hm?” He knew you were a done deal, and so did you.

You nodded. “Let’s go.”

                                                          —-

It didn’t take you long to reach his dorm and the second the door was shut, he pounced. He had you pushed up against the wall and lips capturing yours in a fiery and heated kiss. A moan you couldn’t help escaped once you felt his possessive hands touching you all over, leaving a trail of fire on your skin.

“Shit, Tom,” you breathed, letting your head fall to the side, letting him kiss the exposed skin, his lips and tongue exquisite on your neck. Another shuddery moan fell from your lips when he bit down and sucked, leaving a pretty mark for everyone to see later. He spread your legs with one foot, snaking his own between yours, pressing it right up against your core making you whimper.

“Go on, babe, let me see how desperate you are for me,” he goaded and you bit down on your lip as a thrill ran through you at the prospect of just letting go and doing whatever he wanted you to.

Not so subtly, you began grinding yourself against his thigh. Your wetness collecting rapidly in your panties as the most delicious and incredible sensation built up.

“So fucking gorgeous humping my thigh, aren’t you, pretty girl?” he praised, and you heated up under it, soaking it up as much as you were soaking your panties by this point. You held on to the back of his neck, tiny whines and gasps falling continuously from your lips.

“Feels so good, Tommy.” 

“And to think this is nowhere near as good as it’s gonna feel, huh, pretty girl?” Those words alone and your efforts to hump his thigh had you close to cumming already.

“I want more,” you begged, staring at him with wide doe eyes and your lips slightly parted.

“What do you want? Gotta use your words, pretty girl.” He smirked, kissing the corner of your mouth, and you turned your head to the side to meet his lips in a deep and frenzied kiss. 

“Touch me, please,” you moaned against his mouth as he picked you up. Big and strong hands on the back of your thighs, right below your ass as he carried you over to his bed, throwing you on it next. 

“Where should I touch you?”

You squirmed around on the bed before he fell on top of you, holding himself up on his forearms as he went back to kissing you for a bit.

“You know where,” you tried against his lips, moving your hips for him to get the hint.

“Mmh, ‘fraid I don’t, babe.” You felt the smirk against your lips before he pulled away, leaving a trail of kisses to your neck once more until he found your sweet spot and sucked on it. 

“Touch my - my pussy.” You felt your whole face burn when you said it, but he just laughed against your skin, running his fingers up and down your sides.

“Was that so hard?” 

“Shut up and touch me,” you whined impatiently and he glanced at you with a devious look in his eyes. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands, pretty girl,” he threatened, making you squeeze your thighs around his hips as a moan slipped out. 

“Please, Tommy,” you begged, staring up at him, back curved into an arch in a deep craving for more of his touch. More of his heat. More of his everything.

“So needy, aren’t you?” 

He sat up, pulling on the hem of your shirt, so you quickly got it off you along with your bra, leaving you completely topless in front of him. His eyes roamed all over your tits, making you flush deeply.

“You are so fucking gorgeous,” he said, and in the next second his scent was all over you. His mouth kissed along the swell of your breast, taking your nipple in his mouth and lavishing it with attention. Sucking, swirling and tugging until you were completely breathless and shaking underneath him.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, arching your body up and feeling just how soaked you were. He hadn’t even begun touching and already you were this desperate.

“You’re so impatient,” he hummed against your hardened nipple, but this time you stayed unfazed.

You let your fingers move up to his head instead, turning his cap around so it was on backwards. Him wearing a cap and with his hoodie on still, it was driving you a little crazier than you wanted to admit. 

He kept giving your tits his undivided attention until you craved for his skilled mouth on yours, so you pulled him up to your face to kiss him. You got lost in it, his tongue slipping inside your mouth easily, making you pull him even closer to you, arms safely wrapped around his muscular shoulders.

As you did, his hand slid down your front, straight into your panties, and you let out a shaky breath as soon as his fingers came in contact with your drenched core. Your hips bucked up on instinct against his touch. His fingers merely teasing your folds, spreading your juices all over your pussy and clit making you cry out.

“Ohhhh fuck,” you whimpered, clutching onto his shoulders already feeling your legs starting to shake.

“You’re so soaked for me, aren’t you, pretty girl?” he murmured, letting his finger slip inside of you with little resistance. You threw your head back, letting out a loud moan when he fucked it in and out of you. His breathing on your face, the noises your pussy made, and even your own moans, everything was turning you on all the more.

“M-more,” you asked of him on repeat until he added another finger, pumping them in and out of you steadily as your legs fell to the side. You were all exposed to him now, feeling the pleasure overwhelm you. 

Before you knew it, your toes were curling, stomach tightening and pussy clenching hard around his fingers. Your breathing came out in short, rapid pants the second his thumb brushed your clit and added pressure on the highly sensitive bud.

“O-oh, fuck fuck fuck,” you gasped fervently, throwing your head back and rolling your hips. “Faster, harder, fuck- please,” you whined, feeling your climax nearing. 

“That’s it, pretty girl, cum for me,” he groaned at the noises you were making and with a snap, you felt yourself crumble, letting yourself succumb to the pleasure. Shaking and quivering as he fucked you right through your orgasm, not slowing down until you were soaring down from your high, feeling your legs tremble. 

You glanced at him seeing the way he pulled his hand out of your panties and into his mouth, licking them clean and making quite the show of it. A small whine fell from your lips at the sight and you could feel the dull throbbing coming back between your legs.

“Come up here,” you made grabby hands at him, wanting to kiss him for a bit. He chucked his jeans and boxers off and was about to pull the hoodie over his head, but you stopped him with a hand on his chest, his eyes landing on yours.

“What do you want, pretty girl?” His tone and facial expression being one of utter confusion. You felt your cheeks grow hot under his gaze.

“Keep it on?” you offered in a quiet beg, your eyes flickering up to meet his. Running a fingertip across the lettering on his hoodie. The fabric was soft to the touch, but you focused more on the slight ridges of his pecks, prominent even under his clothes. That and on how his entire face changed, eyes twinkling with something devious.

“Does this turn you on, pretty girl?��� The shit-eating grin on his face was enough to make you squirm even more because yes, it was a massive turn-on.

“Maybe.”

“Of course it does,” he teased in a sing-song as he ran his fingers around your nipple. “You fucking love it, don’t you?” he continued, kissing the corner of your mouth next.

“Say it,” he said, making you arch up with a gasp at the command in his voice. Something about it was intensely raw. Hands firmly clasped around the sleeves of his hoodie, you let your eyes roll into the back of your head at the way it made your lower stomach clench and tense up.

“Mmh, I do, please Tommy, fuck me with your hoodie on,” you begged, feeling his lips on your neck and he pulled you closer to him, using his hand on your ass to get you where he wanted. 

“Fuck yeah, can’t wait to pound your sweet little pussy til’ you’re screaming my name.” You let out a whimper at those words, palms traveling up and across the seam on his shoulders, and your pussy clenched.

“Please Tom, fuck me now.” You felt him turn around a bit and shuffle around, most likely to remove his jeans. When you felt him sit up on the bed, you shifted on your back then moved your hand down to his cock, jerking him off, hearing his moans and curses as you did.

“Such a big cock, gonna split my pussy open, aren’t you?” You moaned, seeing him retrieve a foil package from the bedside drawer, his actions faltering ever so slightly as you squeezed the base of his cock. 

“Keep that talk up, I fucking dare you,” he growled, slapping your hand away from his lap, and a shiver ran through you as you moaned helplessly. 

“What are you gonna do about it, Tommy?” you goaded, seeing the fire in his eyes and you bit your lip, watching him open the package and roll the condom on his hard cock. 

“Gonna fuck the brat right out of you,” he threatened, pulling you up on his lap and making you straddle his hips. The head of his cock poked your inner thigh and you ground your hips into him, making him nudge your soaked entrance. 

“Maybe that’s what I want,” you purred, taking a hold of his cock and jerking him a few more times. His pained groan told you he was as ready as he could be, so you lined his cock up and let yourself sink down on him. 

Loud moans filled the room from both of you once he was fully inside of you.

You looked up at him admiring the way he looked as you had fully impaled yourself on him, sweat already forming on his temples and that’s when you saw the cap. With a cheeky grin, you nicked it off of him putting it on your own head backwards.

“Oh fuck you look even better with my cap on,” he nearly whined, seeing his cap on you and you smirked rocking forwards, his whine turning into a full-blown moan.

“Still as tight as I remember,” he gritted out, his jaw clenched together and you moaned, placing your hands on his shoulders for leverage.

“Oh fuck,” you whined, rolling your hips before starting to lift yourself up and sink down on him again. His cock dragged along your walls, making you feel all of him and you whined when he began snapping his hips inside of you. His cock pushing deeper inside of you than before, you angled your hips just right and let out a moan to the feeling of your toes curling when he reached your g-spot.

“Tom!” You gasped, throwing your head back, and he was quick to latch on to one of your tits, hand moving from your hips to your ass and giving it a nice hard slap. 

“Fuck yes,” you moaned, lifting yourself up and slamming down on him, fucking him like that, drawing moans and groans from the both of you.  

“Pretty girl, fuck, you’re taking my cock so fucking good,” he grunted and you leaned in to kiss him hotly, your mouths muffling your moans as you kept fucking yourself on him. Your thighs were burning and the cap kept falling off with your movements, and you had a thin layer of sweat covering your entire body, feeling your heart race and the fire erupting in your belly. 

You broke the kiss and straightened up, hips still going although more slowly, teasing him, seeing the way he nibbled on his bottom lip and feeling his hand smacking you again. Still you rode him gently, caressing both hands across his chest and his belly, fisting around the hem and sliding them under the fabric. He felt hot, soft muscles trembling under your touch, but something didn’t feel right.

You wanted more. The heat of his skin was inviting, but his expression was painfully gorgeous, so you stared into his eyes and panted, “Want you to fuck me from behind.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but a filthy smirk formed on his face and he helped you off of him. Without words, you got up on all fours and he got on his knees behind you. 

A wave of excitement was steadily building up inside of you when you felt his hands roaming your ass, kneading and teasingly slapping it.

“Fuck,” you whined, feeling everything in you quiver already from the build up. Your arms nearly gave out when you felt him tap his cock over your clit and you let out a moan, feeling him spread your juices all over your core and clit, making you push your hips back wanting more. 

“Shit,” he grunted, sinking inside of you in one long, smooth motion, and you let out a high pitched whine. The new angle made your eyelids flutter at every new spot he kept finding, some that you didn’t even know you had. Your pussy squeezed around him like a vice once he was buried to the hilt inside of you.

“O-oh my god,” you whimpered, closing your eyes, then you desperately fisted the sheet. Bound to his will, you let him set a bruising pace, his hips slapping against yours as your body jolted forward. The pleasure you were experiencing was so overwhelming you could barely form a sentence anymore, just barely making noises that sounded like words but might as well have been grunts.

“F-fuck - hngh,” you cried out when his arm came around to your front finding your clit and your eyes rolled back, pussy clenching and full body shaking. Your toes curled and he could tell how close you were. 

He smacked your ass with his free hand and it was all it took for you to cum with a scream, feeling your high take over as he fucked you through it. Hard and fast, rubbing your clit with intent, bringing on another orgasm for you. 

“C-cum for me, Tommy,” you urged and whined at the loss when he pulled out. 

When you turned your head, you watched him remove the condom and discard it onto the mattress. It landed somewhere by your foot, but that was the last thing on your mind because his hand was on his cock, fist tight around it, jerking off steadily. His hoodie was riding up his belly a little bit, a patch of skin glistening with sweat under it, and you wanted to touch it, wanted to feel how warm it was, but your arms didn’t obey.

You only watched him, face contorted in pure bliss, a little ‘oh’ dangling from his mouth, spit on the corner of his lip, but soon enough your entire ass was coated with his cum, ropes of it shooting off all over you.

“That’s it, baby, fuck - keep cumming,” you moaned, wiggling your hips, and he let out a guttural moan, head thrown back as he jerked the last few drops onto you. You collapsed on your tummy on his bed, feeling so well-fucked and sated. 

“God, that was incredible,” he panted and you looked over at him with a lazy smile, stretching your legs.

“Fuck yeah,” you agreed, seeing him get off the bed before he soon returned with a wet cloth, tenderly wiping you clean. You shut your eyes, adoring how gentle he was being with you now.

“Want to watch a film with me?” he asked after a moment, throwing the cloth into a hamper, crawling up beside you. His hoodie was still askew, but he used one hand to straighten it up, the other caressing the curve of your lower back as he approached you again.

There was a quick kiss on your mouth that you couldn’t explain, but you didn’t have time to question him. He helped you sit up and slip under the covers, him following you right after, naked from the waist down but never motioning to remove his hoodie. Smiling to yourself at his decision, you snuggled up next to him, all thoughts soon to be forgotten.

“How about we just watch the BA kitchen?” you asked sleepily, feeling him shuffle around to get his laptop. 

“Sounds like a good idea.” 

You glanced up at him, smiling fondly at him, then you leaned up, pressing a soft kiss on his incredibly kissable lips. His response was an adorable laugh and his cheeks turned pink. 

“What was that for?”

You grinned shyly. “I just wanted to, you look so soft and cuddly right now.”

“So do you, pretty girl,” he smiled, wrapping an arm around you to pull you even closer. You couldn’t help but to be a little shit to him though, craning your neck up at him.

“Hmm?” he hummed without taking his eyes off the screen, making absent-minded patterns on your arm.

“So…” You curled a finger around the collar of his hoodie, gently pulling at it with a smirk. 

“Can I have your hoodie now, or after the next round…?”

taglist - @exitsali96ivette - @localfangirlx - @siriuslyslyslytherin - @shaharloni1 - @immnotsure - @averyfosterthoughts - @unicorn-princess-1999 - @softbaby-tom - @alwaysbenhardysgirl - @farfromhaz - @peterparkoure - @fallingforfics - @1believe-in-your-self1 - @awesomelupe - @captainbuckyy - @parkeraul - @maryjanee23 - @underoosjae - @sexyllamas04 - @definitely-not-black-cat - @the-professional-procastinator @hazmyheart @howdyho-holland @thirsttrapholland 

[wren-fell]

Stuck in Borderland

Chapter 6: A Shock to the Heart

This is by far my favorite chapter. Writing these games is actually really fun, I love the stress and angst.

Thank you to everyone that’s been supporting and reading this!

Warnings: language, violence, fear, high-anxiety situations, talk of death, dead body mention

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

Sayaka sat on the roof with her back against the utility shed and her arms around her knees. The looming shadows of Tokyo in the distance seemed to be taunting her. Mocking her with all the lives it was swallowing up in the darkness tonight and every other night in the Borderland. Her hands squeezed tighter around her as she thought about Kaoru being the one to survive. Akiko didn’t deserve that. She was such a bright girl. No doubt it was their fault she was dead. They let her die. She knew it would happen. Her and Madoka had predicted it from the moment they had asked Akiko about their relationship. She thought he would help her survive, but instead he was the death of her.

She sniffled and squinted her eyes fighting back tears. I didn’t even know her that well… why am I so upset? But she knew the answer. She could see the picture in her minds eye of the young girl with a long ponytail, and green blue eyes that matched her own with a crooked smile. Sayaka saw her in every teenage girl in the Borderlands.

“I’ll get back home to you Ichika…” she whispered and rested her chin on her knee, “I just have to survive.”

The door to the roof opened, but Sayaka didn’t bother to look she knew who it was. Quiet footsteps made their way over to her as Chishiya joined her on the roof standing beside her.

There was a long silence before he spoke, “you’d have a better view if you sat by the edge.”

“I’ve had enough of heights for the night,” she mumbled. He nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.

Sayaka sighed and leaned her head back to look up at him, “you can sit,” she offered, “if you want.”

He looked down at her for a second, but sat down beside her. Sayaka stiffened as his sweatshirt brushed her arm. She hadn’t expected him to sit so close. There was another long silence before Sayaka spoke again, “I know you’re right, you know?”

“Hm?” He leaned his head back to look at her out of the corner of his eye.

“I know you’re right that I need to focus on myself. That I shouldn’t be upset since Akiko is gone. But,” she drew in a shaky breath, “it’s just hard when she had so much ahead of her.”

“You don’t know that,” he said simply. She rested her head on her knees again. “But,” Sayaka glanced at him, “if you need some sort of solace. At least she isn’t here anymore.”

Sayaka leaned her head back as she laughed.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect you of all people to be comforting,” she wiped tears out of the corner of her eyes, “but I appreciate it, and uh…” she hesitated rubbing the back of her head, “thank you for not letting me fall… during the game.”

He smirked, “sharing a platform with that other player probably would’ve gotten everyone killed.”

Sayaka sighed, “yea… he wasn’t very observant he must be new to the game,” she paused, “poor guy.”

Sayaka watched the skyline wondering to herself what time it was when an explosion lit up the sky giving her the answer. Two of the lower buildings in the east side of Tokyo went up in a ball of flames signaling that players had failed a game. Seconds later the lasers came down from the sky taking out the players who had let their visas expire. It was midnight.

The scene made Sayaka jump and her hand grabbed instinctively onto the sleeve of Chishiya’s sweatshirt. His whole body stiffened and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. Sayaka’s cheeks turned rosy as she brought her hand back into her lap sheepishly, “sorry…” she sighed leaning her head back against the wall as the sky began to dim again, “I hate this place.”

“I doubt anybody likes it,” Chishiya pointed out.

“Maybe Hatter.”

“I don’t think he’d be working so hard to get out then.”

Sayaka put a finger to her chin, “Niragi then, where else would he be able to act like a total psycho.”

“That ones fair.”

Sayaka smiled, “wow comforting and you agree with me? What’s got you in such a good mood?”

He chuckled, “you’re bound to say something intelligent every once and a while.”

“And then you go and ruin it,” she grumbled.

“You brought it up,” he shrugged, “if you thought about what you said before you actually said it, it could happen more often.”

Sayaka pouted, “if you think I’m so dumb why are you ‘observing me’?”

He watched her for a second picking her apart again, “you can learn a lot from observing people. And I never said you weren’t intelligent, just that you don’t always act intelligently.”

Her eyebrows knitted together as she watched him, “what exactly do you want to learn about me?” Of course he didn’t answer just gave her a smirk and turned his eyes back to the skyline.

Sayaka sighed, “should’ve counted on that,” she grumbled hugging her knees again, “I know it’s because you want to know if I’ll be useful.” His eyes darted back to her.

“But useful for what?” She looked up at him.

“You don’t need to know that yet,” he said simply and stood up, “it’s late I’m going to bed.”

Sayaka watched him walkaway with raised eyebrows. So he did have some sort of plan for her.

 Three days later their visas were up, and Sayaka and Madoka pushed their way through the crowd in the lobby to get their game assignments. Frowning Sayaka glanced over at Madoka, she looked nervous. But, who could blame her she’d had a bad string of games including three different hearts games. Sayaka had to admit she had had it pretty easy. Besides the six of diamonds Sayaka had only participated in low-level games, none of which were hearts.

Madoka hesitated when she got closer to the table. “You okay?” Sayaka asked.

“Yea, yea, just nervous,” she nodded slowly, “but we all are, right?” She added glancing up at her.  

“Right,” Sayaka agreed and gave her a small smile. Sayaka stepped forward to get the folded piece of paper from one of Hatter’s men. Holding her breath she opened the paper to see the number 6.

“I’m group 6, how about you?” She asked glancing at Madoka.

Tension visibly left her body as her shoulders fell, “I’m group 6 too. Thank god I didn’t want another game with all militants,” she murmured.

Sayaka snorted, “yea I bet. Let’s get going then. Maybe they’ll let us drive,” she joked.

Madoka laughed, “only the militants drive!”

“Yea, but what if we drove instead?”

 They drove into the heart of the city cruising through the desolate dark streets, and pulled up in front of the metropolitan police station. The word “GAME” displayed in big letters on the TV screen in the window. Slowly Sayaka got out of the car slamming the door behind her with a deep frown on her face, and a bad feeling churning in her stomach. She surveyed the rest of her group of 4 all of them seemed as unsettled as she was, but they proceeded up the front steps. Not that they had much of a choice.

Shattered glass littered the lobby crunching under all their sandals, and Sayaka cast an uneasy glance around the room. Old wanted posters scattered across the floor, and she grimaced at the words assault, murder, and theft knowing that some of these people where probably here with her.

In the back of the station there were four other players already waiting. Sayaka and Madoka picked up their phones from a table set up in the center, and looked around the room uneasily as the timer counted down. Chewing on her lip Sayaka surveying the room around her trying to figure out what kind of suit this game would be. The station was small, so very unlikely it could be a spades game. There were multiple interrogation rooms and offices surrounding them, maybe a clubs or a diamonds game?

“Registration is now closed.” The robotic voice snapped Sayaka back to reality and she raised the phone in her hand to look at the screen.

“Game: Trigger Shock

Difficulty: 2 of Hearts.” Sayaka’s eyes widened.

“No… not another heart game,” Madoka whimpered. Sayaka glanced at her as she put a hand over her mouth tears building in her eyes.

“Rules:

Players will each go into an interrogation room.” Everyone jumped as all the surrounding doors slammed open.

“There will be 5 rounds.

Each round will have a timer.

By the end of each round players must choose who to shock.”

“Shock?” Whispered one of the younger players, “like an electric shock?”

“If a player chooses to shock another who has not chosen, they will die.”

Everyone began to murmur, “oh my god…”

“What do we do?” Panic was spreading through the group like wildfire.

“We can’t play a game like this.”

Sayaka watched Madoka as she shook, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Players please proceed into the interrogation rooms.”

“It’ll be alright,” Sayaka smiled, “I’ll see you after, okay?”

Madoka looked up at her and drew in a long shaky breath, “I’ll see you after,” she agreed.

Slowly they all dispersed from the circle and walked alone into interrogation rooms. Sayaka cast a glance over her shoulder at Madoka as she walked into the room. Madoka didn’t look back she walked right in and Sayaka sighed. There was nothing they could do they just had to play the game and make it out alive.

Sayaka walked into the room and jumped as the door slammed closed behind her. Running a hand through her hair she turned back to survey her “game arena”. The room was small, only big enough to hold the table and two chairs that were sitting inside. There was a two way mirror on the wall in front of her, and two doorways, the one behind her she had entered from and one beside the mirror on the opposite wall.  

“Please take a seat. The game will begin in one minute,” the voice directed from the speaker in the ceiling.

Cautiously Sayaka sat down in the metal chair glaring at the mirror. As her bare legs touched the cold seat she flinched, and closed her eyes drawing in a deep breath. Just get through this. Opening her eyes she looked at the table as screens flicked on in front of the row of 8 buttons showing the photos of each player. Sayaka’s eyes rested on Madoka’s face. She expected her to look horrified, but she didn’t she looked stoic and ready to fight… to win. Laughing Sayaka dropped her head, “even I look more terrified than she does.”

Sayaka leaned her head back eyeing the second door beside the mirror. She half expected the game maker to come out and sit across the table. But the door didn’t budge, and Sayaka dragged her eyes back to the table and the buttons.

“The game will now begin.” Electrodes popped up from the back of the chair attaching themselves along Sayaka’s arm and against her temples strapping her to the chair. Her breathing quickened as she struggled to keep herself calm.

“Round 1: You have 5 minutes to choose who to shock.”

Sayaka stared at the buttons. Who could she pick? Anyone but Madoka that was for sure, but… if she picked someone who didn’t choose she would die. She felt her mind racing, and her hand shook as it hovered over the buttons. Her eyes darted back to the door next to the mirror. She wished one of the game makers would walk through the door. If she weren’t strapped to the chair she would lunge across this stupid table and punch them straight in the face. But she would still love to give them a piece of her mind.

“3 minutes remaining, please make a choice.” She looked up at the ceiling and back to the buttons. I have to choose someone.

She drew in a deep breath and went over the pictures again. Picking one of the players not from the beach would be logical... Sweat beaded off her forehead making her painfully aware of the suction cups on her temples. But, getting rid of the militants could be advantageous.

“2 minutes remaining, you must make a choice.” Sayaka’s finger hovered over the third button shaking violently. She squeezed her eyes shut, there has to be another answer... I shouldn’t have to shock anyone!

“Wait…” she whispered opening her eyes. The gears in her head were turning. Everything seemed so familiar. The buttons, the other participants, the continuation prompts… what was it?

“1 minute remaining, you must make a choice.”

Sayaka closed her eyes again as she slowly brought her hand to the buttons, what kind of sick fuck would force people to do this? Slowly her finger pressed onto the cold plastic, treat us like rats in a cage and experiment on us!? Wait… that’s it! She slowly took her finger off the button opening her eyes. This was like an experiment she had read about in one of her psychology classes. The experiment was to determine if people would blindly follow authority and shock the other participants. Sayaka rested her hands in her lap and closed her eyes again, I don’t have to shock anyone… that’s the loophole. That’s how we can survive.

“There are 30 seconds remaining, your life depends on your choice.” Sayaka squeezed her eyes closed tighter.

“There are 15 seconds remaining, you must make a choice.” This is right… this is the right choice.

“There are 10 seconds remaining, you must choose.” I don’t have to choose. Nothing will happen.

“There are 5 seconds remaining, you must choose.” Nothing will happen.

“Three, two, one.”

Sayaka stiffened digging her nails into the palms of her hands waiting for the shock, but nothing ever came. She opened her eyes to look around the room making sure this was real. That she was still alive. She let out a relieved sigh that was short lived as the screams played over the speaker. Reflexively she tried to bring her hands up to cover her ears, but they didn’t move higher than her waist. Squeezing her eyes shut she drew in long shaking breaths as the screams made her eardrums throb.

Almost as abruptly as they started the screams were cut off and the female voice chimed in again, “round two will now begin. You have 4 minutes to choose who to shock.” Sayaka slowly opened her eyes and raised her head to stare at her reflection in the two-way mirror. It felt like someone was watching her; not that she didn’t know they had cameras around, but she was convinced someone was behind that glass laughing as she struggled with her humanity. But, the joke was on them, she was still alive she had figured out the answer, and she had been spared from round 1. The only problem was she couldn’t tell the others. She just had to pray that they could figure it out on their own. That Madoka could figure it out.

“There are 2 minutes remaining, you must make a choice.” Sayaka bowed her head as if she was praying to whatever deity would watch over a place like this, and closed her eyes. She wrung her hands together and waited for the countdown to be over.

“I’m not going to choose…” she whispered, “I know your game, and I don’t have to choose.”

“There are 30 seconds remaining, you must choose,” the voice counted down and all of Sayaka’s muscles tensed as she waited for the shock, “three, two, one.” Her breath hitched in her throat when she felt one of the wires on the electrodes twitch, but no shock came.

Sayaka let out a relieved sigh, and tensed as the screams echoed over the loud speaker. There were more of them this time, at least six of the nine participants were screaming. Again Sayaka curled in on herself trying to block out the screams. It felt like she was drowning. Like she was being sucked into the darkness behind her eyelids with screaming ghosts circling her as she fell.

“Round 3 will now begin. You have 3 minutes to choose.” The voice piped up, but the screams didn’t stop this time. Sayaka stayed curled in her chair not bothering to raise her head as she tried to keep herself from hyperventilating. She was losing sense of how much time had passed as she sat wringing her hands together, and struggling to stay calm.

“Three, two, one.” More screams echoed over the loud speaker the voices combining and shifting into something that didn’t sound human. Sayaka cried out as she tried again to cover her ears.

“Make it stop!”

“Round 4 will now begin. You have 2 minutes to choose who to shock.” Sayaka barely heard the voice. It sounded distant beneath all the mutilated screams. The pain of her nails digging into the palms of her hands was the only thing that let her know this was all real and she really hadn’t died and gone to hell.

“Three, two, one.” The screams overlapped again, but a female voice made Sayaka grit her teeth. It was Madoka. Sayaka shook her head as her voice blended with the others.

“Round 5 will now begin. You have 1 minute to choose.” How? Sayaka rocked herself.

“There are 30 seconds remaining. You must make a choice.” How was I the one to survive?

“Three, two, one.” More screams joined in and Sayaka bit her lip so hard blood dribbled down her chin. The screams seemed to get louder. Sayaka could have sworn they were all standing beside her and not in the other rooms. The voices were mocking her for not choosing. Begging her to help. Cursing her for surviving.

Then there was silence. All at once the screams stopped, and she was left in excruciating, crushing silence. Slowly Sayaka opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred from how hard she had been squeezing her eyelids. Unfurling her hands she could see blood on her fingernails from where she’d dug into her own palms. Lightly she touched the wounds and winced. This was real. She was alive.

“Congratulations! All successful players have been awarded a two day visa.” The electrodes were painfully peeled off her arms and forehead making her wince. Slowly Sayaka leaned her back against the chair and tilted her head to the side as she looked at the two-way mirror. She was a mess. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes were red rimmed and swollen, and red circles marked her skin where all the electrodes had been. Brushing the hair out of her face Sayaka drew in a long deep breath, and stood up on shaking legs.

As she turned, the door opened and she paused. She didn’t know what to do. If she truly was the only one alive what would she do? Slowly she walked into the doorway resting a hand on the frame as she looked into the room she had been in with the other participants less than 30 minutes ago. All the other doors were open, but there was nothing moving. Wiping the tears off her face she stood up straight ready to head back to the Beach when movement in the doorway on the other side of the room made her freeze. Her face was tear stained, red, and swollen as Madoka leaned against the frame breathing heavily.

“Madoka,” the words fell out of Sayaka’s mouth before she could process what she was looking at.

Her head snapped up and she stared wide-eyed at her, “Sayaka!”

They both ran forward collapsing in the center of the room in each other’s arms. Madoka’s body shook as she sobbed her hands balled into fists in Sayaka’s crop top.

“I thought you were dead! I heard you screaming!” She wailed. Sayaka held her tightly resting her chin on her head as quiet tears rolled down her cheek.

“I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine…” she rubbed her back, “it’s okay Ichi… Madoka it’s over,” she soothed. It seemed like hours they sat in the center of the floor as Madoka sobbed, but in reality it was only a few minutes. The lights started to flick off as the game arena’s power was siphoned off and Madoka raised her head from Sayaka’s chest.

“Come on,” Sayaka whispered putting an arm around Madoka and walking her out of the police station. She set her down gently in the passenger seat of the car, and Sayaka paused looking over her shoulder at the station, “stay here I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Madoka whimpered.

“I’m going to get the keys. You don’t want to walk back right?” She gave her a half-hearted smile, and walked back into the police station using the phone as a flashlight. Picking her way over the broken glass, Sayaka walked back into the main room and stared at the open doorways.

Drawing in a deep breath she peered into the third doorway. The smell of burnt flesh and blood made her gag, and she pulled the collar of her shirt up over her mouth. She slowly walked into the room shining the light from her phone on the body of the militant who had driven them there. His body was stiff and his head was leaning back with his mouth wide open in an eternal scream. Shaking Sayaka took a step forward reaching into the pocket of his swim trunks. She pulled out the car keys and jumped as she accidentally brushed against his arm causing it to fall off the arm of the chair. Pocketing the car keys Sayaka made for the doorway, but paused. Looking over her shoulder she could see it in on the table, the silver metal of his handgun glinting in the phone light.

I could take it… it’s right there.

It would be nice to have some sort of protection for other games or from the other militants at the Beach. But she knew she couldn’t sneak it in. Hatter’s bathing suit rule made sure of that. Sighing she turned around and headed back to Madoka. For right now she would have to trust that Hatter had everything under control.

[platypanthewriter]

Keg-King of Elfland’s Sword: REWRITTEN Ch. 1/10

Billy Hargrove and his sister travel across the ocean to his mother’s hometown, looking for answers about his past--but he’s distracted the very first night by a man he meets at the Hunt Ball, and starts to wonder whether the past or the future is more important.

Part One/Two/Three/Four/Five/Six/Seven/Eight/Nine/Ten for @ihni​

It wasn’t like the dances in New South Wales, nor yet was it like the ball Billy had attended in London, where everyone had seemed to blur together in endless lines of pearl buttons and curly white wigs. His first sight of Hawkins society was a confusion of colors and heights—the person offering to take his coat, he realized, pulling his eyes from the constellations of candles, was at least partly horse, and clapped their hooves over it, bowing. He bowed back, pulling Max forward through the doorway—she was as wide-eyed as he, her gaze catching on a woman floating near the punch bowl with a face either covered in moss, or made of it.

Billy wondered, watching the dancers, whether he could be less careful here—whether iron was more easily avoided, and he could apply himself at a stranger’s dinner table without burning his hands. The keys at the inn—where they’d flung their dinner clothes on and their baggage anywhere in an excitable flurry—had been iron, and he’d dropped them twice before Max took them, rolling her eyes.

He suspected there would be no such dangers here, in a house where the footmen greeting the carriages outside were horses themselves, formed of water. In the center of the room, surrounded by the most candles—and, he noted, after some consideration, floating flames with no visible source—were two empty ornate chairs, like thrones. Between them was a huge head, cut and seared bloodless from some hairy, fanged, one-eyed beast, on oilcloth, and he registered how many of the dancers had bandages, and torn clothes.

He’d stand out, he realized, smug in the knowledge that his new ocean-blue tailcoat brought out his eyes, and the embroidered brown brocade of his waistcoat complemented it perfectly. As he was congratulating himself on his lack of cravat, and the unbuttoned shirt that exposed his collarbones, the dance shifted to pairs.

A young man with a bloodied scrape across his face, a flower crown, and a wide grin spun his partner down the room. Billy stumbled, cataloguing fine shoulders under the torn and bloodstained shirt, collarbones gleaming with sweat.

Billy’s arm and shoulder pulled nearly asunder as Max yanked him, wide-eyed and wandering towards a person whose silvery ruffles matched their wheeled ambulatory device. Billy glanced at her, then back to the dancer, whose teeth and eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “I need that arm, give it,” he whispered, “I—I have to—dance—”, he trailed off, yanking at Max’s grip on his arm.

Her jaw firmed. “Stop gawking,” she hissed. “You look like a pillock. I want to talk to that person about their wheels. Alas, we should really greet the sheriff. We’d be kicking our heels in our rooms at the inn if he hadn’t invited us, Billy—”

“Right now, I have to go dance with him.” Billy pointed, and Max stood on her toes, still a head shorter than he, until he lifted her by her securely corseted waist, and she kicked out. “The one dancing. Everyone’s watching him.”

“You’ll have time after— Billy!” She squirmed, growling like a trapped fox. “I’m fourteen,” she snarled, her cheeks reddening. “You can’t put me on your shoulders, Billy, it’s a ball—”

“I’d suffocate in petticoats,” he told her, and she snorted a laugh, then smacked his head.

“Oh, I see him! There, with the—ah, the flowers on his head? He’s dancing with someone?”

“With the flowers,” he agreed, “—and the smile.” The grin was heady in the heat of the room, and Billy took a steadying breath. It didn’t help—everything smelled strange and exciting, unlike any ball he’d ever attended, the air full of the oils for the whirring machinery helping a woman with a fishtail dance, and the smell of the burned flesh of the beast on the dais, and the garlanded flowers.

Max folded her arms, comfortable with the corset boning supporting her weight in his hands. “You could, someday, dance with me when you escort me to a party.”

“I require the thrill of the chase,” Billy told her, and she snorted unbecomingly, like a horse, then reached behind her shoulder to knock on his head.

“...at least turn around a few times so I can search. Mr. Hopper did send a sketch. There can’t be a great many blue men here tonight.”

Billy had agreed when they opened the letter, but here in Hawkins—where the Hunt Ball celebrated not a stag or boar caught for the feast, but victory over a one-eyed beast whose head was the size of a horse—he wasn’t as sure.

Max patted his hand. “Turn a quarter turn to the right,” she ordered, and he shuffled obediently. “Again!” She pointed, as though she stood on the prow of a ship, and he laughed, spinning slowly with his sister’s feet swinging against his knees until she yelled, pointed, and smacked his head. He sat her back on her feet, but she held onto his jacket.

“Take me over there, your right respectable rudeness. We can ask about your dancer.”

“No need.” Billy allowed himself to be dragged away, eyes on the spinning white flowers and gleaming dark hair. “I’ll ask him myself.”

“What if he’s married?” She rolled her eyes, and nearly jerked Billy’s shoulder out of its socket when the idea spurred him towards the dancing again. “Walk, idiot. If he’s married, he won’t be less or more so in the time it takes to greet Mr. Hopper. Don’t make me go alone, he’ll think I’m a lost parcel.”

“You are,” Billy mumbled, straightening his tailcoat. “I should have left you in the train station where I found you. How do I look,” he muttered, frowning down, and she groaned loudly, putting an arm through his and dragging him through the crowd to see a man about his father’s age, and blue. He looked as though he half thought they were entertaining—after watching Billy progress across the room like an untrained dog on a lead—and half wished they’d leave him to his conversation with a tiny dark-eyed woman who kept laughing, tears in her eyes.

Billy blinked at them, noting the small woman’s pink hand on the sheriff’s blue one, and the man’s smirk widened. Max kicked Billy’s leg, aiming unerringly at the bone. “Sher—Mr. Hopper?” he tried, saving his revenge for later.

“I am, and this is Ms. Byers.” Mr. Hopper nodded at the small woman, and she blinked at them, laughing again, and wiping her eyes. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered. “I’m a bit...overwrought.”

“Ah,” said Max, freezing in place, and Billy rescued her with a smile he’d checked in the mirror.

“Mr. William Hargrove and Ms. Maxine Mayfield,” he said, offering Ms. Byers a hand—her fingers trembled against his—then shook Mr. Hopper’s, as Ms. Byers shook with Max. “May we get you anything? Punch?” he asked, ignoring Max rolling her eyes.

“No,” Ms. Byers said, smiling. “I’m overwhelmed by happiness. My boy is home tonight, thanks to the Hunt.”

“Is he?” Billy asked, lost, and the sheriff nodded to the great head on the dais.

“They brought home more than one trophy tonight. They rescued two of the town’s children,” he said, glancing towards the group of bandaged and bloodied dancers.

Ms. Byers took a deep, shaky breath, and asked Max how far they’d come.

“New South Wales,” Max told her, then, “Australia,” when she cocked her head.

“...you’re young, for such a long journey,” Ms. Byers' gaze lowered, and her eyes welled up again. She cleared her throat. “I h-hope you are enjoying it?”

“...we are,” Billy tried to reassure her, feeling the conversation had headed onto shaky ground.

“I received word only of Ms. Mayfield,” Mr. Hopper said, raising his eyebrows. “I am relieved to see her accompanied on such a long voyage. But your father worked here, once upon a time. I am surprised he didn’t write about you.”

Billy bit his tongue on an explanation of his father’s low regard.

“I am grateful for my brother’s company.” Max gave her most even and insincere smile, “—as it would be hazardous, for one of my youth, travelling alone.”

“We are relieved you have him,” Ms. Byers said, her eyes searching the room. “It is not safe, alone, always. Though the Hunt does its best.”

“I am here as her shield.” Billy patted his belt, where his sword would hang, and he saw that she took his meaning.

“Get much use, does it?” Mr. Hopper asked, his brows drawing together. “I’ll take no issue with a hand raised against the wilds, but we’ve had too many fights, as of late.”

“I’ll keep him in line,” Max promised, glancing up and elbowing Billy when his gaze strayed back to the dance floor.

“How old are you?” Ms. Byers whispered to Max, who set her shoulders.

“Nearly only five years, and I’ll be twenty!” she said, and the sheriff looked as though he very much wanted to laugh. He squeezed Ms. Byers’ hand, and Ms. Byers swallowed, dabbing her eyes with the kerchief she had wadded up in her other hand.

“I’m glad you’re not alone,” she told Max. “If your mother could see you, she would know not to be worried. Your brother loves you very much.”

Billy readied a smile, then startled as Max grabbed his hand in both her lily-white gloves and squeezed it like she was juicing a lemon. He tried to shake her off, squeezing his lips together over language inappropriate for a ball, and Max narrowed her eyes at Ms. Byers.

“More than my mother does,” Max said, in the tone of someone throwing down a gauntlet, and Ms. Byers’ face fell.

“I’ll keep her safe and well,” Billy promised, and Max huffed a sigh.

“I don’t need minding,” she hissed, and Billy thumped his side into hers, making her stagger.

“The dragon-craft that brought us was only constructed last year,” Billy began, and that was Max distracted, explaining its speed to a smiling Ms. Byers. She got distracted, as usual, describing her continued attempts—thwarted by crew—to climb the rigging, and speak to the dragon.

Billy listened with a smile, his mind half soaring between shining ocean waves and gleaming dragon scales, and half watching the dance floor, where his flower-crowned target spun and laughed, after fighting a monster to rescue a child. When he heard the word “pirate,” he rolled his eyes, imploring, “Good sheriff, as a man of the law, try to discourage my sister. She’s never more than three dull conversations from stealing a dragon ship and raising a flag with a skull and crossed swords.”

“A temptation shared by us all,” the sheriff replied, toasting her, and Billy made a fist and thumped it on the top of her head.

“Look, now you’ve corrupted him.”

“I would never!” Max grinned. “We saw the Pirate Queen, you know.”

“We may have done,” Billy interrupted, sighing. “At the very limit of our telescope, we saw a dark blotch—”

“She was standing on her dragon’s head,” Max said, twining her fingers together, and stretching, her eyes focused on visions of piracy.

“Every hour it was the Pirate Queen, listen.” Billy yanked the chain of his keepsake out of his shirt, and held up the battered shell, despite Max trying to smack it out of his hand. Her cheeks were reddening until they nearly competed with Ms. Byers’ gown. Billy held it out of her reach, and ran his thumb around the edges, and Max’s voice came out with the watery echoes of low-quality keepsake enchantment.

“There, that’s her,” echo-Max said. “There! Billy! Billy, it’s—oh. Oh, no, it’s—it’s not.”

Echo-Billy’s voice joined her. “Max, that’s an albatross.”

“No, wait! I see her! I see her now!” echo-Max cut off, muffled, as actual-Max climbed her brother like a tree, grabbing the keepsake. She dropped to the floor, feet wide-set, her arm up to guard, and Billy laughed, raising his hands.

“You’ve disarmed me. Return my keepsake, fierce Amazon, I’ll keep your secrets close.”

“I’ll record something over it first,” she hissed. “Something flatulent.”

“Give it back,” he pleaded, circling her and grinning.

Max tossed her head, crossing her arms. “Because it was your mother’s. I’ll surrender it for her sake, not yours.” She held it out by the chain, and he put it back on.

Ms. Byers was staring at it. “I suppose your mother's message was too—familiar? That you would erase it?”

Billy laughed, clearing his throat, and Max rescued him.

“She gifted only the keepsake, it came with no message. If it had,” she confided, cocking her head to grin up at him, “—he would not have filled its chamber with my nonsense about an albatross. I would be safe from his brotherly abuses.”

Ms. Byers was laughing, finally, still wiping her eyes, when a thin, pale boy walked up next to her, and she beamed at him, throwing both arms around his waist and hauling him into her lap so he kicked and giggled. They both made soft gulping noises, sniffling, and her fists clenched in the shoulders of his jacket.

The sheriff watched, his face set, then frowned at Max and Billy. “Will Byers,” he said, and they nodded, exchanging uncertain glances. “They were lost in the woods,” he told them, “—and ran into the fachan.” He pointed to the head on the dais, and Max grimaced, wide-eyed, just as the music leapt again, and a girl about Will’s age ran up, stumbled to a halt next to the sheriff, and eyed Max and Billy suspiciously. Ms. Byers beamed at her, as little Will grabbed both the new girl and his mother, and demanded a dance.

As another reel started, Billy leaned close to Max’s ear. “Do I look as well as I may,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth, watching the dancer, whose friends were carrying him around, and whooping war cries. He heard yells of “Wheeler!”, “Byers!”, and “Buckley!” and wondered which he was.

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Byers,” Max sighed, “—my brother has seen someone on the dance floor, and he’s having heart palpitations.” Ms. Byers snickered, steadying her hands on her glass of punch, as Max looked Billy up and down, then smacked his shoulder until he was low enough for her to assess. She pinched his cheeks a few times to redden them—he batted her away, laughing—and pulled forward some of the curls he’d carefully combed back and tucked to hide the almost-points of his ears. “Bite your lips hard ‘til you get over there, so he’ll want to kiss you,” she advised, and pushed him back. Ms. Byers was cackling into Mr. Hopper’s shoulder, but Billy ignored them, bouncing his heels to try and track the bright-eyed dancer.

By the time he’d sidled through the crowd, the flower crown was twirling again on the dance floor, its bearer laughing with—Billy tore his eyes away to inspect the partner—a human woman, he thought, though her ears looked rather pointed, from across the dance floor, and through the largest flower crown. He couldn’t tell whether the crown had antlers, or she did.

“Thomas Hagen,” said a voice in his ear, and Billy smirked to cover his start, turning to see a freckled grin. “But Hagen ‘the Elder’ s are everywhere, so Mr. Thomas, to most." He followed Billy's gaze to the dancers. "You are watching Harrington.”

Am I, now, Billy thought, raising his eyebrows at the memory of the name in his father’s leftward slanting script. “William Hargrove,” he introduced himself. "Billy, to most." He cocked his head, letting his gaze drift back to the dance floor. His target careened his partner with the headdress towards the musicians, spinning away every time at the last minute, and no one faltered, though all were laughing.

“Those two fill most of each other’s dance cards,” Thomas told him, and Billy nodded, watching the partner crouch, jump, and get spun over Harrington’s head. He’d shed his jacket, if he’d ever worn one, and rolled up his sleeves, so the muscles of his arms shone in the candlelight. The flowers, up close, were tiny and white, and also speckled with blood. Billy hoped it belonged to the monster, imagining Harrington swinging his sword through its neck.

“...Steve’s in love with her,” Thomas tried again, and Billy nodded again, appreciating the angle the light had on flowers, and gleaming dark hair, and tight, gleaming leather breeches. “He won’t want you.” Thomas punched his shoulder, and Billy raised his eyebrows, glancing over, and considering whether it was worth punching back.

“Hasn’t said so yet,” Billy replied, rolling his shoulders as the music came to a close. He angled himself to intercept the blur of golden waistcoat, flower crown, and bloodied face he could see through the crowd.

After sidling through what was probably the entire population of Hawkins, Billy spotted his dancer again. He finally got in front of Harrington by the punch, and took a deep breath, his eyes following a trickle of sweat down the side of the man’s face. It dripped into the unbuttoned neck of his shirt, and Billy shut his mouth and swallowed, nearly having drooled. “Dance with me,” he blurted. “...Billy Hargrove. I'm.”

Harrington had just tipped in a mouthful of punch, but he held out a hand, swallowed, and wiped his mouth. “Steven Harrington.”

Billy was watching the wetness of the punch on his lips. “...Mr. Harrington. May I have this dance? Or any.”

“Why not,” Harrington laughed, chugging another glass of punch, and then took Billy’s hand in his, cold and damp from the punch glass, and dragged him back to the dancing.

The complex pattern kept whirling Harrington away, but he kept returning to grab Billy’s hands and spin him around, all smiles and shining eyes and warm muscles under Billy’s hands as the room spun around them. Billy breathed in the smell of white flowers, and felt dizzy.

The next dance the antlers returned, and Billy wandered off to the punch, took a deep, steadying draught, and remembered he had a sister, because she punched him in the side.

“Max,” he wheezed.

“My thanks for escorting me to the ball, sweet brother.” She raised her eyebrows, and took his glass of punch. “I have appreciated your company at every divine moment. Ms. Byers said to watch the punch, by the by. Since they ride out on the morrow, it was supposed to be all sugar and mint, but that just means everyone with a flask dumps it in. She said by an hour in, it’ll be alcohol enough to fuel a dragon ship. When are we going to dance?”

“I can still smell flowers.” Billy watched for the flower crown, and Max groaned.

“What are you doing? Did you even get his name? Make sure when you’re walking towards him, it isn’t through a road.”

Billy laughed, shoving her head down. She flailed, nearly spilling the punch, and he mussed her hair. “I’m not—”

“Or into a river. You’d probably forget to swim.” She held the sloshing glass of punch at a wary arm’s length with both hands, glowering up at him.

“I’ll push you in the river,” he growled, swiping a hand at his cup again, “—and I did get his name, as it happens. It’s, ah. It’s Harrington.”

“How’d you know?” She blinked up at him, and automatically took a swig of the punch, before coughing. “Dear god.” She wiped her eyes. “—that’s not for fueling engines, it’s for cleaning them. How’d you know it was him? You already got a dance with him?”

“I…” Billy swallowed, yanked the cup back, and drained it. “I didn’t know it was him. I can’t—it won’t work, anyway. He’s engaged, or as good as. The one with the antlers. I’ll just—I’ll have to write...home.” He took a deep breath, staring into the cup. “Tell him I failed.”

Max rocked sideways, thudding her shoulder into his ribs. “You did get a dance with him. That doesn’t sound hopeless.”

“It was never going to work—” he hissed back, and then the music stopped abruptly, with the musicians joining in cheering and clapping with the crowd, as the floor cleared around Ms. Byers. She was carrying Will, flailing and giggling, to one of the thrones, while the girl they’d seen earlier furtively approached the second. A thin woman waved and cheered at the second child, who flashed a smile.

“Come sit with me, this chair is huge!” Will Byers yelled, and his mother kissed his cheek, squeezing him so hard he squeaked. The other child nodded, setting her jaw determinedly, and skirted around the enormous severed head. Her nervous glances were fixed more on the crowd than the dead monster.

Harrington and his antlered partner stepped up next to Ms. Byers to lift the chair, and the two children held hands, waving. Another few people ran out of the restless crowd, all bandaged in various places, and helped lift the chair, as Will whooped.

“...I should have run out,” Billy told Max, watching, and she snorted.

“I think it’s invitation only.”

“Maybe he needs help. Maybe he needs me to carry him—”

She smacked his thigh, and he snickered.

Once the chair was aloft, they carried it around, amidst whoops, and whistles, and drunken shouts like, ‘King and Queen of the Hunt Ball!’, ‘Welcome home!’, and ‘So glad you’re safe!’ The crowd smacked Harrington and his cronies on the shoulders and back, as they whirled the laughing children around in the chairs. Ms. Byers cried, and so did her kid, slinging his arm over the arm rest and clamping his hand over hers.

“Whose thrones are those, really,” Billy leaned to ask Max, realizing there was more happening than Steve Harrington lifting something heavy over his head.

“I heard there’s a bit of contention,” Max whispered back, waggling her eyebrows.

“Oooo,” Billy folded his arms, leaning in closer.

“This is Nan Wheeler’s house,” Max pointed at Antlers, and Billy nodded, listening. “She led the hunting party, and shot the arrow that felled it. She sought Barbra Holland, who went up the mountain two days ago, to visit her little sister’s grave in the mausoleum there.”

“Oho,” Billy nodded. A tiny crab scuttled out from under the monster’s eyelid, and then a few more, and Billy’s mouth fell open again. “They…” He frowned around, cataloguing the bandages, and Harrington’s scraped knuckles and scabbed-up face. “Her friend is still missing,” Billy realized. “Antlers’.”

“They turned around, because of that beast, and in aid of Ellie, and Will Byers. I talked with him after you went off all starry-eyed—he was missing for nearly a seven-day. Ellie was missing nearly two months.”

Billy reached out and squeezed her shoulder, and she ducked away, grinning.

“I promise not to wander away,” she told him, smiling, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“I could lock you inside a trunk,” Billy mused, and she elbowed him. “They ride again tomorrow? Thus the horrid punch.”

“They ride again tomorrow,” Max confirmed. “Nantlers Wheeler hesitates to fill the other throne in celebration, while Barbra is not yet found.” Billy snorted at the nickname, then opened his mouth again, but Max rolled her eyes, waving him off. “I did ask,” Max sighed, “—who would sit beside her. I heard Harrington, or Holland, or perhaps Byers the younger—but it’s the Hunt Ball, Billy. It’s not her proposal, it’s who—who she decides—who deserves the laurels.” She jerked her head at the procession, and Billy nodded, eyes lingering on Harrington’s biceps. Max rolled her eyes, sighing. She waved to little Byers, and dragged Billy closer when little Byers waved back, his smile gleeful as the throne tilted and swayed with its carriers.

Billy waved, and Harrington waved back, grinning over.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Max whispered, as Billy kept waving, until Thomas grabbed his hand.

“Noticed he danced with you. Hargrove,” he whispered, leaning in, and Max leaned around to give him a puzzled glower.

“Lucky me.” Billy tried to pull his hand back, and winced at Thomas’ grip.

“He’s King of the Hunt Ball, you know? He’s always King. Nan Wheeler sits next to him as Queen.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine how grand it would look—Harrington in his finest, instead of sweatstained and bandaged, and Wheeler at his side, borne through the air on the shoulders of their friends. He must have made some kind of face, because Max elbowed him.

“Byers wants her,” Thomas whispered, “—but she’s not for him.”

“Little Byers?” Billy raised his eyebrows at the laughing, crying child, and Thomas squeezed his hand until the bones ground together.

“Who the hell are you,” Max muttered at him.

“The elder Byers, Jonathan. Steve dueled him.” Thomas leaned close. “—he was watching her, with a telescope. Sketching her through the window.”

“Why didn’t she duel him?” Max wrinkled her nose. “I’d have—”

“Steve found out first, didn’t even wait for me, his second—” Thomas hissed back at her. “He fights for her— he'll never look at you.”

“I hear you.” Billy shifted to slam their shoulders together, and yanked his hand loose while Thomas staggered. “—do you want to fight with steel, or are you content to whine, and pretend good manners, and gossip like a—”

“No! Billy,” Max hissed. “You’ll be thrown out. You’ll miss the dance. Billy.”

“Oh, Max,” Billy said, baring his teeth in a wide smile, and keeping his eyes on Thomas, “—in fun, of course, don’t worry—”

“They wouldn’t dream of stopping us.” Thomas snarled back, his grin fixed and unnatural. “An exhibition match, to first blood.” He spun away, shaking his fists in the air, and shouted, “A sword! And a referee!”

“What is this place,” Max whispered to Billy, her eyes shining. “Instead of dancing, we can duel?” She watched in bewilderment as the dancers gathered around them, laughing, shouting, and—to her delight—placing bets. “You had better win, brother mine,” she said, rummaging in her pocket.

“Harrington,” Billy called, rolling his shoulders as the man’s brown eyes met his, sparkling with amusement. “A favor, if I win!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Thomas told him, but Harrington considered.

“...within reason,” he agreed, and Billy whooped, peeling out of his tight-fitting jacket, and handing it to Max.

“A dance,” Billy said, bowing, “—or perhaps a kiss?”

Harrington laughed, ducking his head as the hunters around him whistled.

“Oooo,” Max whispered, glancing up at Harrington. “Is this...common, here?!”

“Fairly,” he answered, pulling his gaze from Billy’s open shirt to look at her. “Why are they fighting?”

“Over you,” she shrugged, and Harrington choked, coughing. Max smacked him hard several times on the back.

Another antlered person wafted towards them, the silvery train of her dress shining after her. “As it’s my house, I’ll keep watch.” She held out the hilts of two fencing sabres, and looked Billy dispassionately up and down. “...They’re dulled, as humans are fragile. First blood. No death.”

Billy took a deep breath before accepting a sword, wondering whether he’d feel the dull, frozen ache of cold iron—but either the blood he’d inherited from his mother was indeed as fae as the Lady offering the sword, and it was some fae metal, and harmless to him; or else the madness rotting in his blood acknowledged that the sword was probably not iron, and didn’t set fanciful pains running up the veins of his arms.

Billy whipped the sabre through the air a couple of times, eyes narrowed. Thomas struck a stance, his off hand up in a pointlessly stylish wave, and Billy tested his defense. It wasn’t terrible, for a man who smelled more of whiskey with a dash of punch than the reverse, though he was focusing too much on trying to end the duel. Billy raised his eyebrows, dancing away from a wild swipe near his knee.

It became apparent pretty quickly he was in no great danger from Thomas, who seemed continually surprised to find his blows swinging into thin air, and was beginning to pant.

Billy spun to the side, nearly into a bystander. The circle was growing smaller, and the shouting louder.

Harrington was still watching, and Billy paced around the circle, dodging Thomas as he shrugged out of his waistcoat, waving it at Max. She glared at him, rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms. He threw it, somewhat hoping it hit her in the face with a brass button, and then Harrington leaned out and caught it, grin wide.

Billy pointed his sword, holding Harrington’s gaze. “Wish me luck?” Harrington laughed, shaking his head, but saluted back, and then Thomas was attacking again. The rhythm was easy, once Billy settled into it—simpler than the dances, just practiced muscles stretching and flexing, and Harrington’s grin, and cheering.

Thomas was starting to look a little wild, drenched in sweat, and when he stumbled backwards, wiping his brow, Billy realized the fight was nearly over. He was irritating Thomas into ever more desperate swings, enjoying his snarls, when a new round of whoops and cheers went up to his left, and the crowd parted to admit another fencer.

She walked in and threw an arm around Thomas’ shoulder, tossing back a cup of punch, and her curls. She stared, smiling, at Billy, and unbuttoned her jacket. Thomas yowled like a cat, and she tugged her sleeves off in turn, without breaking eye contact with Billy. He couldn’t help but grin back, even as she walked over to Harrington, handed him the cup, and tossed her jacket over the man’s head.

As the crowd whistled, Harrington growled, trying to free himself from the jacket without spilling the cup.

Billy raised his eyebrows, licked his lips, and dropped his sword on the ground. He turned to stare Harrington in the face, peeling out of his shirt and sauntering over to drape it over the man’s arm. Harrington was laughing, his smirk widening as his gaze traced the sweat gleaming on Billy’s chest. The musicians had started again, in the corner—a jig. Billy leaned in close to tug the flower from Harrington’s jacket, and breathed in its fragrance. Harrington watched, mouth hanging a little open, and Billy spun back to the duel, tucking the flower into the curls over his left ear.

The crowd was beginning to chant “Carol! Carol!”—and he could immediately see the difference, as she shoved Thomas out of the impromptu arena with her foot. Her stance was deep and steady without being showy, and she didn’t try for the obvious openings he gave her.

A good opponent was a heady pleasure, letting him show his best side to Harrington, and soon he and Carol had matching grins, circling each other. She was tired, though—her flowing shirt showed the same patches of dried blood as all those who had carried the thrones around in triumph, and she had a purpling bruise along her hairline, from her eyebrow to her ear. The point of her sword drooped a couple of inches, and she narrowed her eyes, sinking her stance deeper as though it had been on purpose. She tossed her sword into her left hand—Billy raised his eyebrows—and wiped her right on her trousers.

“Harrington,” she growled. “Candelabra.”

Harrington spun to the low dais by the thrones, where a heavy brass candelabra's flames were gleaming off the sharp teeth of the monster. He grabbed it, and tossed it to her. The wax sprayed across her chest and face, but three of the five candles stayed lit, and she laughed low in her throat, holding the candelabra in front of her at arms’ length like a buckler.

“My lord is fickle,” Billy protested, flashing a smile at Harrington, who did a weird curtsey with all the clothes he was holding, like they were skirts.

Billy hadn’t had much faith in a lit candelabra as a buckler, but her stance was sure, and it was more effective in her hand than many a buckler he’d seen, turning his blows aside with the slightest tilt of her extended arm. With the candelabra at arm’s length, though, heavier by far than the sword, he could see the barest tremble beginning in her wrist and elbow, and he pressed forward to end the fight. The still-lit candles dazzled him—her, as much as him, he thought, nearly slipping on spilled wax, and parrying her immediate thrust.

He flicked his saber to cut the two remaining lit candles, and one toppled. Carol kicked it off to the side, swinging around to nick the leg of his trousers, and he spun away.

Max whistled with two fingers in her mouth, and the candelabra tinked against the edge of his sword again, just nudging it the half-inch over so the tip went well wide of her thigh.

After the dancing, and the hours, days, and weeks of travel, Billy was growing winded. Her blade nearly took his ear off, and he scuttled backward, as her next swing scraped across the chain of his necklace.

Thomas cheered. “Carol!” he yelled, at the ceiling. “Carol, my sweet, my song!”

She was panting outright now, her arm shaking with the candelabra. The people around them were yelling both their names—Max the loudest, with his.

Billy let her chase him a bit, sidling around the edge of the laughing crowd until she pressed in, baring her teeth in a wide grin, the melted wax hitting his arm and chest as he ducked along the throne to block her swing, and flicked his blade to draw a few drops of blood from her shoulder.

“First blood!” cried the antlered woman, like a bell, and the tip of Carol’s blade hovered in a blur in front of Billy’s left eye. She staggered back, stumbling and dropping both the sword and the candelabra, but Thomas and another woman were there to catch her. Nan Wheeler was leaning against Harrington’s shoulder—but he waited, watching Billy, so Billy picked up the sword Thomas, then Carol, had used, as it rattled across the floor, and scooped up the candelabra. The other antlered woman stepped in front of him to accept the swords, so by the time he reached Harrington, all he held was the candelabra.

“I gift to you my spoils of war,” he said, bowing with every flourish he could manage, and Harrington’s grin widened.

“The Hargrove Candelabra,” he laughed, and Billy stumbled closer, as though the floor had tilted—or Harrington were the kind of celestial body to affect the tides, and the moon, and pull comets around to light his way. Billy was powerless to resist. “Am I your lord or your porter?” he asked, tossing Billy’s shirt in his face, and then his jacket, but his cheeks were flushed, and he flashed a smile. Billy caught his clothes in one hand, and stretched, peeling wax from his pectorals. He used his thumbnail to scrape at the rest. Harrington bit his lip, but drew Wheeler away by the arm, so Billy waved them back to the dance.

Billy allowed Max to pull him away, and thus made the acquaintance of one Lucas Sinclair, a boy who came up and bowed to her. She accepted a dance—though the music was unfamiliar—so he stayed close and showed her, and reluctantly Billy, the steps. After two songs, Max pulled him away into the dancing. Billy watched as she accepted a dance with another boy, and they began to chat. As he watched, she turned to frown at Billy waving her hand up and down at him and rolling her eyes, and then when he made understandably offended faces, she stuck out her tongue.

The boy half-collapsed with laughter, and Billy went to get more punch, ladling a massive ice cube into his glass and tossing back the horrible mix of flavors with a grimace. He was glad Max had come, he decided, again. It was a common thought, recently, but even more deeply felt as he neared the end of his efforts, and his stomach threatened to turn itself inside out every time he opened his mouth.

When the antler crown—Nan Wheeler—stepped away from Harrington again, and he turned away from the dancing, panting for breath, Billy stepped into the space she had left. “Free again?”

“Ha,” Harrington panted. He threw an arm around Billy’s shoulders, leaning into him, and Billy felt himself flush at the proximity to Harrington’s grinning face. “Little worn out.”

“After the heroics of the day?” Billy asked, then realized Harrington was watching Wheeler dance with someone else—the same someone as before, Billy thought, possibly, trying to remember. He looked like a soulful lover out of a painting, staring wistfully, and Billy felt a sting of annoyance at Wheeler, for being beautiful, and graceful, and winning love she didn’t value at all.

Harrington shook his head, turning a somewhat stiffer smile on the world at large, and laughed. “He’s doing a better job lifting her spirits.”

“...I understand that’s your sacred duty?” Billy asked, wondering if a kiss would get him a meeting of steel at dawn, more serious than his earlier sword dance with Thomas and Co.

Harrington bit his lips, and when he stopped, they were pinker, and moist. Billy licked his own, trying to pay attention to what Harrington was saying. “Ms. Wheeler...lost someone, as well. She is—thinking only of the search, until her friend is found.”

“...but she sits aside you, as Queen,” Billy offered grudgingly, disliking the set of Harrington’s jaw. "If you're her many times and future king—"

“I suggested the children sit the thrones,” Harrington said with a laugh, “—so she would not have to choose a King of the Hunt to sit beside her—me, or Byers there—”

Oh ho, Billy thought, eyebrows raised.

“—or maybe she would have left it free, for Barbra. Barbra Holland, the friend we sought. The friend she seeks still. There...” Harrington swallowed, watching the antlers waltz with the elder Byers, and Billy watched the movement of his throat. “There’s no formal arrangement. Between us.” Seeing the muscle work in Harrington’s jaw, Billy tried not to hope.

They didn’t dance long, Wheeler and the interloper—the interloper Billy was grateful for—before stepping away from the dance floor and consulting closely, their faces within an inch of a kiss.

Harrington cleared his throat, and laughed. “We’re—we’re riding out again at dawn. To look for Ms. Holland. They—they’ll be planning, for that.” He didn’t look like he believed his own words, watching the woman Thomas had said he loved, and Billy put an arm around him.

“I think I know the steps, now, if you’d admit another partner,” he said against the side of Harrington’s head, and didn’t press a kiss to his jaw, despite the fascinating trickle running along it.

“I’m tired,” Harrington whispered, watching Antlers Wheeler, and Billy sighed.

“Perhaps some punch?” he whispered back, his entire awareness on Harrington’s weight against him, the smell of sweat, blood, and flowers, and the shiny depth of Harrington’s smiling brown eyes. Whatever the strain of perilous lunacy fermenting in Billy’s blood, he thought, it was a marked improvement on Ms. Wheeler’s, for her to have Harrington ready and willing and yet be disinclined to pluck him like a ripe fruit.

“Today’s been a day longer than some years.” Harrington gritted his teeth, finally looking away from Wheeler. “Might need to sit down.”

“Where?”

“Maybe the balcony? I can dance aft—”

“I hear you’ve a fine hand with steel.” Billy thumped their hips together, his arm securing Harrington as he nearly toppled.

“A better one with a club,” Harrington said with a grin, frank, before nodding at the monstrous head, “—and I was not unaided, in that battle.”

“How is it there are many here, that are not, ah—” Billy’s eyes flicked from an owl in a hat, serving itself punch with the spidery arms it kept under its wings, and then to the grisly trophy between the thrones. “—that I would not call—precisely—I haven’t met many—”

“Fair Folk,” Harrington snorted. “We are invited to their ball, in thanks for aiding them against that villain. They prefer we call them fair, over mentioning what they are not.”

“And Wheeler is also...fair?” Billy grimaced, but Harrington just sighed, casting his gaze again upon her.

“The fairest. Really, it—it was she who felled the beast,” he sighed, hauling Billy around to the side of the head, now dripping silvery, long-legged crabs as though they were blood. He waved his free arm at a cluster of arrows. “—her arrows strike true, no matter which, I mean, whose heart she aims her—”

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll empty my stomach on yon beastie,” Billy cut him off, wrinkling his nose. “Let me distract you. Before you fall out a window, sighing into a rose.”

Harrington laughed aloud. “I think...I—I’ve no dances left in me—”

“Then a fight—” Billy leaned to take the lobe of Harrington’s ear in his teeth, letting them graze over it as Harrington startled. “—or a fuck.” Billy smoothed a hand down Harrington’s spine, and squeezed him through his breeches. “Let me drive you to distraction,” Billy whispered against his ear, and felt Harrington’s skin heat.

Harrington swallowed, staring at him, then flushed, biting his lips. “Wait,” he asked, turning away, and lifting his hand to cover his face. “Wait, wait, wait—you—” He laughed. “The—this set is nearly ended, we—wait,” he mumbled, and Billy nodded, stepping back.

The music paused, the musicians meandering—or floating, or in one case, clambering up the wall and across the ceiling—towards the punch, and in the sudden milling crowd, Harrington pulled him away. They ducked and wove past the thrones, away from the light of the candelabras, and into a darker, narrow hallway.

Next Chapter=>

Completed on Ao3 as peterqpan, but I’ll post the whole rewritten work here! 

[obibabykenobi]

Can I have one for Anakin Skywalker? She’s one of his Padawans and she is a bit rebellious. She sneaks out while everyone was asleep and takes off with some strangers. She was offered tickets to go see her favorite band, “The Offspring” in concert. But she was on probation and was forbidden to go. So she makes up an excuse that she wanted to sleepover at her friends. But really, they sneak off to the concert. Anakin and the Jedi council found out anyway because she posted it to her story on

that is funnyyy!! i love this idea. ive never seen or read an AU like this so I’ll try to the best of my abilities! i kind of changed a few things.

✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎✍︎︎

————rebel

𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚗!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: reader sneaks out but gets caught

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜: profanity, characters in this oneshot are still jedi’s and stay in the temple, but it’s in modern times and instead of robes they wear modern clothing. (ex: master’s wear suits and button ups, padawans wear what looks similar to a school uniform) however Anakin is gonna keep his long hair ;)

You were out in the city, sent out by your Master to pick up groceries. You were sporting your Temple uniform, a navy blue blazer with a crest of two lightsabers in an x, one being blue and one being green. Your shorts were also navy blue with blue and green plaid decorated on it, and you always voiced your thoughts on how ugly they were whenever you had the chance. You wore a white button up underneath your blazer and had knee high navy blue socks on, your black shiny shoes were reflecting in the light. You strolled down the many aisles of the local farmers market, picking up fruits and vegetables and placing them in your basket as you went. You actually liked this task, cause you were out without your master and this was the only time you could go outside, being on “temple arrest” after your most recent shenanigan. Once you were done shopping, you paid in credits and slowly walked back to the temple, trying to make this walk leisurely and remember your moments not cooped up.

You felt multiple people near you, looking at you. You knew they wouldn’t do anything, everyone knows the uniform you’re wearing means you’re from the Jedi Temple and shouldn’t be messed with. However, these people were ballsy enough to call you over. You sighed, you usually didn’t give people the time of day in the city, but you really wanted to be in the fresh air as long as possible, so you turned around and walked to the strangers.

“What can I do for you...” you trailed off, looking the strangers up and down. They were definitely on the rough side, probably trying to pick a fight with you. “Fine people.”

They smirked and looked at each other, and oh how you loved the thought of getting in a fight with them. “Do Jedi listen to music?”

Well that shocked you. Why were they interested in that? Unless it was a new tactic to distract you. You raised a brow at the stranger and folded your arms. “Yes, we’re not closed off creatures who live under rocks.”

The one in the middle of all the strangers, you’re assuming him being the leader, reached his hand into his jacket. You thought he was about to pull out a blaster, but you were faster than them and immediately whipped out your saber, bright blue whizzing in the still air.

“Woah! Chill, doll. I was just gonna see if you wanted one.”

You watched cautiously as what seemed to be a ticket, with the words “The Offspring” printed on them, were held in between his fingers. You knew they were having a concert tonight, however your Master didn’t allow you to go and you didn’t have your own credits to pay for a ticket, you only get some from the Temple when they send you out on tasks.

“And why are you offering me a ticket? What do you want in return?”

Still having your lightsaber up, the leader raised his hands in defense at your statement. “We,” he refers to the strangers around him. “Had an extra, we couldn’t let it go to waste. We figured you looked like you listened to them. Do you not? If not, we’ll just give it-”

“No!...I’ll take it. Do you want anything in return? I-I don’t have much...but I’d really like to go.”

He took that into consideration and nodded. “Well, first, please put your saber away.” And you slowly lowered it, turning it off but still holding it tight in your hand. “Second, just come with us. You don’t gotta pay us. Meet us here at six P.M., Yea?” You nodded slowly and watched as he cautiously handed it over you to you. You snatched it out of his hand and quickly walked away. You could still feel their eyes boring into you.

——————————————

“No! No way. You are not going.” Your master told you sternly.

“And why not?” You countered back.

“You got this ticket from strangers! It could be fake for all you know. People just don’t go around handing out free tickets.”

You groaned and collapsed on the couch that was in his quarters. “I didn’t sense that they were lying, they’re legitimate!”

“You’re still a Padawan, if I’m not correct your senses aren’t as heightened as mine.”

You rolled your eyes and kicked your legs up on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Yea well my fighting skills are more heightened then theirs, so if they DID lie to me I’ll kick their ass.”

He walked over towards you and removed your legs from the coffee table. “Not everything leads into a fight, young one.”

He was wearing a white button up with his sleeves pulled up to his elbows, and his shirt was tucked into his black clean ironed slacks. You had to admit, he looked really good when he was irritated or angry. Right now, he was just a tad bit irritated. He sat down beside you and you noticed a few tiny grey hairs. You gasped playfully and he looked over at you with his eyes brows furrowed.

“Master, you’re greying! Oh my, did I do that?” You snickered while he touched his hair.

“Would you quit that?” He asked irritatingly.

As much as you irritated him, he loved having you around because you made him feel young again, and he loved getting into little fights with you.

“You’re not going to the concert, understand?”

He gave you a very stern look which created a swirl in your stomach.

“Yes, Master.” You reluctantly replied. Oh, but if only he could see the crossed fingers behind your back. You were definitely going to that concert.

——————————————

Somehow, you successfully snuck out of the temple without raising suspicion from others. It was easier than you thought. Your master was in a briefing, so you quickly changed into your civilian clothes and made a run for it. If a Jedi asked you where you were going in civilian clothes, you replied you were going to take some younglings to the park. Even if they could sense you were lying, they didn’t even bother to try to change your mind because your famous for rebelling against the rules.

So, here you are now, at the concert with the group of strangers. It was a blast, the music ringing through your ears and the bass thumping throughout your body. Your throat was scratchy and coarse from screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs. You whipped out your phone and recorded you and one of the strangers, who quickly turned into your best friend, singing to the current song playing. You uploaded it to your Snapchat story without even thinking about who could see it. All you could focus on was how happy you are.

——————————————

As soon as you got back to the temple, you could feel your masters anger seething throughout the large building. Your heart rate quickened and you stopped in your tracks. Immediately taking out your phone, you looked at the people who viewed your story and sure enough, you were in deep shit. In white lettering, you saw the name “Master Gaywalker”. The name you gave him on this app still makes you laugh.

“Come to the briefing room now.”

Anakin’s voice rippled through the force with anger dripping with it. You didn’t even try to run, not wanting to feel his wrath. You obediently walked your shaky legs to the briefing room.

——————————————

Your ass? Chewed. Chewed out by the whole council. And now Anakin was walking you back to your quarters while still chewing you out.

“I told you to not go, and what did you do? You completely disobeyed me!” You were walking farther ahead of him to try to get away from his nagging, but to no avail. You saw your quarters in view and made headway.

“Seriously, what does a Master have to do to keep his Padawan in check! Do I have to put baby monitors in your room?”

You finally reached your door and quickly stepped in. He quickly followed you inside and still wouldn’t shut his mouth.

“Okay, I get it. I’m sorry! I have no excuse, just please for the love of maker stop nagging and DON’T put baby monitors in my room.” You folded your arms and kept his stare across the room.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. You lied to me, disobeyed me and embarrassed me in front of the council-“

As he kept rambling on and on about how much he’s disappointed in you, you couldn’t help but stare at his peachy lips. He kept licking them, making you hungrier for them to be on yours. Finally, not even thinking, you walked right up to him, grabbed his face and kissed him.

You broke the kiss, and took a step back. His eyes were wide, cheeks red and he couldn’t even form a sentence now. You smirked, and took seat on your bed.

“Who knew that kissing you would make you shut up?”

[fortune-fool02]

Autumn Moon

Werewolf Speedwagon x female reader

I would like to thank @  atlantianchronicle for helping me with this. This might get a second part if it gets enough love. 

Please enjoy.

“Even a man who is pure in heart, And says his prayers by night, May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms, And the autumn moon is bright."

The dirt path was worn down, acting like a compass to keep them from wandering astray and into the forest that surrounded said path. The carriage wobbled slightly because of this but it didn’t bother the two passengers. With all that has been happening, an uneven path and a bit of a shaky journey was the least of their concerns.

Recently, there had been a number of strange animal attacks in the streets of London, leaving the corpses nothing but mangled pieces of flesh -that was if they did find a body- there were beyond recognition. Normally, [Name] would have left it to the police but when the had said it was nothing more than rabid dog attacks -which weren’t that uncommon- it didn’t settle with her. 

So, she did some investigating of her own and had found something odd about the corpses. Their wounds did appear to have been attacked by an animal but the size of the marks and the teeth did not match up with the kind of dogs that roamed the streets. The dogs’ jaws and teeth were too small compared to the ones on the bodies. Ever since she discovered this, [Name] was determined to find out what exactly has been terrorising the streets of London for the past handful of months.  

Speedwagon had tried to offer his help in any way he could but he has tried to talk her out of this a few times. Telling her how it was possibly some kind of other animal that possibly escaped from an on-the-road circus but his efforts were pointless against [Name]. When the woman had her mind set on something, nothing was going to stop her from finding the truth; that was one of the many things he loved about her but also one thing he did find irritable sometimes. 

During her investigations, she had learned of a Gypsy camp that stood a few miles North of London, apparently there might be someone there who could aid them in their search for the beat behind these attacks. 

[Name] looked over at Speedwagon who sat in his seat, fidgeting with his hands and throwing looks outside the carriage window at the passing scenery. Concern furrowed her brow as she placed a hand on her lover’s knee, catching his attention. “Are you alright, my love?” she asked him, her voice mirroring her expression. Speedwagon nodded, forcing a smile on his lips as he took her smaller hand into his. The action calming his nerves somewhat and allowing him to relax. 

[Name] has always had that power over him. Whenever he was stressed or unsettled, she was always able to calm him down. He tried his best to reciprocate the comfort and support whenever he could. Sometimes, he wondered why he had been blessed to have such an incredible, loving woman by his side like [Name], especially with all the horrible things he has done. He could only pray to whatever God there was that nothing would happen to her, he would never be able to forgive himself. 

The carriage came to a stop, altering the passengers of the arrival at their destination. [Name] climbed out with Speedwagon trailing close behind, their hands interlocked as they looked around. The camp was not quite what they were expecting as it was much larger than they believed it would be, it actually reminded them of Ogre Street in an odd way; but Ogre Street was nothing like this place. Slowly, the two lovers made their way through the camp, careful not to appear as a possible threat or anything that could make these people hostile for they would surely be outmatched without a question. 

Two small children ran around close to them before stopping when they noticed the two strangers. Each person they passed watched them with steel eyes, a tenseness spilling into the air. Speedwagon met the gaze of one person and they took a step back, curling in their seat slightly, and he turned ahead of him again. Feeling their eyes bore into his back sent uncomfortable shivers around him body as one would expect. There was the way they looked at him that set him on edge, that kind of look someone gave you when they knew something you didn’t want them to know, or they had an idea of it, at least. 

“C’mon [Name], this is a waste of time. We don’t even know if this guy will help.” The blonde man whispered loud enough for her to hear him. [Name] gently squeezed his hand, a comforting gesture as, she too, could feel their eyes on her. 

“Robert, this is the only lead we have so far. If this man knows anything, then it’s worth hearing, at least.” she whispered back, aware of the discomfort that flowed through her lover. She couldn’t blame him but they had gotten this far already, they might as well see it through. [Name]’s eyes landed on an elderly woman who sat at a small table, seeing as they couldn’t find the man themselves, she decided to ask for help.

Releasing Speedwagon’s hand, she turned and approached the woman. “Excuse me, madam.” she spoke, her voice polite and soft, much like how she was raised to be when around strangers. “But where is the man who sent us this?” the [Hair colour] female pulled the small item from her purse that had arrived with the letter she was given, telling her of the camp and how to get there. 

The elderly woman looked at the item and pointed ahead of them where the largest tent stood, surrounded by people. [Name] smiled and bowed her head, thanking her before turning on her heel. However, the elderly woman reached forward and grabbed her wrist, preventing her from leaving. The elderly woman’s eyes gazed into her [Eye colour] ones, fear swirling around in them. 

“My God... you poor girl.” she spoke softly, almost sympathetically. [Name] rose a brow at this, confused as to what she was referring to. “You are in grave danger. The beast will come for you next.” 

[Name]’s eyes widened at that. How did she know of it? And what did she mean by that? The beast was all the way back in London. “W-What do you mean?” The woman took [Name]’s hand into hers, nails tracing strange patterns over her palm and the fear only grew in her eyes. As if she was looking at a walking corpse. 

“Those who are pure of heart are the ones who carry burdens. Keeping secrets from those they love ad cherish. The beast knows you well, it knows everything about you and it will come for you next, my girl.” the elderly woman told her, warned her. [Name] leaned in closer slightly, 

“Do you know what the beast is?” she asked. As the woman opened her mouth, Speedwagon approached from behind, concern in his expression and the woman immediately released [Name]’s hand. Speedwagon took [Name]’s hand into his, tugging her away from the woman and keeping her close. [Name] threw the elderly woman one last glance to see her looking sad, the kind of sadness one saw when seeing someone for the very last time. 

And that unsettled [Name]. The beast knew her, what did that mean? “Let’s get this over with, I don’t like it here.” he told her and [Name] agreed, leading him towards the large tent. As they entered the tent, their attention landed on a man who sat in the centre of the room in a form of makeshift throne. [Name] bowed her head and Speedwagon did the same. The man motioned them to approach, 

“You wish to know of the beast that kills your people, no?” he asked and [Name] nodded her head. He reached over and grabbed a book before handing it to her. She opened it with care and her [Eye colour] eyes read the name of the creature. 

“A... werewolf?” [Name] looked up at the man with confusion painting her face. She had heard stories of these creatures but she thought they were just that. Stories. Men who could shift into the form of a beast under the light of the full moon with an uncontrollable hunger. It was mad. But, as she flicked through the pages, seeing the drawings, the photographs of corpses left from it, it was all a little too similar to be a coincidence. 

And the fact that these attacks only happened on full moons supported this. Speedwagon also looked at the book, his chocolate brown eyes landing on the drawing of the eyes of a werewolf and he felt his heart stop. A coldness washed over his skin, prickling along his muscles like spider legs, forcing him to tear his gaze away from it, unable to look at it any longer. There was hunger in those eyes, even from the drawing; hunger and rage, an uncontrollable rage that wished to consume all in its path. 

“[Name], it’s a myth. They don’t really exist.” Speedwagon told her, trying to snatch the book from her hands only for her to pull it away from him. 

“Robert, these attacks, the times they happen, it can’t be a coincidence.” Speedwagon sighed heavily, his hand rubbing his eyes a little at her stubbornness but he didn’t push it further. He just wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. 

“Thank you for this, sir. You have no idea how much this information will help.” [Name] bowed her head again to the man, a smile on her lips before they turned to leave. As they walked out the camp, Speedwagon stopped suddenly. He turned quickly and caught something that was flying through the air and would have hit him if he didn’t catch it. 

A rosary. 

[Name] blinked, somewhat surprised how he was able to catch it when it made no sound when it was thrown. Speedwagon dropped the rosary on the floor and turned on his heel, storming off towards the carriage, [Name] scooped it up and pocketed it before going after him. They wouldn’t ave thrown it unless they wanted her to have it.

The ride back home was less nerve-raking than the journey there. [Name]’s attention had been consumed by the book, taking in every little detail she could absorb and telling Speedwagon what she found in it. Her lover forced his smile and nodded throughout it, his hands folded together on his lap during the way home. [Name] thought nothing of it as she was too focused on the book. Finally, they had the advantage of knowing what the beast was and that as a step closer to defeating it. 

For a moment, that elderly woman’s words floated in her mind again. If the beast was indeed a werewolf and it knew her, that meant that [Name] has already met the beast. But who? It couldn’t be her family as they lived too far East. Maybe someone from the Ogre Street gang? [Name] knew a good few of those people.

When the carriage stopped, Speedwagon climbed out first and turned to her, holding his hand out for her to take. As she reached for his hand, [Name] hesitated for a split second. Her eyes noticing his palm. The faint outline of the rosary imprinted upon his palm, almost as if it had been burnt into his flesh. She took his hand and he helped her out, interlocking their hands and leading her back home. 

Her mind spiralled with thoughts. The rosary was something used to protect oneself against werewolves. Wait a second...

The rosary. The fearful words of the elderly woman. “The beast knows you well, it knows everything about you.” “Those who are pure of heart.” Speedwagon’s reluctant behaviour of going there in the first place... 

Her heart froze in her chest. All the evidence was laying before her and she never realised it. Her eyes peeked out the corner of her eye at her lover. 

It was Speedwagon. The beast that has been killing people of Ogre Street was Robert. E. O. Speedwagon.

[drjackandmissjo]

firewhisky on ice, sunset and vine

you’ve ruined my life by not being mine

Chapter 7— previous chapter — next chapter

Harry Potter fics Masterlist

The message only said ‘URGENT’. It was left on the inside of a book, in the Great Hall, in the place he used to seat at, yet Blaise had no problem understanding who it came from. Opening the cover, he noticed the word scrambled on a piece of parchment in one quick stroke of pencil. He had seen that messy handwriting one too many times not to recognize it immediately, despite its lack of contest.

Sure enough, he raised his eyes towards the Gryffindor table, scanning it quickly and spotting a wild Longbottom, carefully sipping from his cup, brown eyes boring into his. Content of being finally spotted, the Gryffindor threw a cautious wink his way, masquerading it as a cough, before returning to his conversation with Weasley.

Maintaining his posture, he slid into his seat, placing his own books over the incriminating carrier and resuming his previous conversation with Pansy about what they each expected from the first Apparition class the next day.

Dinner passed in a blur, with Blaise not really paying attention to the topics that were discussed over the table, giving some meaningless responses whenever he thought appropriate. Nobody questioned his behaviour, not entirely uncharacteristic: it wasn’t that uncommon, for the majority of Slytherins, to appear distant and lost in thought, especially after a long and tiring day.

His attention peaked several times, when a bright and cursed laugh came from the Gryffindor table as an idiot doubled himself over the table at something his friends said: Pansy would then throw him an all-knowing, infuriating glance, which Blaise tried his hardest to ignore and to not respond to the provocation.

Since his truthful moment back on the train, she had been an absolute nightmare. She had begun bombarding him with questions about various boys, which she thought would be perfect for him. In the end, he was forced to admit the full truth when she all but organized a date with Justin Finch-Fletchley, who just happened to be out as well. Her initial reaction was horror at the idea of her friend dating a Gryffindor, which was integrally unacceptable, but then her face distorted into a wicked smile. “You know, I can definitely see it. He’s got a great arse and those biceps, don’t even get me started.”

He had come extremely close to hexing her, which would’ve cause a detention but would’ve also partially erased his headache, were it not for Millicent capturing their attention and distracting Blaise from his task. But now, all his previous fury resumed at the smirk the witch threw his way whenever he raised his head to check the other table.

“You okay, Zabini? You seem tense…” she hummed, toying with her fork and twisting the food on her plate, raising a mocking eyebrow at him. He threw her his best murderous glance, plastering a fake smile on his lips as he forcefully shoved a bite into his mouth, to occupy himself with something other than the thought of stabbing her.

“You should smile more, Blaise, someone might fall in love with you” she hummed again, taking a sip off her pumpkin juice. Yes, he was definitely stabbing the little bitch. “As long as he keeps that constipated face on, doubt anyone will be brave enough to even look at him for too long” commented jokingly Theo, elbowing him in the sides. “Che cazzo, the irony” Blaise thought, slightly panicking inside as he laughed at the joke, mentally facepalming as the vixen in front of him spread her blood red lips into a vicious grin.

“Theo’s got a point, mate” Draco intervened, leaning his chin on Blaise’s books, sighing and poking holes at Saint Potter’s back, “You guys gotta check on him, he’s onto me” he then added after a moment, jerking his head towards the Gryffindor seeker.

“You mean onto or into?” asked Pansy, raising the question that everyone at the table knew the answer to, despite it never been voiced by the direct interested party. “Why would he be into me?” fired back the blond, his voice raising ten different octaves higher and eyes widening almost comically. “You want him to be into you?” enquired Blaise, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned back on his chair, focusing once again on his own Gryffindor, that was now saying his farewells to his housemates. He slowly followed the departing boy with his eyes, noticing how he held a book on his hands, full on display for Blaise to see. Somehow, it clicked: the note had no meeting location, after all, and therefore he had had to come up with a rather clever idea to share his idea. Confusing, but still clever.

Blaise desperately needed to be sure of his intuition and prayed on Merlin that it was actually true.

“Why would I want that arrogant and vaniteux idiot to be into me?” continued Draco, but Blaise was already raising on his feet and grabbing his books.

“My apologies, cretini” he said, fixing his tie and giving Pansy a pointed glare, “regardless of the heights of this conversation I must depart.” The vixen then nodded once and with that he fleeted the Great Hall, followed by a very high pitched scream the witch exclaimed at him: “TELL ME HOW IT GOES OR I’LL CURSE YOU!” she yelled, earning a middle finger in response.

***

The book belonged to the second to last rows in the library, almost near the Restricted Section. It was a History manual about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 and Blaise hoped that he would find something interesting, returning it to its original spot.

The library was empty, not even Madame Pince was there to complain about the echo his shoes made on the marble floor.

He had to admit that it was probably one of the smartest plans he’d taken parts in that year, well-constructed and articulated. That was, of course, if he had recognized the clues properly. If not, it was damned Longbottom’s fault for sending his heart in such a frenzy, truth to be told.

He stopped at the beginning of the row, checking once more the empty corridor behind him, before turning towards his destination.

He was there, casually sitting on a nook on the window and reading a book. As soon as Blaise stepped towards him, the Gryffindor raised his head and gave him a blinding smile. “Sweet suffering Salazar” his mind repeated endlessly as he approached, forcing his legs not to be rooted on the ground and trying not to embarrass himself.

“You came!” Longbottom exclaimed, closing his book and jumping on his feet, seeming more like an overly-excited puppy than a wizard. It took all of Blaise’s will power not to melt into a puddle at the cuteness in front of him, and he was rather proud of the un-shakiness of his voice as he asked: “Are you surprised?”, maintaining his tone cool and calm.

“More like relieved” the Gryffindor replied, scratching the back of his neck as he nervously chuckled, “I knew I was vague but I couldn’t exactly owl you, so I had to improvise” he added sheepishly, worriedly toying with the book in his hands.

Unable to resist the urge to tease the boy in front of him, Blaise slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the bookcase behind him, willing an aura of confidence to surround him: “Do you always create such complicated plans whenever you can’t send a letter to someone?” he pondered out loud, his voice dripping cockiness. The few words that Longbottom said then utterly wrecked him.

“Only for important people” he whispered, almost mostly to himself yet loud enough for Blaise to hear and completely lose his mind.

He was stunned, under a spell, shocked and paralyzed, all at once: had he really just admitted that, casually, in the fucking library? Was that the urgent thing that they had to discuss? He desperately needed to know.

But Longbottom looked borderline uncomfortable and he couldn’t bring himself to raise such a delicate topic at the moment. “Anyway…” he coughed, trying to mask his internal turmoil, “What was so urgent that couldn’t wait tomorrow?”

Longbottom then did another thing that sent Blaise’s brain into a day off: he smiled timidly, putting his book down and toying with his fingers. “I think you’d wanna sit down for this…” he then added quickly, motioning emphatically towards the little nook on the window that was previously occupied by the Gryffindor. “Should I be worried?” asked Blaise, raising an eyebrow and huffing out a quickly laugh as he did what he was told. Longbottom fully laughed at that, as quietly as he could, considering they were still in the library. “No, don’t think so” he said, shaking his head and beginning to shift his weight from foot to foot rather annoyingly. “Then could you stop bouncing? It’s kinda off-putting and distracting” Blaise told him, almost emotionlessly as his mind fired: “Just like everything else you do but that’s another point, how the fuck can I concentrate on anything when I’m around this giant beau!”

“Oh. Sorry” he murmured, mindful of his surroundings, “Godric, I’m just excited!”. He went back to scratching his neck once more, before sighing, and finally he spoke: “Okay, so. Professor McGonagall asked me to remain after class cause she wanted to talk to me, you noticed?” he asked, pulling a face at the memory. “Really? I didn’t really pay attention…” Blaise said, faking nonchalance and waving his hand in a motion for Longbottom to continue with his little speech, while his mind yelled: “OF COURSE I NOTICED, MY HEART POUNDED LIKE CRAZY FOR YOU ASSHOLE”, but the Gryffindor didn’t need to know that particular minor detail.

“Well, turns out she was curious about my progress on Transfiguration. I apparently got an E on the revision of Standard Conjuring Spells and an A on the practical part! She had questions about how I’ve gotten this better and I kinda told her you’re helping me study. Hope it doesn’t upset you. Fuck I didn’t really consider that you might not want her knowing any of this, I just panicked and told her the truth also cause, duh, it’s Professor McGonagall and I can’t lie to her face and she just looked so proud and…”

Blaise couldn’t stand it anymore.

He bolted up to his feet, thus interrupting the Gryffindor mid-rant and marched quickly to where the other boy stood. Longbottom was looking at him with an expression of pure dread and began to nervously glance around them to check if anyone was nearby. He came to a stop right inside the other’s personal space, a few centimetres short off in their impromptu standoff. A bewildered Gryffindor was now staring down at him, ready to voice any complaints he might’ve had.

But he didn’t have the time: Blaise grabbed his red and golden tie and, casting a rapid glance behind the taller boy, leaned in, bringing Longbottom’s face slightly down, meeting him in between and closing his eyes.

For a split of a second neither moved; Blaise remained frozen in time, wondering when the axe would drop. He had just kissed a boy, after all, which was not something one was supposed to do, and said boy was a Gryffindor, which meant that, no matter how ‘weak’ or non-violent he might be, he would be able to throw a mean right hook that would’ve left Blaise unconscious on the library floor.

For a moment he waited, unable to deepen the kiss or remove himself from the situation. When enough was enough, though, he leaned slightly backwards and began to open his eyes, apology ready on the tip of his tongue.

Until he could feel a pair of strong arms wrap around his middle and a soft pair of lips pushing against his own, resuming the previous interrupted act and deepening the kiss. Blaise’s body melted right into Longbottom’s, his mind going completely blank: he could feel the warm and slightly chapped lips brushing against his, felt the Gryffindor’s torso tilting against his and faintly bowing him backwards. He hadn’t realized his legs were moving until his back hit a bookcase, books rattling on their shelves.

It was Blaise’s turn now to wrap his arms around the other boy, placing them on his neck and tucking his hands on his hair. “I knew they were soft!” he thought, tilting his head to the side and biting Longbottom’s bottom lip. He couldn’t believe it, what was happening, nor when, nor with whom. Yet his mind didn’t retain a single concept, not when the Gryffindor exhaled a shaky breath whenever they resurfaced from each other for air, only to be sucked once again in each other’s lips.

During their previous year, the Weasley twins had decided to create a spectacle made of fireworks: the ones that now exploded beyond Blaise’s eyes burned brighter and were much more vibrant. The entire world stopped right at them and he wouldn’t have cared if the school collapsed to the ground burning, not when Longbottom moved his lips down his jawline, nibbling at every patch of skin he found.

Blaise’s hands began roaming down his back as the Gryffindor resumed his path upwards to return to his lips. Each new brush was more vigorous than the previous one and Blaise was entirely lost in the sensation of the soft yet demanding touch. He was incredibly grateful for the support the bookcase gave him, for his legs were about to give up.

Longbottom’s hands didn’t stay idly either: they roamed up and down his sides, grabbing his tie and undoing it as his teeth grazed Blaise’s bottom lip, rendering him completely breathless and headless. Appreciative sounds exited from both their mouths as they moved closer, bodies fully pressed against one another as their tongues battled for dominance in their dangerous dance.

He had just moved his hands back into their original place, tugging at the short and soft blonde strains as Longbottom deepened their kiss once more, when they heard the faint clicking of heels against the marble floor. The Gryffindor jumped immediately back, turning around and going to sit at the window, resuming his reading hastily, as nothing had happened. Blaise did his best to recompose himself, passing a hand over his face to ground himself to reality and turning around to browse the shelves that they had just disrupted, as steps echoed closer and closer.

Surely enough, Madame Pince rounded the corner, bearing a thunderous expression. He was pretty sure they had been fairly quiet and hadn’t been heard, but he couldn’t be certain.

“What are you doing here?” asked the old librarian sternly. Blaise simply shrugged and resumed his browsing, not trusting his voice not to quiver after the tumultuous event, but he heard the Gryffindor reply in a flat tone: “Nothing Madame, I was just reading” he said, raising his book as proof. She seemed to buy their circumstantial lie and left the scene stoutly, loudly reminding them that the library hours were about to finish.

For someone so strict on silence, she screamed like a baby mandrake.

“Since when do I think in herbology metaphors? This boy is gonna be the death of me” he thought as soon as she had fleeted the scene, smiling softly as he turned around to face the equally sheepishly looking boy seated nearby, who had left his book on the windowsill and had risen up, walking towards Blaise. He stopped a mere inch away, so close that Blaise could feel his shaky breath. His fingers itched to grab the Gryffindor’s tie and turn the tables, push him against the bookcase, but the fear of Madame Pince showing up once again restrained him from acting on his impulses.

Instead, he simply stared bewildered at the boy in front of him, smiling tenderly down at him.

“So…” he started quietly, unsure of what path to take: it was clear that Longbottom wasn’t going to punch him into the infirmary any time soon, but dread and doubt crept up in Blaise’s stomach. Despite a great snogging moment, rejection could still come and hurt like a thousand cuts drenched in lime and salt.

The Gryffindor raised his hands up and quietly adjusted Blaise’s tie, nervously biting his bottom lip as they remained on his shoulders, waiting. It was then that Blaise took in fully the boy in front of him: hair totally askew and seemingly windswept, cheeks rosy and lips swollen and red, a smile that was so small yet so blinding.

He couldn’t resist the urge any longer and leaned once again forward, peeking lightly Longbottom’s lips and retracting suddenly. That elicited a bubbly laugh from the blonde boy, so contagious that had Blaise joining without him meaning to. All the nervousness was immediately erased from his body and a soft feeling of calm and content replaced it.

“Guess this is a good time as any to tell you I like you” he whispered, feeling his cheeks heat up at the admission as a smile spread wild and carefree on his lips. Longbottom huffed up a laugh, arms slighting down his own and grabbing Blaise’s hands in his tenderly, “Well I sure hope so, after all we just risked being banned for the rest of the semester from the library to snog!” he said back, interlacing their fingers and shaking his head delicately gently. “It was your idea to meet here” rebutted Blaise, sounding offended for the sake of their banter, but actually smiling the most he had in weeks.

“Yeah but you started it!” He rolled his eyes at that, “Are you always this childish?” he asked as a wave of affection washed over him. Longbottom had a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he said, in the most expressionless face possible: “Only after being thoroughly snogged.”

Blaise could physically feel all his blood leave his brain to go downwards. “When did you figure out?” he asked after a few moments, while he regained control over his thoughts. “That I fancied you? After you offered to tutor me. That I go both ways? Before you asked me to tutor you. You?” “Remember the first day of Transfiguration?”, Longbottom nodded his affirmation, eyes sparkling as he urged silently Blaise to continue, “I guess I seemed rude most of the time but I was trying not to get caught staring.”

The Gryffindor laughed openly at that, dropping his head on Blaise’s shoulder and spreading warmth all over his upper torso at the contact “Yeah about that, Dean was afraid you were gonna hex me the first week. Glad it didn’t happen” he added, choosing to remain in that little nook and to caress Blaise’s neck with his lips for good measure. “So…” he asked eventually, when the temperature under his robes became too unbearable. Longbottom removed himself from Blaise, much to his displeasure, and went to sit back on the windowsill, bringing Blaise with him. “What shall we do, good sir?” he asked once they were both seated, fingers still intertwined and playing mindlessly with one another’s.

He literally had no idea: all his plans started and finished with him trying to woo the boy next to him, never once imagining the possibility of this reality happening. He still wasn’t quite sure it wasn’t a dream. “I don’t know, Longbottom” he admitted truthfully, before continuing, a wicked plan forming in his mind: “Seems like a good idea to find somewhere more private and resume our previous activity, from where we were interrupted.” “I had my tongue in your mouth, you can call me Neville” he said with such an eager tone that Blaise had to momentarily shut down, unable to proceed anywhere.

“Neville” he mouthed silently, savouring the way the syllables rolled off his tongue. “And as much as I’d love to just follow down that path, I’m afraid I have to go back to my common room” he continued, bringing Blaise back to their current situation, embarrassed at the suggestion he had made in the first place. “Oh. Yes, definitely a smart move” he agreed, trying to avoid his displeasure from showing on his features or on his tone.

But Longbottom Neville seemed also wanting to continue their conversation a bit longer, for he made no attempt at leaving. “Before we part ways, though, are we gonna do this?” Blaise asked quickly, motioning in between them and hoping his intentions were clear. He was definitely in head over heels for the boy, even if he didn’t particularly needed to know at the moment, and he wanted to know whether or not to begin planning awfully complicated plans for them to interact without arousing any suspicions.

“Hopefully yes” blurted out Neville, looking immensely relieved about the topic that had just been brought up, “I do like you a lot and from what I’ve gathered you like me so, yeah definitely!” Blaise erupted into a genuine smile, pleased with the answer, “Good.” He then added, in an afterthought, “But I don’t think we can tell people just yet.” Neville shook his head vehemently at that, clearly agreeing, “Are you kidding me? We’re a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, no one must ever know! It’s such a scandal” he said in a ushered and conspirator tone. “We’re definitely Romeo and Giulietta” Blaise added in the same voice, managing to hide the nervousness behind his words: despite their mocking attitude, it was a serious situation that might’ve brought both of them in serious trouble, mainly due not to their Hogwarts houses. “Didn’t peg you for a muggle literature connoisseur” Neville admitted, raising an eyebrow and effectively bringing Blaise out of his dark thoughts. “My mom made me read it. To be fair, it’s the worst tragedy ever, I prefer Macbeth.”

“Guess I’ll have to read it and tell you how it is” Neville said, then: “Just so you know, Luna, Ginny and Harry all knew I liked you and listened to me ramble about whether or not you liked me back, so if I shut up out of the blue they’ll get suspicious” he confessed, worrying his bottom lip. Blaise was familiar with the situation. “Pansy’s the same” he confessed, earning a blush from the blonde boy. “I think we gotta tell them” he said finally, turning fully to Neville to study his reaction. The Gryffindor now looked at their hands, still linked together, with a warm smile. He then nodded his agreement, “Smart move, also it serves good for when someone’s gotta cover for us” he finished his sentence with a wink, another thing that shortcutted Blaise’s brain and deprived it of the very much needed blood. “Awesome!” he stumbled over the first word that crossed his mind, trying hard not to become a bubbling mess. “I really think we should go…” he eventually said, when the fear of being discovered creeped up once more after the initial euphoria had worn off. “Yeah” Neville agreed, stretching his legs in front of him before raising up, “See you tomorrow for our lessons, then” he said, leaning down to quickly leave a gracious peck on Blaise’s cheek, “I’ve got some pointers you definitely need for the next essay that haven’t stuck out in your brain so far, so we’ll go over those first.”

And with that, he left, with Blaise remaining behind for the necessary and customary time Pansy had told him about: “After a snog or a shag, either you leave first or you wait two minutes and a half” she had instructed their previous year, yet the notion hadn’t been useful until then.

When the time went up, he rose from the little nook on the windowsill and began to leave the library as well, clutching tightly the History manual about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612.

Ta-dan! GLOSSARY:

"Che cazzo" means 'What the fuck', but depending on the context it can slightly change it. In this case it's more like alongside the lines of 'Holy shit' or You gotta be kidding me'

"Vaniteux" is French for 'conceited'

"Cretini" means 'idiots'

[loverholland]

lifeline. pp.

word count: 2k aprox. summary: being undusted didn’t have those perks you thought you would have. warning: endgame spoilers! death of parents, anxiety, panic attack, yelling, lashing out. this was inspired by lifeline by we three.

Your breath was caught in your throat as you looked at yourself in the mirror. Your hair was knotted more than usual, and your clothes were baggy. Your undereye bags were dark and your eyes were dull and bloodshot. Your fingers tapped the porcelain sink that sat in the school bathroom, tears down your cheeks.

You’re real. These… memories… they can’t happen anymore, and these images aren’t what makes you! So why does it feel like it does? You weren’t in the Soul Stone anymore. It’s okay. Everything is fine! You’re fine!

Your eyes closed quickly as few tears left, and your hands grasped at the sink as your legs gave out, bringing you to your knees. A sob left your lips as you rested your head on the sink, memories flashing in your mind.

You could remember being in this… quadrant thing. Much like a Beehive and everyone had their own spot. There wasn’t a sound you could hear except your own screams and cries, and although you could see people, and you couldn’t see anyone but yourself. You’re not sure how many people were there. If there was anyone at all. You banged on the windows, screamed, crying out for someone to help you. No one did. No one knew you were even there.

You had stopped crying, but you heaved and hiccupped as your hands shook and knuckles turned white. Suddenly, a dry sob left your lips, but there were no tears. You just let dry sobs leave your lips, allowing your hands to let go of the sink, and to fall and sit on the ground.

You heard the bathroom door open, and as quickly as you could, you lifted yourself on your shaky legs and turned on the water. You kept your head down and ran your hands under the cold water before putting them on your cheeks. You hiccupped and bit your lip to keep in the sob threatening to leave. When the stall door closed, you turned the water off and grabbed your bag before walking out and through the walls. You walked down the steps, to the main office.

You opened the heavy door and walked to the counter. You tapped your fingers and waited for Ms. Walsh, the secretary, to see you. You kept your eyes on the white counter. She looked over the computer and her thick-rimmed glasses, before smiling your way.

“Ms. Y/L/N!” She exclaimed. “How can I help you, sweetheart?” She asked with a smile.

She wouldn’t be smiling if she was going through what you were.

You sniffled and kept your head down. Your eyes fled with tears and you tried to find the words you needed- but they weren’t there. Nothing was there! And it freaked you out. Not having a single word comes to mind, freaked you out.

Ms. Walsh stood and walked towards where you stood. She was across from you now, and confusion was written on your face. She sat her hand on top of yours and you looked up at her.

“Ms. Y/L/N?” She asked.

Your lip quivered and quickly you said, “Need to leave.” You stated before looking to the side. “I-I need to go home right now,” you whispered, “please.” you begged.

Ms. Walsh sighed and looked down, squeezing your hand. “You can’t leave without parents’ permission,” she said and looked at you with concern. “Now if you have your parents call, I can check you out but-”

“My parents are dead! Please, just let me go!” You begged as tears rushed to your eyes. “I just want to go home!” you cried.

Ms. Walsh was taken aback, looking at you with knotted eyebrows. She quickly backed away and towards her phone.

“Oh,” she replied. “I still can’t let you leave. I can call one of your friends, however. Do you want me to call Betty?” She asked and you shook your head.

“No! I want to go home!” You cried out.

“I can’t-”

“Please!”

“Ms. Y/L/N,” she said sternly, “let me call one of your friends to calm you down, or I’ll have to call Mr. Jones.” She threatened.

Your lips parted and you moved back slightly, eyes searching the office. You could feel the tears begin to leave your eyes and you looked at her, before stepping back towards the line of chairs. You sat in one of the seats, looking at her as she pressed a few numbers and called one of the teachers. You didn’t listen, just stared at her as she talked. You sniffled and wiped your nose with the back of your hand. You felt lost. Gone.

You wanted to go home! Why couldn’t she just let you leave? It wouldn’t matter if you skipped a few classes.

Your eyes went to the ground when Ms. Walsh hung up. She sighed and lifted herself away from her desk and came to kneel in front of you. Her hand touched your knee and she smiled at you.

“Peter’s going to come and talk to you,” she said, and your eyes widened.

“No, not Peter! Anyone but Peter,” you pleaded. “He has too much going on to deal with my bullshit-”

“Language.” Ms. Walsh warned.

“-if he finds out that something’s wrong with me, he won’t leave me alone about it.” You tried to explain, but Ms. Walsh shook her head and squeezed your knee.

“I already called him down here, he’ll be here soon.” She explained. “C’mon let’s go to the conference room.” She said and stood, before walking to one of the doors behind her desk. She opened the one door and you stood, sniffling before going into the room. You unslung your bag from your shoulders and threw it to the side of the room. You sat in one of the rolling chairs and looked at the blank wall, waiting for Peter.

You waited for 3 minutes, and yes, you counted. You looked at the clock and counted down the minutes until the door opened again. Peter walked in with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He wore his Midtown High Sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. He offered a sweet smile, that you didn’t return. Instead, your red and puffy eyes looked down at the table as your arms folded.

You didn’t want him here. You didn’t want him to see you like this.

“Hey,” he whispered softly and walked over to the chair beside you. He pulled it out and sat next to you, but you moved your chair away from him. “What’s wrong?” He asked.

You side eyed him and leaned your head back. Peter nibbled on his lip as he was waiting for you to speak, but you didn’t want to speak. You just stared at the table and moved away every time he tried to give a comforting touch. You didn’t want him here. You just wanted to go home.

It was 20 minutes before either of you spoke. This time, you spoke first.

“You have too much shit to deal with.” You murmured. “Go back to class.”

Peter swiveled his chair, so he was facing you. He pulled at your chair and turned it the best he could before speaking again.

“I’m not leaving you here, okay?” He said. “There’s something wrong and if you don’t want to tell me, fine, I can’t make you. But I’m going to stay here until you either force me to leave, or you speak.”

You looked at Peter, eyes stone as your bottom lip quivered. The small wall you built, started tumbling down. Your eyes prickled with tears and you scoffed out a laugh as you looked down at your lap.

“I’m nervous,” you answered. “Every day I’m reminded of that stupid stone and that stupid ugly grape-”

“Thanos,” Peter interrupted, but you rolled your eyes and waved him off.

“-Whatever.” You murmured. “All I see when I close my eyes is that stupid thing and I see my face looking back at me and I hear my screams and my pleas for help. I see nothing but this scared girl and all I can do is scream and cry. I can’t do anything else.” You ranted. “And don’t even get me started on finding out my family was dead.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

“My grandmother doesn’t even know that her son is dead, Peter.” You explained. “She called the other day and asked to talk to mom or to dad, and I had to say: ‘no Grandma, they went on a date.” You told him. “Hung up after saying I love you and cried.” You sniffled.

“Y/N,” Peter tried to rest a hand on yours, but you pulled away.

“No, Peter!” You cried, sniffling as you looked at his hand. “Don’t touch me!”

“Y/N,” Peter said again, this time you stood up. “You can talk to me.” He said.

“I can talk to you about that stupid stone! I can’t talk to you about my parent's death!” You said, louder than you meant. “You don’t have to lie to family members and wonder when you need to tell them that your family is dead, Peter!”

“Y/N,” he tried again, standing from his seat.

There were tears streaming down your face as you looked at Peter. “You don’t have to hear your grandma yelling for your grandfather, making plans to come to your house to see your parents. You don’t have to listen to your grandmother raving about how happy she is to be back, to get letters from your mother that she sent out while we were fucking gone! You don’t have to quietly weep as your grandma asks how your mother and father is, Peter. You are home fucking free because you have your Aunt! She dusted with you and that’s all good and dandy for you, but for me? You don’t know how fucking jealous I am that you have your lifeline and I don’t.”

You finished with tears down your cheeks and your finger pressed against his chest. Your eyes hurt and Peter looked at you with knitted eyebrows and tears in his eyes. He knew you were right. You didn’t have anyone other than your grandparents. At least, now they were the only people you had. And sure, you had him, MJ, Betty, and Ned, but they couldn’t fill the void of losing a parent. And to come back to a simple note? It hurt. It hurt you a lot and he knows that he could never understand that sort of pain.

“So, don’t act like you know what I’m going through, cause you don’t. You don’t know and you won’t ever know.” You cried. “You’re going on that stupid trip to the UK so have fun, good luck. Don’t die or something.” You muttered and went to grab your bag, before going to the door. But Peter beat you there.

“Get out of my way,” you muttered and pushed at him. He didn’t budge. “You fucking idiot, move!” You whined.

Peter shook his head and stayed where he was. “No,” he stated simply. “You can call me names, tell me how I’ll never get it, but I’m not moving.” He said. “I can’t understand how you feel, and I’m sorry, but just, let me stay with you.”

You looked at him, sniffling as your lips pursed. Your head hung and a sob left your lips. Peter instantly wrapped his arms around you, bringing you into a hug. You pressed your face into his chest, letting the tears roll down as he rested his head on top of yours, locking you in the tight hug.

tag list: @parkeroffline, @peterstrainingwheels, @hollandroos, @dej-okay, @naturallytom, @tom-hollands-eyelash, @smexylemony , @afterglowparker, @tomhollandswh0re, @tragically-tonystark

[gratsustingue-the-ot4]

Hi , I really love all your fics you guys are awesome with the ot4 i love it .. uhm do you still take requests? I really want a fic about natsu’s struggle with his father... i love reading angst hurt/comfort fics

hey! thank you for the request ^-^ i wasn’t able to have the fic actually include sanjay (a bit of my own issues with my dad, projecting onto our favorite characters, etc etc) but this is all about their relationship. 

it’s set a few months after the car accident in if you believe in love, you’re always alive, so natsu is still recovering from the accident. 

father of mine (tell me how do you sleep)

Sting yawned, nudging open the front door of the apartment with his shoulder and kicking off his shoes. Natsu’s pink hair was just visible over the edge of the couch, but he didn’t look up at the sound.

“Hey, love,” Sting said, shifting the groceries in his arms and moving into the kitchen to set them down on the counter. “How’re you feeling?”

It had been almost two months since the accident, and Natsu was… well, recovering. Mostly. He’d been home for nearly three weeks now, and while it was mostly going well, Sting still felt like he was tiptoeing around something that could easily be shattered.

“Okay.” Natsu didn’t look up from the laptop that was balanced precariously on his knees.

“Did Rogue just leave for work?” Sting opened the fridge and started putting the food away while studying Natsu carefully.

“Mm. A few…” Natsu hesitated. “Times,” he said after a second. “Not the long, just… the hands?” He still didn’t look up, and Sting could hear the frustration in his voice.

“Minutes?” Sting suggested gently. Natsu nodded, rubbing his eyes and then returning to whatever he was doing on the laptop.

Continue reading on AO3

Sting sighed, folding up the grocery bags and setting them back by the front door before slowly approaching the couch. He could hear Natsu mumbling something under his breath, and when Sting got closer, he realized Natsu was reading something on the laptop screen and trying to sound out the words. It didn’t sound familiar, and it took Sting a second to realize that he was speaking Hindi.

“What’s that?” he asked, gesturing at the screen and settling down on the couch next to Natsu. Natsu didn’t answer at first, just tipped his head against Sting’s and ran his fingers over the edge of the keyboard.

“E-mail,” he said eventually. “I’m trying to read it, but… the words…” He huffed.

Sting wrapped his arm around Natsu’s shoulders and kissed his temple. “Who’s it from?” Natsu shook his head, shifting closer to Sting and then wincing. “Is your hip okay?” Sting asked, frowning.

“Yeah,” Natsu said, humming as Sting’s fingers started to move up his shoulder and into his hair. “Rogue took me to physio today.” He gestured at his leg, where the scar from his surgery stretched down his thigh.

“How’d it go?”  

“Hurt.” Natsu tipped his head forward to Sting could comb out the knots in the back of his hair, sighing at the sensation. “’s okay now.”

They sat like that for a few minutes, and eventually the cats all meandered out of the bedroom and joined them on the couch. Happy meowed at Natsu, putting both paws on his arm and headbutting his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” Natsu said softly, scratching behind Happy’s ears. Then he tipped his head back against Sting’s shoulder and looked back down at the laptop. “I can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?” Sting asked.

“Read it.” Sting’s heart ached at the tight lines of frustration that appeared on Natsu’s face. “It’s… the words are all wrong. Not like before, not the…” He trailed off, waving his hand vaguely.

“Dyslexia?” Sting suggested.

Natsu nodded. “It’s not mixed up,” he mumbled. “It’s… the letters don’t make sense. Like with the words, and I say things, and you say things, and they’re… my brain makes them wrong.”

Sting pulled Natsu tighter against him. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I wish I could make it better.”

“I know the words,” Natsu insisted. “I know it, and I can… it’s there, but it doesn’t make sense, and I can’t…” His voice caught on the last word and he turned, pressing his face to Sting’s shoulder. “I hate it.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Sting murmured, taking the laptop and setting it down on the coffee table, then shifting so he could pull Natsu into his arms. “I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be.”

“Everything is,” Natsu mumbled, curling up against Sting. “It hurts, and I hate… the…” He gestured to his face, where the broken glass of the windshield had left several thin, white scars. “I can’t—and Gray is sad, and I want to make it… I want to… I… fuck!” He growled, gripping Sting’s sweater tightly. “Fucking… fuck. Stupid, I hate it.”

His shoulders started to shake, and Sting realized he was crying in earnest now, trying to hold in the aching sounds that were desperately trying to escape. Sting could feel his own tears starting to appear, but he bit his lip to hold them back. This wasn’t about him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, continuing to run his hand through Natsu’s hair while holding him close. “This whole thing sucks, and none of it’s fair, and you’re allowed to feel whatever way you want to feel.”

“I’m angry,” Natsu managed through the tears. “I don’t want to be.”

“I know,” Sting reassured him. “I know you don’t, but sometimes you just have to let yourself feel the shitty things.”

Natsu sniffed, rubbing at his face with the back of his hand and letting out a wet laugh when Frosche appeared, wriggling until she was between Sting and Natsu. She leaned in and started to lick Natsu’s hair, putting a paw on his head to hold him still.

“We’re all here for you,” Sting said as Natsu stilled, letting Frosche groom him. “I know it’s hard for you to see Gray hurting, too, but his guilt isn’t on you. He’s dealing with that with his therapist, and you can’t shoulder that responsibility.”

“I know,” Natsu said softly.

They were both quiet for a while, and when Frosche was satisfied that Natsu’s hair was clean, she moved up to Sting, climbing onto his shoulder and starting over again. Natsu’s sniffles petered out into occasional hiccups, and eventually his breathing matched Sting’s, soft and even.

“It’s from my dad,” Natsu said after a while. “The e-mail.” Sting tensed and Natsu must have felt it because he tipped his head back until they were looking at each other. “He was mean to you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

Sting hesitated, not quite meeting Natsu’s eyes. His interactions with Sanjay had been tense at best, and outright hostile at worst. Sting still couldn’t get the image out of his head of Gray yelling at Sanjay, tears in his eyes as he defended Sting and demanded an apology that would never be given.

“I don’t want to… he’s your dad.”

Natsu shook his head. “He’s a jerk.” He looked between Sting and the laptop. “What did he say?”

“Natsu,” Sting said gently, but Natsu squeezed his hand, giving him an insistent look. Sting sighed. “He told me to leave and said that our relationship – all of us – was unnatural. Gray got really angry at him and told him to apologize or leave… he wouldn’t, but your mom did. We didn’t see him again after that; I think Igneel made sure we weren’t ever there are the same time.”  

“Fuck,” Natsu whispered. “I haven’t… haven’t, um… the words? Saying…”

“Talked to him?”

Natsu nodded. “Not since he went home.”

Maya had stayed for a week after Natsu woke up, helping the four of them with groceries and cooking and making sure everyone was well taken care of. Gray had been uncertain around her, but Sting had tried his best to make her feel welcome after her change of heart.

Sanjay, on the other hand, had left a few days after Natsu had woken up, and apparently hadn’t spoken to Natsu since then.

“When did he e-mail you?” Sting asked.

Natsu held up two fingers. “Days ago,” he added. He chewed on his lip. “Maybe it’s better… if I can’t?”

“You don’t want to read it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide right now.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a little bit, and eventually Natsu leaned over and closed the laptop. Then he squeezed Sting’s hands and tipped his head toward the kitchen.

“Supper?” 

~

“Are you busy?”  

Gray looked up from his book at Natsu’s question, frowning at the uncertain look on Natsu’s face. He was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, looking down at the floor and playing with a small fidget cube in his left hand.

“Of course not,” Gray said, putting his book down and gesturing for Natsu to come sit next to him on the bed. “You need a hand?”

“’m okay,” Natsu said, shaking his head as he managed the few steps to the bed. He shuffled until he was lying down next to Gray, who wrapped and arm around him and pulled him close.

“What’s up?” Gray asked gently. “How was lunch with Erza?”

“Okay,” Natsu said. “She helped me read the… words. On the laptop, from pita.”

“The e-mail?” Natsu nodded against Gray’s chest. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I dunno.”

“Not good?” Gray guessed.

Natsu shook his head. “I hate him.” Gray’s heart ached at the words – quiet and laced with disappointment and defeat. “He’s mean. To you, and to Sting and Rogue… to me.” He took a shaky breath. “I don’t understand. He… why doesn’t he want me to be… good? Smiles?”

“Happy.”

“Yeah.” The resigned tone of Natsu’s voice made Gray feel like crying. “I was… I thought…” Natsu paused, taking a deep breath to try and make it easier to find the words. “I almost died.” Gray tried his best not to tense up at the statement. “I thought he might realize that I’m… not special, the other one?”

“Important?”

Natsu nodded against Gray’s chest. “He’s supposed to love me.”

Gray pressed his face to Natsu’s hair and held him closer. “I think he does love you,” he said carefully. “He’s just…”

“An asshole.” Natsu sighed, then added, “Sting told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That you told my dad to apologize.” Gray’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he recalled the outburst. “I’m sorry he was… wasn’t nice. Mean.”

“It’s okay,” Gray reassured him. “Nobody blames you. We were all scared.”

“’s not an excuse,” Natsu insisted. “He was a… he’s always… to you, and then now, with everyone…” He huffed in frustration, then leaned back and looked at Gray. “Can we go visit mom and dad?”

~

Rogue drove out to Silver and Mika’s. They took the long way – meandering through the countryside and avoiding the bridge where the accident had happened altogether. Gray napped in the back seat most of the way; drowsy from the anxiety medication with his head in Natsu’s lap.

“You okay?” Rogue asked, glancing back at Natsu in the rearview mirror.

“Mm.” Natsu looked back from where he’d been gazing out the window at the trees. “It’s not as bad for me. I don’t remember.”

Everything about the day of the accident was blurry, and the last thing Natsu remembered was leaving Silver and Mika’s. Even the half hour or so of driving before the accident was gone. Gray, on the other hand, had seen everything happen, and had still been mostly conscious when the paramedics arrived. Natsu had sat up with him after several nightmares, kissing his forehead and reassuring him that he was safe and alive.

“We’re here, love,” Natsu murmured gently when they finally pulled into Silver and Mika’s driveway. Gray grumbled at him, yawning and rubbing his face before sitting up slowly. “Sleep okay?”

“Mm.” Gray stretched and looked out the window. “That was quick.”

“You did sleep for four hours,” Rogue said as he got out of the car and moved over to the rear door. “Are you gonna use the crutches, or be a stubborn asshole?” The question was directed at Natsu, who made a face at him.

“Stubborn asshole,” he said, grinning when Rogue rolled his eyes and held out an arm to help Natsu to his feet. “Love you, babe.” Rogue flicked him on the forehead.

“Bonjour!” Mika waved at the four of them from the open from door and kissed each of them on the cheek as they made their way into the house. Natsu could hear her asking Gray something softly in French, and he was content to see Gray give her a genuine smile and hug her tightly. It was slow going, but he was getting better.

“Hey, it’s my favorite boys!” Silver appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with a wide smile on his face. “How was the drive?”

The sight of Silver made something crumple in Natsu’s chest and he nearly burst into tears. The ache that had been dragging him down all week slowly dissolved, and before he could think he was across the room, hugging Silver tightly.

“Natsu?” Silver’s voice sounded confused, but Natsu heard Rogue gently say his dad, and then Silver’s arms were around his shoulders, holding him close. “I love you, son,” Silver said gently.

Natsu didn’t realize he was crying until the front of Silver’s shirt started to grow wet, but once he started, he couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled through the tears. “’s stupid.”  

“Don’t apologize,” Silver said gently, voice rumbling against Natsu as he hugged him tighter. Another set of hands brushed through Natsu’s hair – Mika – and she pressed a kiss to his temple, then joined the embrace. “Family isn’t always the people who raised you,” Silver said. “And all of you will always be our sons.”

Natsu sniffed, hugging Silver tighter as he tried to push away his dad’s words from earlier in the week.

It’s not normal. I’m disappointed in you. I cannot accept this.

“You will always be welcome here,” Mika said, pulling the other three into the embrace as well. The tension in Natsu’s body slowly faded away in the circle of all the people who loved him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, eventually pulling away from Silver and wiping at his face. Even though he could hear Sting sniffling behind him too, Natsu’s tears were still joined by an embarrassed flush in his cheeks. “I love you too.” He hesitated, then added, “Dad.”  

Silver squeezed his arm and Mika kissed his cheek, and then Gray’s arm was around Natsu’s waist, holding him up just as his hip began to throb. “Come sit down,” Gray said gently.

The stubborn part of Natsu was tempted to argue that he was fine, he didn’t need help, nothing hurt. But then he looked at Gray – at the man who had come into his life and given him a home, who had dragged Natsu into his family when Natsu needed it most.

“Okay,” he said softly, leaning in and kissing Gray’s cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Gray raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure you didn’t take a double dose of painkillers earlier?”

“Nope.” Natsu gave him a soft smile. “Just love you.”

Watching the redness creep up the back of Gray’s neck was incredibly gratifying. Natsu looked up at Silver again, nodding thanks again before letting Gray help him over to the couch.

“Now,” Silver said, grinning and gesturing to the barbeque on the back deck. “Who’s ready for dinner?”

[neoarchipelago]

Bridegroom's Oak Tree (John Wick x Reader part one)

AN: so this was a detailed request so there will be two parts to it, here's the first part guys! A bit of a AU here !

Request: "Hi, could you write one where John wick is a mafia lord falling in love at first sight with a teacher who is shy and doesn't know he is a mafia.And recently I read about this tree in Australia which has its own mailbox. People who are single write letters to the tree and anyone can pick any and respond to them. So far the tree is responsible for 100 marriages. So maybe you can write one where John wick, the mafia.. Writes a letter and finds it responded by the teacher. They both remain anonymous. But he falls for her. He is also kind of afraid as to how she might react when she finds out... All that" request by: @cynic-spirit

Word count : 2 306

Warnings: none

_______________________________

Klaus Ackerman was a nice old man. He had worked at the dodauer forst forest for the past 45 years. He knew everything single path and tree that covered the forest. He also had been a guardian of the Bridegroom's oak tree for just as long. He had seen so many young, and old people come to the tree to find love.

The tree's story was after all, a bit like a fairy tale. The name of the tree came from a very old story that everyone knew. The daughter of the head forester and the son of a chocolate maker were in love but her father disapproved. They exchanged letters secretly by leaving them in the whole in the tree trunk. Eventually they ended up getting married under the same tree not long after the father of the maiden had given in.

The beautiful story eventually led people to think that the tree attracted the soulmate of the person who would write a letter and place it in the hole in the tree. Klaus had seen many letters being answered to, people finding their other half, getting married and then coming back to thank the tree with various offerings during their honeymoon. Unfortunately he had also seen many letters still waiting for someone to answer to them. One in particular, from a young man still lingered there waiting for someone to pick it up.

Klaus remembered the man quite clearly. It wasn't particularly the way he looked, standing at the bottom the tree looking up, in his perfectly clean three piece black suit. It's not the way he looked absolutely unshakable with his hair gelled back, his beard tamed and his dark eyes, that made him remember the man even after all those years. It was the way he kindly smiled at him and spoke to him with his raspy yet soft voice.

Klaus had been through a rough time. His only daughter was sick, and the two jobs he was accumulating wasn't enough to pay for all the bills he had. He was a tired man, and the black suit man saw it. John Wick, he had introduced himself. Klaus had politely introduced himself as well. The conversation had gone by effortlessly, the calming aura of the man eventually leading Klaus to tell him the problems he was going through.

Klaus was shocked when the man pulled out a heavy amount of money and offered it to him. He couldn't possibly accept it, no. He would never be able to pay it back. But the man had insisted, claiming he didn't need that money as much as Klaus. Klaus was still reluctant to accept the god given money but Mr Wick had finally found a way for him to accept.

"How about you take the money, and in exchange, I want you to watch over the letter I wrote. I put it in the tree hole, but I'm not from here. I won't be able to know if one day someone answers. I want you to send me the answer if it ever comes, to this address. Give me your word, that until your last day here, you will do that."

Klaus had looked down at the small paper with the address that the man was giving him, and finally accepted breaking down into thankful tears. And so he had been doing exactly that. The man was gone, leaving for New York again. The worn out piece of paper was still in Klaus's pocket. Waiting for the letter in the tree to finally be picked up. But many years had gone by and no one ever seemed to be interested in the small letter, with the blue lettering.

Today was another sunny day, and Klaus had started his afternoon shift. He trailed along his usual path, his old legs not going as fast as he used to. He'd soon have to retire, but the he wished he could fulfill the man's wish.

Finally reaching the Bridegroom's Oak, he noticed not so many people were there today. It was sunny, yet a bit cold, and the wind brushed the trees making them sing. He approached the ladder that reached the hole in the tree and watched as the postman who usually came around at this hour stepped down.  

"Ay, good afternoon Mr Ackermann."

"Good afternoon Nevil. How are things up there?" Klaus asked with a small smile.

"Many letters as usual! But hey! That letter you're always asking about, it's finally gone!"

Klaus blinked. Gone? But it was there yesterday! Shaking off the panic he felt, he smiled at the postman. It had to be picked up, that was the point. Now he only had to wait and see who would come and put her answer into the tree.

Klaus waited near the tree all day. He watched as people passed on by, climbing the ladder and putting their letters into the tree hole. He watched closely every letter being dropped off, trying to find something that would make him recognize Mr Wick's letter.

The evening drawing near, he sighed, looking up at the burning sky as the sun began to set. He tiredly watched people walk on by when his eyes fell on a small letter, in blue lettering, held by a young woman. Klaus jumped up walking towards the lady, who strangely, stood at the bottom of the tree, looking at it.

"Excuse me miss?" Klaus's shaky voice rang.

The young lady turned around, looking at him with her beautiful (e/c) eyes.

"Hello, do you need anything?" She asked in a sweet voice, a kind smile on her lips.

"That letter, did you answer to it?" He asked.

"Oh, yes. I don't really think it'll lead to anything though. I'm not from Germany so. It's a bit of shot in the dark." She said looking down at the Mr wick's letter.

"Where are you from, If I may ask?" Klaus asked.

"From New York. In the United States. I'm here on a small vacation."

Klaus smiled. Maybe the tree was really magic?

"Would you allow me miss?" He asked. Earning a confused look from the lady.

"You see, it is my last day working here. I am old, and getting retired. I have been waiting for a long time for this letter to be answered. It isn't mine, do not fear. It's… a friend's. Would you allow me to put it in the tree? As a last act of duty."

She shyly smiled at him and gave him her letter.

"Of course, it'll be a pleasure. I have to go in anyway, my plane won't be waiting for me and my friends either. Thank you sir."

Klaus took the letter in his hand. A simple folded letter, in black lettering, the handwriting was smooth and perfectly clean. He smiled at the lady as she turned and walked away. Klaus smiled to himself. Finally he could fulfill his word, and retire as well. He had grandchildren to play with, but first, he had a letter to post.

__________

Back in New York, things had changed for John since his trip to Germany. He had become the head of the Mafia here in New York, earning his place at the High table. The baba yaga was a feared man, strict, dangerous and everyone knew it. It had taken him focus, commitment and sheer will so finally be the man he was today. Many years had passed, he wasn't as young as when he put the letter in the tree. He had lived a lonely life, but somehow had gotten used to it.

Today's High table meeting ended, as everyone excused themselves. John stood up and walked out. He didn't like to stay too long near the other members of the High table. He preferred his house. Reaching his car he got in the back seat as his driver greeted him. John greeted him politely and leaned back in his seat. The car started as John sighed. It had been lonely years yes. People he knew had found that perfect love and had now many children running around. He wished he had that kind of happiness as well but perhaps he wasn't made for it.

John looked up at his driver as the car rang, through the Bluetooth of the car. John nodded as the driver looked for approval in the rear view mirror. Answering the call John sighed.

"Yes?" John asked in a deep voice.

"Pardon me Mr Wick, but a letter has arrived for you." The voice rang.

"Alright, and why are you calling for a letter Jack?" John asked slightly annoyed.

"Well it was sent by Klaus Ackermann, and you specifically asked to be informed of any correspondence from this person."

John stared at the car seat in front of him. Had he heard correctly? Did someone answer his letter? After all these years, impossible. Klaus probably sent a letter to tell him he was retiring and no one answered his letter. John shook himself back to reality.

"Put in on my desk, thank you Jack."

With a final 'Yes sir' the call was ended. John looked at out of his window, deep in thoughts. He wasn't expecting anything else at all from Klaus, not after so many years. He felt curious and a bit hopeful, but at the same time stupid for putting such expectations in a letter he wrote so many years ago. He sighed. No point in wrecking his mind now. He'd get home soon enough and see what was the letter all about.

____________

You watched over your class as time passed. Today you had decided to make a simple test, just to make sure your students have been learning correctly your class. It wasn't a big deal and you had warned them there would be one so you were expecting good results.

You had been a teacher in a high school for only 4 years, but you enjoyed it. You were young, and a bit shy, but your students were all nice to you and you were pretty glad of it. New York was a welcoming home to you, but you felt lonely. You recently got home from a travel to Europe where you ended up on a road trip with a friend for the past week, ending up in Germany. Your friends had taken you to the Bridegroom's oak tree, where they had insisted that you take a letter to answer to because Magic would be the solution to  your loneliness.

You had complied, being tired of their jokes, and had picked up a beautiful letter with perfectly handwritten blue lettering. You had read the letter as you visited the city with your friends, not really paying attention to the landscape but getting lost in the paragraphs that seemed to build cities just for you. You were almost pained, knowing that there was little chances that the man who wrote the letter would answer to you. You had written your letter, finding some beautiful paper and a black ink pen, to write a letter as beautiful as the one you had picked.

You had thought about it all afternoon before finally deciding to bring the letter back to the Oak tree. You had stopped to admire the tree, taking a last thought on your action before being approached by a worker of the Forest. You had smiled to the old man and talked to him. Lastly he had asked to take care of your letter and in a last gush of hope and magic you let the old man do his last act of duty.

Falling back into reality you looked around at the classroom. "Five minutes left everyone" you said in a soft voice, earning a few groans.

You smiled softly. You had given up on the idea of your letter ever finding the man who it was destined to. You remembered the words inked in the little letter that now rested in one of your favorite notebooks, the one that never left your side. You sighed. Hope tends to breed eternal misery.

You looked at your watch again. Two minutes left and your day would be over. You had to grade the tests and then you could take a bath and probably order some food. You were waiting just for that. The bell rang you smiled at your students.

"Time's up guys! Please leave your tests on your tables, have a nice evening guys, and Don't forget your homework!"

You earned a 'yes miss' from running students, making you chuckle. You sighed, looking at your now, empty classroom, and stood up to pick up the tests. You hummed a soft tune, as you walked through the rows of seats and tables. A knock on the door made you jump, spinning around.

You blushed at the man who stared at you with dark eyes. He was tall, wearing a black suit. You looked away feeling intimidated by this man, who looked handsome and who had just heard you sing in your small classroom.

"I..hum.. hello…" you tried to say.

"Hello." He answered, smirking at you.

You felt tiny for a second as he walked closer to you, making you realize how tall he really was. You tried to keep eye contact with his beautiful dark eyes, but it only made you even more intimidated.

"May I help you...Sir?" You said in a low voice, but with a smile.

"You can, indeed. After all, you answered to my letter Miss (y/l/n)." He spoke in a deep voice.

You froze. Impossible. You looked down to see the man hold a letter, in black lettering. You shot your head back up drowning in the man's eyes.

"It's you…" you let out in a whisper.

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Tags: @thatbemyhouse @magdazwolska