#been also re-reading some chapters

[olitheguy]

*gasp* THEM!! Haven't drawn them in a while!!

(Characters from PMD Seekers of Soul by @teshadraws)

[non-un-topo]

A 19 thousand word chapter when the other chapters are like 2-7 thousand? This is fine!!!

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

I feel accomplished because this week while I was at work during my free period, I wrote apparently about three pages worth of dialogue that I'd left in my WIP as "[insert more dialogue here later]" and I was able to tie it in to the rest of it (as in, what I'd already written after the "[insert more dialogue here"]), and while there are still places in my WIP where I was like "[add something else specific here?]" it means I'm done with that first...whatever it is, of my current WIP. (I still haven't decided if I'm writing just, like, individual parts of this WIP, or if they're chapters, or what. Most of them are super fucking long so I have NO IDEA what to call them. To call them chapters doesn't seem accurate given how long they are, so...parts?! I GUESS?! I'm not writing a novel, but I've also never written a novel before anyway and it shows.)

[ghostymarni]

Oh my gawwwwwww royyy you made me crrryy

I just, needed to hear some of that stuff too, but like for the stories sake it’s so good, but so heartbreaking too-

The Obi wan feels…

so. kriff’n. bad. Ugh I need to sleep this off-

Event Horizon

Chapter Fifteen: Memory

Chapter WC: 8,365

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the fluff from the last chapter because....

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

Meet me in the Archives. I think I've found something that could be of interest to you.

You read the message from Obi-Wan for the fourth time, your brow furrowing as you study the words. It's short and vague and frustratingly unspecific. t's not like Obi-Wan to be so cryptic, and you can't help but wonder why he's keeping this particular discovery a secret.

You lean back against the wall behind you and glance around the hallway, searching for any sign of the man in question. There's no one here, the halls empty and quiet. You've been waiting for almost twenty minutes now. 

Obi-Wan isn't usually late. In fact, he's often the first one to arrive at meetings, and the only one who consistently comes on time. But today, he's nowhere to be seen. You frown, turning back to the screen in your hand and rereading the message once more. It doesn't make any sense.

Something that could be of interest to you.

You can't help but roll your eyes. Obi-Wan can be so dramatic sometimes. You're half tempted to go looking for him. Maybe he's gotten lost in the Temple somewhere, or maybe he's decided to take the scenic route, and you've been standing around like an idiot waiting for him to show up.

It's been a long week, and your patience is wearing thin. The Council has been pushing hard, sending you all over Coruscant on assignment after assignment. It's been a struggle to find time for anything else, let alone the mystery that Obi-Wan has been keeping under wraps.

Your jaw clenches at the thought, and you sigh heavily. You're tired and cranky and frustrated, and the last thing you want to do right now is wait around for Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

The two of you haven't spoken much lately, not since the battle on Saleucami. Things have been...strained between the two of you, and it's left a tension in the air that neither of you are willing to address. 

You don't blame him for it, but you can't help but wonder why he chose now of all times to contact you. To ask to meet with you. It seems strange, considering the circumstances, and the last thing you want is to put yourself in a position where things become even more complicated than they already are.

It's not that you're avoiding him, per se, but...well, maybe you are. Maybe you have been. A little. You're just not ready to deal with this. With him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You don't know what's going to happen between the two of you, or if there will be a resolution, or if things will simply remain as they are. For now, you're content with letting the situation play out, and seeing how it unfolds. It's better than making any rash decisions.

And besides, it's not like Obi-Wan wants to talk about it, either. He's been just as distant and guarded as you have. There's no indication that he's thinking about what happened, or what might have happened, or where the two of you might end up. If anything, it seems as though he's just trying to pretend it didn't happen. Or, at least, ignore it. 

Which makes sense, really. That's what the two of you have been doing for the past ten years, after all. Pretending that nothing's going on between the two of you. Avoiding any sort of confrontation or discussion.

But, things have changed.

The war has changed.

You've changed.

The both of you have.

You're no longer the naive, idealistic younglings that you were when the two of you started this...whatever this is between you, and the reality of the galaxy has come crashing down around you. It's not the same anymore. The innocence is gone, and the illusion of peace is shattered, and everything has become infinitely more complicated.

Maybe it's time for the two of you to acknowledge that.

To confront what's going on between the two of you, and what could happen, and whether or not either of you want it to. Maybe it's time to put an end to the secrecy, and the dancing around the topic, and the pretending that things aren't the way they are. 

Maybe it's time to accept that the two of you are never going to be more than friends.

The thought fills you with a strange sense of relief. 

It would be a weight off your shoulders, and the constant worrying about what might happen would be gone. There would be no more wondering if things would change, or what could happen. It would be over, and the two of you would go back to the way things were. You would just have to figure out how.

A familiar presence fills the space around you, and your eyes snap open to see Obi-Wan striding toward you. He's dressed in his robes, his cloak billowing behind him, and his hair is messy, his face flushed. You can tell by the way his shoulders are tensed that he's upset, and you have a pretty good guess as to why.

"You're late," you call out, a small smirk pulling at the corners of your mouth as he draws closer.

"Yes," he replies curtly. His brows are drawn together, his lips pressed into a tight line, and his expression is hard. "My apologies."

Obi-Wan doesn't stop walking until he's standing directly in front of you. He stops a few inches from you, close enough for you to see the creases in his brow, the faint shadows under his eyes, and the worry lines on his forehead. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"Everything okay?" you ask cautiously.

"Of course," Obi-Wan sighs, though his expression betrays him. "What makes you think otherwise?"

"Because you look like shit, and I can feel your unease from a mile away," you deadpan. He glares at you, and you raise a brow. "Seriously, what's going on?"

"Nothing important," he grumbles, looking away. He turns his head and glances at the doors leading to the Archives, his brows drawing together. "Just a disagreement with the Council."

"About what?" you ask, frowning.

"Nothing," he replies firmly, his tone final.

"Really," you mutter. "Because it's never nothing with the Council."

He looks back at you, his gaze boring into yours, and he shakes his head. "It's not important."

"Okay," you agree slowly.

You stare at each other for several moments, neither of you willing to break eye contact first. He seems determined to avoid talking about whatever is bothering him, and you're not about to force him. Especially not in the middle of the hallway.

"Alright, fine," you relent, dropping your gaze. You turn away from him and start walking back down the hall. "Whatever. If you don't want to tell me, I'm not going to push it. But if you're going to drag me here and then act like this, I'm not sticking around."

"Wait," Obi-Wan calls out, catching up to you. He grabs your arm and turns you around, and his grip is surprisingly gentle. "Please, don't go. Just..."

"What?"

"I didn't ask you here to argue," he says softly, releasing his hold on you. His eyes drop, and he runs a hand through his hair, his voice weary. "And I apologize if I gave that impression. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Apology accepted," you reply, and you give him a small smile. He returns the gesture, and his shoulders sag. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"There's something I need to show you."

"What is it?"

Obi-Wan pauses, and his gaze drops, his voice hesitant. "It's...difficult to explain. It's better you see it for yourself."

"Okay," you say slowly, raising an eyebrow. You're not sure what to expect, but you're intrigued, and the tension has melted away from his posture. "Show me."

"Come on," he says. He turns and begins walking towards the door again, motioning for you to follow. "Let's go."

The two of you make your way through the Archives, winding your way through the maze of shelves and stacks. You can hear voices drifting through the aisles. People talking, laughing, mumbling under their breath as they browse through the rows upon rows of data pads, scrolls, and other ancient artifacts. It's always crowded in here, especially during the afternoon, but it's not as busy as usual today.

You follow Obi-Wan, keeping pace with his long strides. He doesn't look back, and you don't ask him any questions. You just let him lead the way, content to simply watch his back.

You can sense the tension in his posture, the stiffness in his stride. Through the bond, you can feel his frustration, his anger, his fear. His emotions are raw, unrestrained, and they hit you hard, like a wave crashing into a cliffside, threatening to break through the surface. He's trying to control them, but he's struggling.

You can't imagine what's causing it. He's been through worse, fought harder battles. But this is different. It feels more personal, somehow. Like there's something weighing on his mind, something he's not sharing with you.

"We're almost there," Obi-Wan murmurs, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

"Almost where?" you ask curiously.

"The Vault," he replies. He stops in front of a set of massive stone doors, and he turns to face you, his expression serious. "Don't touch anything."

"I won't," you assure him, holding your hands up in mock surrender. He stares at you, his eyes narrowed, and you raise a brow. "I'm serious. I won't. You know me."

He nods, satisfied, and reaches out, his palm resting on the stone surface. He closes his eyes, and a second later, the doors begin to slide open, revealing the dark interior of the Vault beyond. You stare, wide-eyed, as the entrance yawns open. The room is enormous, at least three times larger than the Council chambers, and the walls are lined with shelves upon shelves of glowing holocrons.

The sight takes your breath away. You've never been inside this vault before, restricted to only the twelve members of the Council, but you've heard stories. More than once you've tried to convince Obi-Wan to tell you about its contents, but he's always refused. And now here he is, opening the door and inviting you in.

"This is incredible," you gasp. You feel giddy, like a child on Life Day. You can't keep the excitement out of your voice as you turn to him. "I can't believe you're letting me do this."

"I can't let you touch them," he cautions, his tone low. "But, I can let you see."

"Oh, I understand," you reply quickly, nodding eagerly. You glance at him, and the serious expression on his face gives way to a small, amused, smile. "I won't touch anything. I promise."

He chuckles and steps aside, allowing you access. You hesitate, not quite believing this is happening, and then, with a deep breath, you step forward, the doors closing behind you.

Your eyes dart around the room as you walk, taking in every detail. The energy radiating from the collection of knowledge is intoxicating, and you find yourself drawn in. You can't resist the urge to reach out and touch a holocron sitting on a nearby shelf.

"Don't," Obi-Wan warns sternly.

You yank your hand back and turn to him, your eyes wide, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry."

"It's alright," he sighs. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, and his lips curl into a small, weary smile. "I know you're curious."

"Always," you agree. You glance around the room, taking it all in, your gaze wandering across the various shelves and displays. It's fascinating, the sheer amount of knowledge that has been stored here, and you're overwhelmed. You could stay here for a hundred years and still not uncover all there is to know, and you suddenly find yourself jealous of the Masters who have access to this place, the endless hours spent researching, learning, studying. It's a shame the war has cut their time short.

"This is incredible," you say to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm glad you think so," Obi-Wan says softly.

His voice pulls you back, and you turn to him. He's watching you closely, his expression guarded, his arms crossed over his chest. You can feel his trepidation, his uncertainty, his concern, and you wonder if he regrets his decision.

"If it's too much, I can leave," you offer, feeling a pang of guilt. "I don't want to make things harder for you."

"No," he interrupts as he holds up a hand. He shakes his head, and his shoulders relax slightly. "Stay."

"Okay," you agree, giving him a reassuring smile. You cross the room and stand in front of him, reaching out and gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Of course," he replies, and there's a warmth to his voice, a hint of the old Obi-Wan beneath the tension. He takes a step closer and lifts his gaze to meet yours, his eyes soft. "Now, if you'll follow me."

You nod, and he motions for you to follow him, leading the way deeper into the Vault. He guides you through the aisles, and you can't help but marvel at the sheer size of the place. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of holocrons in here, all arranged neatly, the energy buzzing in the air. You can feel it pulsing through the walls, seeping into your skin. You have to force yourself to hurry after his quick steps.

"I've been working on something," he tells you, his gaze fixed ahead of him. "After our talk, I decided to do some research."

"Research?" you echo, frowning, and then your eyes widen. "You mean about Yaddle?"

"Yes." Obi-Wan stops and looks at you. "And I think I may have found something."

Your jaw drops. He's done what?

"Seriously?" you ask incredulously. You blink rapidly, trying to process the information. Blood is pounding in your ears, and your palms are starting to sweat. "What did you find?"

"It's complicated," he says, turning and walking deeper into the room. "But it's a start."

"A start to what?" you demand. You grab his arm and spin him around, your eyes searching his face. "What are you talking about?"

"I was reviewing some older files when I came across her logs," he explains. "There was an entry dated the week before she went missing."

You draw in a sharp breath, and your stomach flips, your mind racing.  Yaddle had a habit of recording her thoughts. She did it to help her remember things, and it was her way of making sure she wasn't missing anything important. It was a habit she'd tried, and failed, to instill in you, though she'd made a valiant effort.

You'd scoured her quarters for her logs and any other clues the day you returned to Coruscant after her death, knowing how important the device would be to you. Despite nearly tearing apart her quarters, you'd found nothing, and you'd assumed it had perished along with her, lost forever. But now, according to Obi-Wan, he'd managed to recover the very thing you'd been searching for.

"Where is it?" you ask quickly. Your grip tightens on his arm, and your eyes widen. "Is it here?"

"It is," he says, nodding. "I haven't listened to it yet. I thought you might want to do that first."

You stare at him, speechless, and you feel tears pricking the corners of your eyes. A lump forms in your throat, and a warm, overwhelming, wave of gratitude rushes through you. Obi-Wan's expression remains stoic, but his eyes are warm and sympathetic, and he gives you a small, encouraging, smile.

"Obi-Wan," you choke out, and then you launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

He stiffens in surprise, but after a moment, he relaxes and wraps his arms around your shoulders, his grip loose and gentle. He sighs, and you can feel his breath tickling your neck.

"You're welcome," he murmurs, his voice low.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you for this," you whisper, pulling back and looking up at him. Your gaze locks onto his, and his eyes search yours, his brows furrowing.

"You don't have to," he assures you. He takes a step back and clears his throat, his voice returning to its normal timbre. "Just...listen to it, and tell me what you think."

"Okay," you agree, swallowing hard. You nod, and he motions for you to follow him across the room to a large, metal case. You watch as he places his palm against the side of it, and it clicks open, the lid swinging upwards. He reaches inside and pulls out a small, metallic disc and offers it to you.

You recognize the device immediately. It's an audio recorder, the kind Yaddle loved to use, and seeing it makes your chest ache. You reach out, taking the object gingerly in your hands. The metal is cool, smooth, and familiar, and the sight of it brings back memories of the last time you held one.

"She gave me one just like this," you say softly.

"Really?" Obi-Wan asks.

"Yeah," you confirm. You turn it over, running your fingers along the surface. "She said she wanted me to keep it so I could practice recording my thoughts."

"You still have it?"

"I think so," you tell him, and you smile sheepishly and shrug. "I'm sure it's buried somewhere in my quarters. Never used it once."

He laughs, and you turn to him. "That doesn't surprise me."

"Thanks," you grumble, rolling your eyes. You hold the device out to him. "Can you play it?"

"Yes," he confirms, reaching out and taking the recorder. He turns it over, inspecting it closely. "Though, I'm not sure how loud the volume will be. We'll have to get close."

"That's fine," you reply, moving closer. You stand beside him, leaning in until your shoulder brushes against his, and look at him. "Let's do it."

He nods, and a moment later, the air fills with the sound of static. It crackles loudly, and the two of you lean closer, straining to hear. There's a burst of white noise, and then silence. For several seconds, nothing happens. The only thing you can hear is the sound of your breathing, the beating of your heart.

"Come on," Obi-Wan mutters, and then the static stops. A bright blue light flares to life, and the image of Yaddle appears, hovering in the air between you.

She's sitting in a chair, her hands resting on the armrests, her legs crossed. It's been so long since you've seen her, your heart aches, and you can't stop the tears from forming.

"Begin log," she says, her voice smooth and clear. Her eyes are closed, her expression serene, but there's a tightness around her mouth, a crease in her brow. You know that look well. She was upset, agitated. Worried.

You can feel Obi-Wan's eyes on you as Yaddle speaks, her soft and steady voice reciting the date and location of the recording before she launches into her message.

"I've been thinking about the future a lot lately," she begins, her eyes still closed, her tone contemplative. "About my life. About my purpose. I've lived a long time. Longer than most."

The image flickers, and her lips press together.

"I've seen many things. Seen them through the eyes of others. Learned what they've learned, experienced what they've experienced. But now, I find myself wondering if it was worth it," she continues. Her voice grows quiet, and her eyelids flutter open, her gaze drifting across the room. "These are troubled times. I can feel the darkness growing stronger, threatening to overtake everything I've worked so hard for."

You frown, exchanging a concerned look with Obi-Wan. 

Yaddle had sensed the Dark Side before the Republic had even known of its existence, before the Clone Wars had begun. She'd warned the Council of its presence, of its intentions, and no one had believed her. You'd seen the disappointment and frustration on her face when they'd dismissed her words.

It had hurt her deeply, and you'd hated it, but she'd brushed aside your anger, insisting it wasn't important. That they would learn the truth eventually. You suppose she was right about that.

"The Jedi Order is strong, but it's not strong enough," Yaddle continues. "I fear the end is near. And it is up to us to decide whether we fight against it or embrace it."

Her eyes fall to her lap, and her shoulders slump. She looks exhausted, defeated. You've never seen her like this before. She's always been confident, steadfast. Unshakable. Now, she seems so small. Fragile.

“Today, Master Qui-Gon Jinn appeared before the High Council. He spoke of an encounter with a Sith lord." Her voice lowers and her face contorts into a scowl. "He claimed that this…being was trained in the Jedi arts, and that he possessed a great power, a power which could only be wielded by one who knew the true nature of the Force." 

She pauses, her eyes drifting towards the ceiling, her lips pressing into a thin line, her brow creasing as she continues, "The Council believes this to be a falsehood. They have dismissed the idea outright, claiming that the Sith have been extinct for millennia, but there is no denying that something has changed. Something dark has come over our galaxy."

Yaddle lets out a long breath and her shoulders slump, her body sinking into the chair as she returns her attention to the camera. "I spoke with Dooku today. He expressed his frustrations with the Council and their reluctance to consider the possibility that this Sith Lord is real and that he is a threat to us all. It is nothing I haven’t heard from him before. We've had this conversation many times over the years. But today, it was different. Today, I felt the conviction of his words. The depth of his belief."

The mention of Dooku catches your attention, and your eyes widen. Your hands clench into fists at your sides as you find yourself leaning closer to the hologram, hanging on her every word.

"Dooku has a point. He always does. If there is even a chance that the Sith are alive and well, we have to take action. But the Council is not listening. They won't even consider the possibility."

Her voice is rising, anger entering her tone, and you feel the same frustration bubbling up within yourself. You know exactly where this is going, and you have to bite back a growl as her expression darkens. 

"They're too busy worrying about their own affairs, about maintaining their positions of power, their influence over the Senate, the courts, and the public. They've forgotten their oaths, forgotten their duty."

You can feel her eyes on you now, and you shift uncomfortably, feeling exposed. She's looking right at you, her eyes piercing through the years and across time and space. 

"And they've forgotten the people they serve. We've become a broken institution, corrupt and ineffective. I can no longer abide by the Order. The time has come for me to leave. To do what I must."

You close your eyes and exhale a long breath, her words washing over you, sinking in. It's not a surprise. You'd expected it, and yet, it still hurts. There's no bitterness or anger. Only sadness.

"I'm not sure when, or if, I will return. I have much to reflect on, but one thing is clear: I can no longer stand idly by and watch this tragedy unfold," she continues, and she straightens in her seat, her expression softening. You can sense the warmth in her gaze, the pride and love she feels for you.

"As for my Padawan, I hope she will forgive me for leaving her behind. She's young and impulsive, but she has a good heart. I trust that she will find her way, no matter what path she chooses. She has always been capable of so much more than anyone gives her credit for. I can only hope that she will remain true to herself, and that her journey will bring her peace."

Her eyes shift from the camera, and she smiles faintly. You can almost see her now, the memory of her vivid and clear in your mind. Her small, wrinkled face. Her soft, kind voice.

"May the Force be with you," she whispers, and the image dies in the dark.

The room falls silent, the sound of your breathing loud in the emptiness. You stand frozen, staring at the space where Yaddle had just been. You're trembling, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you're not sure if you're going to laugh or cry.

It's not fair. It's not fair.

You know that, but the anger, the sadness, the guilt is still there, and it hurts. The weight of it is crushing.

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan offers softly, his voice far away.

You shake your head, unable to speak, and the room spins around you, your vision blurring. You pull away from him, staggering backwards and clutching your chest.

"I need to go," you choke out. You turn and walk towards the door, ignoring his calls.

You're barely aware of him following you. You're barely aware of anything except the ache in your heart, the pain that threatens to tear you apart. It's too much. Too much.

You run out of the Vault, pushing past a group of younglings, muttering an apology. You make your way through the hallways, ignoring the looks from the other Jedi, the confused and worried stares. You just need to get out. Away from the Temple, away from Obi-Wan, away from everyone.

You push the front doors open, stumbling out into the cold air, the chill biting at your skin. It doesn't stop you. You race across the courtyard, towards the entrance of the Temple. You have to get away.

But the further you run, the more the memories flood back. Her smile, her laugh, the way she would tease you. She'd always been so gentle, so patient, so understanding. The only one who had never lost faith in you.

And now, she's gone. And it's all because of him. Because of Dooku.

You stop in your tracks, breathing hard, tears streaming down your cheeks. You're furious, and you want to scream. You want to rage and throw a tantrum and curse the world for taking her away. The dark, cold rage builds inside you, filling every inch of your being, and you grit your teeth, clenching your hands into fists.

You feel Obi-Wan approaching before you see him, and you turn to face him, your eyes blazing, your hands shaking.

"No," you snap. "We're not doing this. I'm not doing this."

You start walking again, heading for the edge of the courtyard. You can feel the eyes of the temple guards and the other Jedi on you, and it only makes you angrier. How dare they look at you like that. They have no idea what it's like to lose someone like this. To have your entire world torn apart.

"Where are you going?" Obi-Wan asks, his voice strained, his concern radiating through the bond. "Slow down."

"Go away," you mutter.

"I'm not leaving," he insists, quickening his pace to keep up with you. He's trying to stay calm, but his voice is tense, worried. "Let me help you."

"Leave me alone!" you shout, spinning around and glaring at him.

Obi-Wan freezes, his eyes widening, and you feel a pang of guilt, but it doesn't last long. You can't think straight. Your emotions are overwhelming, drowning out everything else. You're angry. Sad. Scared. Confused. And you have no idea what to do with all these feelings. They're tearing you apart, ripping you to pieces.

You've always known, deep down, that this was how it was going to end. That you were going to lose her. It had always been inevitable. But knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, focusing on the Force. You try to reach out and connect with it, but the energy is faint, distant, and it slips through your grasp.

"Just go," you plead, your voice cracking.

"No," he says, and he takes a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. "Not until we talk."

"I don't want to talk," you say through gritted teeth.

"I know," he replies gently. "But, you have to."

You shake your head and turn away, refusing to meet his gaze. Your whole body is shaking, and you're fighting the urge to lash out, to break something, to scream until your throat is raw.

"Talk to me," Obi-Wan coaxes, reaching out and placing a hand on your shoulder. You stiffen, the contact making you flinch.

"Fine," you snap, pulling away from him. You spin on your heel and march away from him, heading for the gates. "You wanna talk? Let's talk."

He sighs, and you hear him running after you. You keep walking, your feet pounding against the cobblestones. You're not sure where you're going, but the idea of standing in the shadow of the Temple is more than you can bear.

You pass through the gates and head down the street, ignoring the curious glances from passersby. You're not in the mood for them. All you can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other, trying to stay calm.

"What's going on?" Obi-Wan asks as he falls into step beside you.

"I don't know," you admit. You stop and turn to him, your chest heaving, your fists clenched. "I don't understand."

"It's okay," he assures you. His voice is low and soothing, and you feel the tension in your shoulders relax a little. "Just breathe."

"I'm breathing," you huff, glaring at him.

"No, you're not," he retorts. He puts his hands on your arms and you bat them away, but he ignores you, gripping you firmly and holding you in place. "Take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

"Stop telling me what to do," you grumble, trying to pull free, but his hold is strong, his grip unrelenting.

"Then stop fighting me," he shoots back. He sighs, his tone softening. "Please, just breathe. That's all I'm asking."

You hesitate, then comply, inhaling slowly, the cold air burning your lungs. You let out the breath, and then another. He nods approvingly.

"Better?"

"Not really," you mutter.

"Come on," Obi-Wan says, gesturing towards a nearby bench. "Sit down."

You glare at him, but do as he says. He sits next to you, and the two of you fall into a heavy silence.

You're still fuming. Anger is coursing through your veins, making your pulse race, your muscles tense. Your leg bounces uncontrollably as you stare at the ground, trying to process what's happening.

You've had a lot of emotions since Yaddle's death. Pain, grief, guilt, regret, shame. But the anger has always been the most persistent, the hardest to let go of. It's the only thing that's kept you going, kept you fighting. It's the only thing that's made you strong.

You need it. Without it, you'd have given up long ago. Without it, you'd have fallen apart.

But now, in this moment, sitting next to Obi-Wan, surrounded by the beauty of the Temple, the serenity of the gardens, the anger is fading, leaving you empty, hollow. 

It's terrifying.

"How am I supposed to deal with this?" you ask him quietly, turning your head to look at him.

"What?" he asks, his eyes darting towards you.

"This," you clarify, gesturing between the two of you. "How do I deal with it? How do I move on? How do I keep going?"

"You're asking the wrong person," he tells you, and he looks away, staring off into the distance. "I haven't figured it out yet."

You huff a bitter laugh. "Some comfort you are."

"Sorry," he says, glancing at you. He smiles wryly. "I'm trying."

"Well, try harder," you grumble, and he chuckles, nodding.

The two of you fall silent again, and the sounds of the city wash over you. There are people shouting, laughing, talking. Vehicles whizzing past, horns blaring. The sun is starting to set, and the air is growing colder, a chill wind blowing through the streets. You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.

It's peaceful. And it's strange.

The two of you have rarely spoken about her, or the loss. You've never really shared this moment together, never had the opportunity. The wound left from his initial dismissal of your suspicion was deep, and though he's apologized and you've forgiven him, since then, it's always felt like an unspoken rule between the two of you to avoid the topic altogether.

But, now, sitting here, in the quiet, it's all you can think about. The anger, the sadness, the regret. It's all too much, and you don't know what to do.

"Can I ask you a question?" Obi-Wan murmurs, looking over at you.

"I suppose," you sigh as you lean back against the bench, looking at him warily.

He turns and looks at you, his eyes meeting yours, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," he says, his gaze narrowing. "You said it yourself. You can't go on like this. So, what do you want? What do you need?"

"I..."

You trail off, unsure of what to say. It's not a question you've ever had to answer before. It's not something that's ever mattered.

"I don't know," you admit.

"Think about it," he suggests, his tone gentle.

You look away, staring at the ground, your jaw clenching. You've spent so much time trying not to think about these things. Trying not to think about what you want, or what you need, or how you feel. It's easier that way. Safer.

But the truth is, it doesn't make you feel any better.

The truth is, the only time you actually felt better was when you told Rex the truth. When you told him everything about what happened after Yaddle's death and the reason why. When you opened yourself up to him, allowed yourself to be vulnerable. To feel.

And it helped. More than you could have imagined.

What does it mean, then? What does it mean that the only time you've actually felt better was when you weren't trying to suppress your emotions? When you were allowing yourself to experience them, to feel them?

What does it mean that the only time you've felt happy was when you were with him? When the two of you were alone, exploring the city, enjoying each other's company, forgetting about the war and the galaxy and everything else that comes with being a Jedi.

When the two of you were together, you didn't have to worry about the future. You didn't have to think about the past. You didn't have to pretend to be something you weren't. You didn't have to pretend to be anyone or anything other than yourself.

And it was the most liberating thing you'd ever experienced.

Maybe that's what you need.

Maybe that's what you want.

To feel. To be yourself. To stop pretending.

You sigh and close your eyes, taking a deep breath. The sun has set now, and the courtyard is quiet. A few birds are chirping in the trees, and the air is crisp and cool.

It's beautiful. Peaceful. And it reminds you of the day Yaddle died.

That night, the air had been cold and clear. The moon had been bright and full. You'd stood on the balcony outside your room on Naboo, staring at the stars. You'd felt the same way then. Alone. Confused. Lost.

Now, here you are again, feeling the same way. But this time, it's not the loss of Yaddle that's causing it. It's the realization that you want something. Something you can't have. Something you've never allowed yourself to even consider.

Obi-Wan shifts next to you, his expression guarded. He's waiting for an answer. An answer you're not ready to give. Not yet.

"I've never had a choice," you say instead.

It's the first time you've said it out loud. The first time you've admitted it to yourself. And it's not a lie.

The life of a Jedi is one of service. Of sacrifice. Of duty.

You've never had a choice. Never had the luxury of deciding who you want to be or what you want to do. You've always been forced to choose between the Order and yourself. Between the Jedi and your own desires.

And that's a burden no one should have to carry.

You open your eyes to find him staring back at you, his brow furrowed in concern. "There was never a chance for me. The Order took that away the second I was born."

"That's not true," he objects, shaking his head. "You have choices. You can choose what to do with your life, where to go, who to be. You have more freedom than most people."

"Yeah, I have a choice between following orders and being punished," you snort, and he frowns.

"That's not—"

"Don't," you warn. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," you insist. "You know as well as I do that this is all there is. The Order is my life. The Order is all I have. Everything else is just...not possible."

He doesn't reply, and you shake your head, letting out a frustrated sigh.

"Look, I know you want to help," you tell him. "And I appreciate it. Really. But there's nothing you can do. This is the way it has to be. What I want doesn't matter."

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it, his jaw clenching. You can feel his frustration, his helplessness. He wants to argue, to tell you that it's not true, but he knows it's useless. He knows that it's pointless. That you're right.

The two of you sit in silence, the only sound the rustling of the leaves overhead. It's getting colder, the temperature dropping quickly, and the night air is beginning to bite at your skin.

You're tired. Exhausted, really. The adrenaline has faded, the anger replaced by a deep weariness. But the idea of heading back inside, of returning to the Temple, is too much. Too soon. You don't move, and neither does Obi-Wan.

"Do you think about it?" he asks after several moments. "The life you could've had."

You huff a humorless laugh. “All the time.”

Obi-Wan starts, his head turning toward you quickly, his eyes wide. He stares at you, a shocked expression on his face. "Really?"

"What?" you ask, and you shrug. "It's true. I think about it a lot. It's impossible not to. Don’t you?”

"I used to," he admits. "Before my Knighting. Now, I try not to."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't matter," he tells you. He sighs heavily and shakes his head, running a hand over his beard. "It doesn't matter what I would've done or where I would've gone. None of it matters. Not now. What matters is who I am, and what I've done. Where I am now."

You stare at him, and you feel a pang in your chest, an ache in your heart.

"It's easy to get caught up in the past, to think about all the things we could've done differently, the choices we could've made," he continues, his voice quiet. "But the truth is, there's nothing we can do. We can't change the past. All we can do is move forward. Accept the present for what it is. Try to make the best of it."

You nod slowly, absorbing his words. They resonate with you, but a part of you wonders if they're directed at himself, if he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

"Besides, even if I had a chance at another life, I'm not sure it would be worth it," he adds.

"What do you mean?"

He looks at you, a sad smile tugging at his lips. 

"If I hadn't joined the Order, I would've never met you,” he says softly, his gaze searching yours. “I would’ve missed out on so many incredible experiences. On so much joy. So much happiness. And, selfishly, I can't imagine a world where I don't have you in my life."

"Obi-Wan," you breathe, a lump forming in your throat.

“I know,” he laughs, and you can see his cheeks turn pink. He turns away, looking out at the garden. "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

You chuckle and lean closer, pressing your shoulder against his.

"Maybe not," you agree, and he lets out a snort. "But, for what it's worth, I'm glad I have you in my life, too. Even if you are a pain in my ass."

"Oh, please," he scoffs. "You love me."

"I do," you muse. You smile and close your eyes, enjoying the moment. The silence stretches on, comfortable and familiar, and you let out a contented sigh. Obi-Wan leans against you, resting his head on yours, and the two of you remain like that, sitting side by side, lost in thought.

After several minutes, he speaks.

"Earlier, when I asked you what you want," he says quietly, breaking the silence. "I was hoping you'd tell me the truth."

You shift, leaning back and looking at him. His eyes are closed, his expression thoughtful.

"What are you talking about?" you ask.

"I think we both know what I'm talking about," he says. He opens his eyes and turns to you, a sad smile on his face. "You deserve to be happy, and I want that for you. If that means stepping aside, if that means letting go, I will."

You stare at him, your eyes widening, a knot forming in your stomach. You swallow hard and look away, your gaze falling to the ground.

"Obi-Wan," you start, but he holds up a hand.

"No, let me finish," he insists. He takes a deep breath, and then continues. "I care about you. More than you know. And, if the war wasn't happening, if we were just two people, living normal lives, I would ask you to be mine. Because you deserve a chance at a real life. You deserve to be loved."

Your chest tightens, and your throat burns. Tears well up in your eyes, and you blink them away, shaking your head.

"But, as things are, that's not an option," he continues. He turns his attention back to the garden, his voice soft. "I don't know how this will end, but I do know one thing: it's going to hurt. Whether we win or lose, whether we survive or not, it's going to hurt. So, whatever choice you make, just...don't wait. Don't waste any more time. You deserve happiness, and I want you to have it."

"You can't ask me to do that," you say, your voice strained.

"I can, and I am," he replies, turning back to you. "You know I'm right. There's no sense in dragging this out."

"What about you?" you ask, your eyes searching his. "You deserve happiness, too."

"I know," he nods. He gives you a rueful smile. "But, that's not up to me. I can't choose who I fall in love with. But, I can choose to put your needs above my own. And, right now, I think that's the best thing for both of us."

You stare at him, your eyes stinging, your throat aching. He's right. He's always right.

"Before," you start. "With the Council..."

"Yes," Obi-Wan sigh, rubbing his beard. "They're concerned. And, they're right to be. They've noticed the way I've been acting lately. The way we've been acting. I don't know what they'll do if it continues, but I suspect it won't be good."

"I'm sorry," you apologize.

"It's not your fault," he assures you, and his expression is serious. "We were careless. Both of us. We've always known it could never last, and yet, we let ourselves get carried away."

"You were a little more careless than I was," you point out, and his cheeks turn red.

"I'll admit, I may have been a bit reckless," he admits sheepishly. "But, you were the one who started the whole thing."

"I did not!"

"Oh, please," Obi-Wan scoffs, and a smirk plays on his lips. "You were all over me the first time. Don't think I didn't notice."

"You're the one who kissed me," you retort, and his smirk grows.

"And it was a good kiss," he declares. He nudges you with his elbow. "You have to admit, you enjoyed it."

"Fine," you grumble. "It was a good kiss. Satisfied?"

"Yes," he chuckles.

You roll your eyes, and the two of you share a laugh. The tension eases, and a heavy weight lifts from your shoulders. You hadn't realized just how much pressure had been building, how much you'd been carrying around. You'd always known it wouldn't last. Always known there would be consequences. But, hearing him say it, admitting the truth, somehow makes it easier.

"So, where does this leave us?" you ask.

"Honestly, I'm not sure," he sighs. He leans back against the bench and gazes at the stars, his brows furrowing. "We're still friends. That hasn't changed. And, I still care about you. More than I should. But, whatever this is, whatever it could have been it's over. For both of our sakes."

You nod, biting your cheek, and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "And the bond?"

"We can still use it," he replies. "But, we have to be careful. No more emotional outbursts. No more impulsive decisions. We need to keep our distance."

"Yeah," you sigh. You look at him and smile. "I'll try. No promises, though."

"No," he chuckles, and he returns your smile, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I didn't think so."

The two of you sit together for a while longer, talking, laughing, reminiscing. It's good, and it's exactly what you need. A reminder of who you are, of who he is, of the relationship the two of you have shared for so long. It's comforting. Familiar.

When the air turns cold and your teeth begin to chatter, you decide to head inside, back to the warmth and safety of the Temple. Obi-Wan walks with you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, a smile on his face.

As the two of you reach the entrance, he stops and pulls you into a hug, holding you close.

"Whatever happens," he whispers in your ear. "I'm here for you."

"Even if..." You trail off, thinking of Rex, and he nods, giving you a knowing look.

"Even if," he promises, and his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. You hug him back, burying your face in his shoulder. The two of you stand there for a moment, wrapped in each other's embrace, and a wave of relief washes over you. It's not the same. It's not the same, and it's never going to be. But, it's enough.

You pull back and look up at him, a smile on your lips. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he tells you. He releases you, stepping back and placing his hands on your shoulders. "You'll always be important to me. No matter what."

"And you're important to me," you reply. "Even if we're not together, we'll always be family."

"Always."

"I'm sorry," you add.

"Me, too," he says, his expression pained. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. This was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened. We should've—"

"Obi-Wan," you cut him off. "It's not your fault. We were both to blame. And, for what it's worth, I don't regret it. Not for a second."

"Neither do I," he murmurs, and his eyes meet yours, his gaze soft and affectionate. "It was good while it lasted."

"Yes," you agree, and the two of you exchange a small, sad smile.

You look away, your gaze drifting towards the sky. You watch the clouds drift across the horizon, and your eyes trace the lines of the buildings, the speeders, the faint glow of the stars. It's so beautiful, so peaceful. 

You’ve never felt more at home anywhere than you have on Coruscant, for all its flaws and problems. This is where you belong. This is where you were meant to be. And, even if you can never have everything you want, you have this.

"Are you going to tell him?" Obi-Wan asks, drawing your attention back to him.

"No," you answer without hesitation. "He doesn't need to know. It wouldn't change anything."

He frowns. "You don't know that."

"No, I don't," you agree. "But, I can't. I can't do that to him. He deserves better."

Obi-Wan studies you for a moment, then nods, his expression serious. "You're a good person."

"So are you," you reply. You take a deep breath, and you step back, moving out of his grasp. "I should go. It's getting late."

"Yes," he agrees. He reaches out and squeezes your shoulder, and his eyes search yours, his brow creased in concern. "Will you be alright?"

"I think so," you tell him. You force a smile and shrug. "Eventually."

He smiles sadly and releases your shoulder, and you turn, heading back into the Temple. You can feel his eyes on you, his worry, his guilt. It's a struggle not to look back, not to break. But, somehow, you manage. You keep moving, and eventually, the weight of his gaze fades, replaced by the comforting hum of the Force.

It's a comfort, but it's not enough. You know it never will be.

Still, it's better than nothing. It's better than being alone.

And, for now, that's all that matters.

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[my-castles-crumbling]

chapter - february 5 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 315

Regulus had been acting weird for days.

Of course, he was always a bit weird, but not in the normal way James adored. No, he seemed…agitated. Nervous. More on-edge and grumpy than usual.

When James asked, the younger boy refused to entertain the idea that anything was wrong. He rolled his eyes and told James to be quiet, and cuddled back into his arms. But James was fluent enough in Regulus-speak to know that that was simply not true.

But he was also smart enough not to push.

So he waited and reminded his boyfriend that he cared and he was there for him whenever he needed to talk. And one day, he was rewarded with a very anxious and angry-looking Regulus who approached him and slammed a book down on the table.

“What’s this, love?” he asked lightly, blinking and deciding not to point out that the book had nearly broken his finger, which was only about two centimeters away. 

“Chapter twelve,” Regulus said firmly, still standing above him.

James tilted his head. “You want me to read it?”

“Yes,” Regulus snapped, and turned without another word, nearly sprinting away. 

Completely flummoxed, James turned to the chapter in question. He had no clue why Regulus wanted him to read this book….it seemed like some sort of old romance novel. But he also was curious enough to find out.

When he got to the right page, his eyes found a phrase that was underlined several times, with little stars next to it and the word James scrawled in a familiar script. It said:

“....I loved him…I was terrified to love him, and yet it felt easier and more certain than breathing. But telling him this simple, petrifying fact seemed impossible.”

Staring at the page, James read and re-read the line several time before exhaling and beaming, a little laugh bubbling out of his mouth. Oh.

[moonysbookshelves]

The Cadence of Part-Time Poets

The Cadence of Part-Time Poets by @motswolo

Have been working on this 10 volume set for the past few months now, and they are finally complete. My Magnum Opus. I have peaked and probably depleted all of my brain power.

Thank you to @motswolo for writing such a beautiful story. My brain chemistry has been favourably altered. Will forever flinch when I hear Queen, The Beatles or Bob Dylan. Love to you from western Canada (west coast best coast lets gooooo).

I also posted a TikTok Reel of these since posts here are limited and I love the insides as much as the covers, so if you wanna see between the pages, here’s that.

Also thank you @avisbindery for letting me scream and cry in your DMs while I read the fic. May you get some uninterrupted sleep now LOLLL.

Going to write a whole essay below about the ideas and details because uhhh I wanna yap bit!

So for starters, I wanted to make these binds look like magazines because of the epilogue where (spoiler) Tonya sees Remus in a copy of New Musical Express. But of course this fic is long, so I was like, what if I do multiple volumes? This very quickly spiralled into me painstakingly (finding publication-accurate fonts almost sent me to an early grave) recreating 10 different music-focused magazines from the 70s and 80s from scratch (thank you to Photoshop, Affinity, Procreate and Canva). Each volume features a unique cover, along with stylized typesets to match that display the songs for each chapter but in different designs. And then I went a little crazy and made a 45 sleeve and a cassette too, to really set the scene when I took the photos lol

While the covers display the dates pertaining to the contents of that particular volume (Sept 1975 for volume one, for example) I was thinking about what the magazines would say if they were really published when Marauders are traipsing about being spectacular and famous in the future. I sprinkled in details from the fic itself and fanon-ed it a bit, but that was the general inspiration :-) Tried to keep the photos used either faceless/obscured, or to use the fancasts on Mots’ Cadence master post. I also tried to use period-accurate photos but didn’t always succeed, so settled for photos of 4 member bands where I had to :”) But the general intent with the facelessness was that they could be implied to be Marauders. If you squint? lol. Just pretend. Pls.

Volume One: Based upon The Record Song Book. This magazine went on to inspire the typesets, since it publishes lyrics and such. The cover images are of Spacey Jane and David Thewlis.

Volume Two: Based on ZigZag, specifically the issue from July 1978 featuring Siouxie and the Banshees just because I thought it looked sick as fuck. I re-drew the abstract shapes and such in procreate. The cover images are The Clash and a young Gary Oldman. Lord he was foiiine.

Volume Three: Based on Trouser Press, November 1980. The cover images are a young Metallica, and my personal fav fan cast for James, Reiky De Valk. The film negatives are from a Bruce Springsteen tour, 1976.

Volume Four: Based on Gay Times (November 1984), a queer magazine from the UK because this volume contains Wolfstars first kiss hehe. Also hence Somebody To Love plastered all over the covers. The Front cover is Inhaler. The “4A” on this one is of course the boys’ dorm number, but I made the A the lambda symbol as this was a pride symbol in the 70s after Stonewall.

Volume Five: Based on Melody Maker. Front image is Alex Turner. All of the text on this one is pulled directly from the fic. The scene where they all drop acid and James jumps off the roof Almost Famous style had me hootin’ and hollerin’… until Tomny showed up hahaha :”)

Volume Six: Based on IT (International Times, Aug 1971). Front image for this one is Joy Division, and the back features Jane Asher for Lily

Volume Seven: Based on Record Mirror, June 1976. Front image is John Taylor of Duran Duran. Yum.

Volume Eight: Based on Rolling Stone. More vibes than anything for this one, but the quote still makes me laugh.  Front image is of Matt Hitt. Can you tell I photoshopped a cell phone out of this one? IDK. This photo just screamed ‘Remus’ to me so I had to use it. The back image is an old cigarette ad, but the photo is taken in Shepherd’s Bush.

Volume Nine: Based on Fusion magazine. Front image for this one is once again Inhaler. Oops. Back cover is our gals. Images are Jodie Foster as Cherry, Brenda Sykes as Mary, and Goldie Hawn as Lottie.

Volume Ten: Based on New Musical Express. You know why :”) These are all victims of fanon, but this one especially. I wanted it to be NME instead of the re-invented logos I’d been doing for all the rest, as I wanted it to look like the magazine the Sister gives to Tonya. I referred to an issue of NME from October 1979 for this and layered in fic references where it made sense to. The cover image for this one is (I think) Cigarettes After Sex. This issue also contains all of the B-Side chapters, and the Marauders song lyrics too just for fun :)

Slasher Chick: This is just my take on what Sybill’s zine could’ve looked like. Prob way off but I just wanted to have fun with this one since I had no cover to reference lol. The zine contains her little write-up and the interview, lifted straight from the fic :")

ok yap sesh over byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee lmfaooooo

[fuckyeahisawthat]

There are so many places in the Villeneuve Dune adaptations where he just...takes all the narrative pieces that Frank Herbert laid out and subtly rearranges them into something that tells the story better--that creates dramatic tension where you need it, communicates the themes and message of the book more clearly, or corrects something in the text that contradicts or undermines what Herbert said he was trying to say.

The fedaykin are probably my favorite example of this. I just re-read a little part of the book and got smacked in the face with how different they are.

(under the cut for book spoilers and length)

The fedaykin in the book are Paul's personal followers, sort of his personal guard. They show up after his legend has already started growing (the word doesn't appear in the book until chapter 40) and they are people who have specifically dedicated themselves to fighting for him, and right from the moment they're introduced there is a kind of implied fanaticism to their militancy that's a bit uncomfortable to read. They're the most ardent believers in Paul's messianic status and willing to die for him. (They are also, as far as you can tell from the text, all men.)

In the book, as far as I can remember (I could be forgetting some small detail but I don't think so) there is no mention of armed resistance to colonialism on Arrakis before Paul shows up. As far as we know, he created it. ETA: Okay I actually went back and checked on this and while we hear about the Fremen being "a thorn in the side" of the Harkonnens and we know that they are good fighters, we don't see anything other than possibly one bit of industrial sabotage. The book is very clear that the organized military force we see in the second half was armed and trained by Paul. This is exacerbated by the two-year time jump in the book, which means we never see how Paul goes from being a newly deposed ex-colonial overlord running for his life to someone who has his own private militia of people ready to give their lives for him.

The movie completely flips all these dynamics on their head in ways that add up to a radical change in meaning.

The fedaykin in the movie are an already-existing guerrilla resistance movement on Arrakis that formed long before Paul showed up. Literally the first thing we learn about the Fremen, less that two minutes into the first movie, is that they are fighting back against the colonization and exploitation of their home and have been for decades.

The movie fedaykin also start out being the most skeptical of the prophecy about Paul, which is a great choice from both a political and a character standpoint. Of course they're skeptical. If you're part of a small guerrilla force repeatedly going up against a much bigger and stronger imperial army...you have to believe in your own agency. You have to believe that it is possible to win, and that this tiny little chip in the armor of a giant terrifying military machine that you are making right now will make a difference in the end. These are the people who are directly on the front lines of resisting oppression. They are doing it with their own sweat, blood and ingenuity, and they are not about to wait around for some messiah who may never come.

From a character standpoint, this is really the best possible environment you could put Paul Atreides in if you want to keep him humble. He doesn't get any automatic respect handed to him due to title or birthright or religious belief. He has to prove himself--not as any kind of savior but as a good fighter and a reliable member of a collective political project. And he does. This is an environment that really draws out his best qualities. He's a skilled fighter; he's brave (sometimes recklessly so); he's intensely loyal to and protective of people he cares about. He is not too proud to learn from others and work hard in an egalitarian environment where he gets no special treatment or extra glory. The longer he spends with the fedaykin the more his allegiance shifts from Atreides to Fremen, and the more skeptical he himself becomes about the prophecy. This sets up the conflict with Jessica, which comes to a head before she leaves for the south. And his political sincerity--that he genuinely comes to believe that these people deserve liberation from all colonial forces and his only role should be to help where he can--is what makes the tragedy work. Because in the end we know he will betray all these values and become the exact thing he said he didn't want to be.

There's another layer of meaning to all this that I don't know if the filmmakers were even aware of. ETA: rescinding my doubt cause based on some of Villeneuve's other projects I'm pretty sure he could work it out. Given the time period (1960s) and Herbert's propensity for using Arabic or Arabic-inspired words for aspects of Fremen culture, it seems very likely that the made-up word fedaykin was taken from fedayeen, a real Arabic word that was frequently used untranslated in American news media at the time, usually to refer to Palestinian armed resistance groups.

Fedayeen is usually translated into English as fighter, guerrilla, militant or something similar. The translation of fedaykin that Herbert provides in Dune is "death commando"...which is a whole bucket of yikes in my opinion, but it's not entirely absurd if we're assuming that this fake word and the real word fedayeen function in the same way. A more literal translation of fedayeen is "self-sacrificer," as in willing, intentional self-sacrifice for a political cause, up to and including sacrificing your life.

If you apply this logic to Dune, it means that Villeneuve has actually shifted the meaning of this word in-universe, from fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for Paul to fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for their people. And the fedaykin are no longer a group created for Paul but a group that Paul counts himself as part of, one member among equals. Which is just WILDLY different from what's in the book. And so much better in my opinion.

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 5

Previous Chapter: Part 4 | Next Chapter: Part 6

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Ship: Shoto Todoroki x Fem Reader! 💋

Genre: Fluff, Romance, S*xual Tension, Making Out, Smut

🚫🔞THIS IS AN ADULT BLOG CONTAINING EXPLICIT CONTENT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, A18+ ONLY.🔞🚫

CW: MDNI!, A18+, kissing, romance, sexual tension, spicy scenes, lemon, hand job, vague references to Shoto being abused by family, reader experiences anxiety

Link to My Master List

Your alarm wakes you from a restless sleep. You blearily slap at your phone until it stops beeping and you sit up in bed.

Deep in your bones, you feel upset.

But why? Your fuzzy brain can’t seem to put all the pieces together from the night before. Then in a flash you remember – the text. The sweatshirt. YaMomo.

Oh, right. You had drifted off around 4 am after hours of agonizing and pacing around your tiny dorm room.

Maybe it was all just a weird dream? You reach out your hand and grope along your side table until you find it – Shoto’s phone. You scoop it into your arms and tap it to reveal his bland blue-sky screensaver. There are two texts on the screen – one from you, and one from Momo Yayarozo.

Momo: “Hey Shoto, you left your sweatshirt in my dorm room yesterday evening. Come pick it up tomorrow? Good night.”

Okay so this is really happening. For what feels like the billionth time, you review the facts in your head.

Fact #1: Shoto and Momo are friends. They have always been fairly close and supportive of each other.

Fact #2: Shoto left some clothing in Momo’s room. And it’s a sweatshirt – not a super strange piece of clothing to leave in a friend’s room, right? But regardless, the text indicates that Shoto has physically been in YaMomo’s room.

Fact #3: Momo is hot. That feels relevant to list out here. But you don’t know if Shoto personally finds Momo hot, which is an important detail in this investigation.

It’s probably nothing…but you can’t help the way that a nervous knot forms in your stomach as you re-read the text message for the umpteenth time. Momo and Shoto have always been…close? But how close?

An image forms in your mind of Momo, her beautiful curvy figure leaning over Shoto during a seemingly innocent study session….You shake your head. No! These are your friends! You can’t assume the worst of them. Also, didn’t you seduce Shoto during a “study session” just last night? It seems a bit hypocritical to look down on someone else for doing the same.

You resolve to confront Shoto about this in the morning, to ask him for an explanation as to why Momo is currently in possession of a Todoroki sweatshirt. As you get ready – putting on your uniform, doing a quick skincare regimen, and brushing your hair - your mind swirls with questions and more than a little doubt.

You open your closet and reach for a box of protein bars that you’ve stashed at the bottom, breaking open the box and grabbing a chocolate chip bar for your breakfast.  You toss the snack into your bag alongside Shoto’s phone. Your emotions are all twisted up in the worst way. You’re simultaneously anxious and angry. But what exactly you’re angry about, you can’t put your finger on – are you angry about the situation, about Shoto’s potential two timing? Or are you angry at yourself for agonizing over the whole thing? You’re not completely sure, but you know for a fact that your lack of sleep isn’t doing anything to help.

Scowling, you march out of your dorm room and through the common area, ignoring the various “good mornings” of your friends as you go.

“Damn what crawled up Y/N’s ass and died this morning?” you hear Sero say loudly to Mina and Ochaco as you trudge down the stairs and out onto the quad. You’re too sleep deprived and pissy to care.

As you walk, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out and look at the screen where a barrage of texts alerts take up residence on your bright lock screen. It’s your group chat with Toru and Mina, appropriately labeled “Girlie Squad.”

Toru: Y/N! What’s the deal!?

Mina: Is everything okay?

Toru: So totally rude of you to ignore us!

Mina: You look like death.

You ignore them; you don’t have the wherewithal to make up an excuse for your sour mood. You make a mental note to respond before class so they don’t suspect that anything too crazy is going on with you. Your phone buzzes again, and you’re about to text the group to back off when you notice that – oh! It’s Honenuki this time.

You open the message and see that he’s linked you to a new song. You click through and it brings you to “This Must Be the Place” by the Talking Heads. You type out a quick text.

Y/N: You moved on to the 80s?                    

Honenuki: Ha. Yeah, 80s New Wave is the vibe this week. You like the Talking Heads?

Y/N: Yeah I’m a fan. “And She Was” is a favorite of mine.

Honenuki: A woman of taste! How’s you’re week going Y/N?

Y/N: Eh kinda crappy. Classes have been crazy, and I’m in a bad mood. You?

Honenuki: *typing*

Honenuki: Yeah the hero course has been tough lately. Maybe this will help.

He sends you another song, this time its “I’m Walking On Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves.

Honenuki: A serotonin boost. Don’t let a tough week take away your sunshine, ‘kay? Hope the day gets better!

Y/N: Thanks dude, hope you have a good one too.

You smile down at your phone. Huh, Honenuki’s actually kind of cool. You’ve got a sneaking suspicion that Class B isn’t as bad as Monoma’s immature behavior has lead you to believe. As it turns out, they’re all sort of normal. The anxiety is still bubbling around in the pit of your stomach, but having so many friends be concerned about you lessens it a tiny bit. Mina, Toru, Honenuki. It’s nice to have people looking out for you. You hope that after the conversation you’re about to have that Shoto can be a member of that list.

You have a feeling you know where Shoto is this morning, and you’re determined to confront him there.

You walk across campus in the early morning sun, dew sticking to your shoes as you plod across the damp, freshly mowed grass. You come to one of the training gymnasiums and let yourself inside. The ground floor is comprised of a gym entirely dedicated to the peers in your year. It has a ton of exercise equipment and training gear, and is open most hours of the day.

You push open the big double doors to the gym and find Todoroki in the far corner. It’s extremely early and it looks like Shoto is the only guy from your year who chose to get some reps in this morning.

He’s wearing athletic gear – basketball shorts and a tight fitting tank top – and he’s covered in sweat. He shines in the lowlight of the gym, skin glowing as he bicep curls a massive free weight in each arm. He looks like a Greek god, his physique is glorious and his muscles flex with practice skill. If you weren’t so upset, you’d worship at his feet.

He hears the door open and looks up with a start, uncurling his arms in a way that shows off his workout pump. Fuck his body should come with a warning label like: Caution: Extremely hot, do not approach unless you’re prepared to drop your panties.

“Y/N?” He says with wide-eyed surprise. He moves to put down the weights and reaches for a small white towel. He wipes the sweat off of his gorgeous brow and looks at you, confusion in his eyes. You don’t typically lift in the mornings, and you’re already in your school uniform.

You approach him briskly, your steps precise and sharp as you maneuver around various machines and pieces of workout equipment. Your steps echo in the expansive space.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, tilting his head to the side like a dog. He’s so cute you almost forget that you’re mad at him. Wordlessly, you reach into your bag and pull out his cell phone.

“Oh, my phone.” He says blankly. “That’s right, I left it in your room, didn’t I?” He reaches out and accepts the cellular device from you. “Mr. Aizawa caught me on the staircase, so I couldn’t come back to get it. I got a detention, but I don’t think it will be too bad. Thank you for bringing this back to me.” He slides the phone into his short’s pocket without a second glance.

“Did you come to workout with me?” You see there’s a hint of eagerness in his face. He slowly turns around and looks to a pile of free weights in the corner. “What weight would you like to start with? I can go get some for you.”

Before he can turn to walk away, you reach out and grab his shoulder. You feel the definition in his muscles and it makes your knees weak for a moment. Goddamn, girl. Get yourself together here. Cut to the chase.

“Why is YaMomo texting you?” You ask, trying to keep your voice level. “She said you left your sweatshirt in her room.”

Shoto doesn’t seem phased by this. He calmly removes his phone from his pocket and opens up his messages.

“Oh, she did text me. Thanks Y/N.” He types something back to Momo and hits send before pocketing the phone once more. You stand there in disbelief as he acts like nothing odd has happened.

“You’re in your uniform. Do you want to go and change? There’s still plenty of time before homeroom if you want to get a few reps in. I can spot you if you want to do some deadlifts.” He says helpfully, using the towel again to wipe off his perfectly formed shoulders. “I never see you workout in the mornings, did you come just to see me?” He smiles mischievously, but you can tell that he’s genuinely thrilled that you’ve joined him.

“Shoto.” You say, ignoring his offer. “Why did you leave your sweatshirt in Momo’s room?”

“Hmm.” His expression crinkles a bit as he thinks back. “I guess I must have taken it off while we were studying. Her room is pretty stuffy. She has way too much furniture crammed into her dorm. I told her she should get a smaller bed.”

“So when you were with her…you were just ‘studying’?” You prompt, annoyed that he doesn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation here. Is he trying to pull one over on you?

“Yes. We did a short review of the quadratic equations we’ve been working on in class this month. YaMomo put together a review session for Kaminari, Jiro and I. Well mostly for Kaminari, but I still found the material helpful.” He stretches, hands behind his head. “Would you like to join our next math review? Momo makes quite a good teacher. She’s a great friend for organizing so many study groups.”

You look at him in disbelief, your jaw hanging open. Oh my god. OH. MY. GOD. Did you stay up half the night blowing A TEXT completely out of proportion!? Holy crap did you just spend hours worrying and agonizing and imagining fake scenarios over absolutely NOTHING!? You’re enraged with yourself. How could you let one tiny text absolutely destroy you like that? You’re supposed to be a level-headed hero! And right now you’re acting like some kind of lovesick middle schooler. Grow the fuck up Y/N! This is not how a normal person acts!

You’re absolutely spiraling inside, ashamed of the way you’ve been absolutely tearing yourself apart worrying that Shoto had two timed you with Momo. How silly. How ridiculous. Shoto and Momo are both you’re friends and somehow your horny Neanderthal brain made them both into enemies at the drop of a hat. You feel like an awful person for thinking of Shoto and Momo in such a horrible light.

“What’s wrong?” Shoto says slowly, bringing you back to reality. Your head is absolutely spinning. You’re exhausted and shaky, anxiety still coursing through your veins. Shoto shuffles forward to get a closer look at you, concerned. He reaches out to put a hand on your waist. “Are you not feeling well?” His voice is tinged with concern and he’s looking at you with such warm eyes it makes you want to die.

“I’m feeling fine.” You snap, and Shoto instantly flinches away at your sharp tone. He recoils almost like a child that’s been admonished. His exposed fear at your harsh words makes you feel even sicker to your stomach. It makes you wonder again at how he’s treated at home. You have so many emotions flowing through you at once that you aren’t sure how to respond. Embarrassed, exhausted and unsure of yourself, you turn and walk away.

“Y/N – wait! What’s wrong?” He calls after you as you quickly weave around the gym equipment.

“I’m fine.” You say again in a clipped tone, not having the strength to look back at him.

You leave Shoto confused and alone in the large space.

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You stomp your way to the classroom building. Your stomach is riling and you have too many emotions to count.

You text Mina and Toru in your group chat. You send them a vague excuse about waking up on the wrong side of the bed or some shit. Mina responds that she didn’t sleep well either and Toru sends a heart emoji. You assume all is forgiven.

Much to your class’s surprise, Recovery Girl is standing in Mr. Aizawa’s usual place when you all arrive.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Toru whispers as she takes her seat. You ignore her, still stewing. You can’t make sense of your feelings right now…why are you so damn angry? You’re certain that Shoto is telling the truth – it was just a study session in Momo’s room. You could easily ask Kaminari or Jiro to corroborate his story.

It’s not the study session that’s making you angry though…it’s the way you stayed up all night obsessing about Momo and Shoto’s friendship. The potential hookup. What it would mean if Shoto was seeing other people, despite your discussion about keeping the intimacy monogamous.

You’re embarrassed and ashamed. And now you’re even more abashed of the way you spoke to Shoto.

“Hello class. Aizawa had to take the morning off to attend to some personal matters, so we’re going to dive into our first Sex Ed lesson today ahead of your English class.”

The class groans.

“Don’t worry everyone, this one is quick. It’s just a stepping stone to our larger conversations.” She says kindly, peering up at them through her thick glasses. “Today we’re just going to chat about interpersonal relationships, specifically about how boundaries and strong communication can lead to stronger relationships. This is going to play directly into your friendships, into your hero work, and, eventually, into intimate relationships as well.”

“Who knows what a boundary is?” She looks around expectantly, but no one raises their hand. Everyone is too nervous to engage. She sighs. “Alright, well to start: when we set a boundary, we establish clear limits or guidelines about how we want to be treated. We may define what behaviors are acceptable to us or not. Can anyone think of a good example of what a boundary may be?”

Uraraka raises her hand. “Could a boundary be asking someone not to call you a certain name? Like if Midoriya told Bakugo that being called ‘Deku’ was crossing a boundary for him, it would be wrong of Bakugo to continue using the name, right?”

“Keep my name out of your mouth, pink cheeks!”

“Sounds like Bakugo is crossing the name calling boundary already!” Mina calls out mockingly, and Katsuki looks at her with eyes full of fire and brimstone.

“Settle down! Yes, Uraraka. That’s a good example of a boundary. Boundaries can also be physical or emotional. I’ll give some applicable examples: during training you may feel the need to tell your sparring partner that you aren’t comfortable with your face or chest being touched. In a friendship, you might set a boundary with that person requesting that they not share private personal information about you with other friends. In a dating relationship, you may set boundaries surrounding physical intimacy. The boundaries you set depend on your feelings and needs, as well as the relationship. The most important part of boundary setting is clear communication. Be direct about your feelings and need for a boundary, and don’t be afraid to verbally reiterate to reinforce the boundary. Any questions?”

You see Shoto’s hand lift towards the ceiling. You look over at him and your stomach rolls.

“Yes, Shoto?”

“Say a friend is mad at you, and you’re not sure why. Can I set a boundary in the future requesting that they be direct with me and communicate their feelings as clearly as possible?” He looks straight ahead, careful not to meet your eyes.

Recovery Girl’s mouth quirks a bit. “That is…an oddly specific question.”

She thinks about it for a moment then smiles at Shoto. “But yes, setting clear boundaries surrounding your communication needs is perfectly reasonable. A good step would be to meet this friend in a neutral area and to request that they have an open and honest conversation with you about how they are feeling and why. Tell them that in the future, you would like to have an open line of communication with them and that it upsets you when you don’t understand their feelings. Be sure to underscore that you want to understand them better, and you care about them. Of course, it is important to note that sometimes your boundaries will not be considered or respected. Your friend may not be willing to sit down with you and have a conversation. All relationships are complex and everyone has their own needs that they want met. The best we can do is be respectful of one another and try to approach difficult interpersonal situations with as much empathy and grace as possible.”

Shoto considers this, and nods with understanding.

“Does anyone else have a question about boundaries?”

Mineta raises his hand but begins speaking without being called on. “I think we all know that my boundaries are to see as much of the girls’ boobs and butts as I can. If the ladies of the class could all respect my boundary by having their assets on display as much as possible, it would be much appreciated.”

The lesson ends there.

Mineta is sent to the Principle’s office and Recovery Girl gives them a long lecture about respect and body autonomy. Present Mic comes in halfway through to start his English class. One look at Recovery Girl’s angry face is enough to send him packing, and he doesn’t pluck up the courage to come back and begin his class until 15 minutes have elapsed.

You think about Shoto’s question and feel a stab of shame. Shoto isn’t the best at understanding people, and he comes from a volatile home life where it sounds like his father’s anger is often weaponized. Of course he’s hurt and confused at your seemingly mysterious anger towards him. You wonder if he’s full of anxiety as well. You really shouldn’t have just left him in the dust this morning.

You glance over at Shoto, but he’s still staring straight ahead. His eyes are focused on Present Mic and the chalkboard, but they look a little glazed over. He’s not taking notes. He’s clearly deep in thought about something. You wonder if he’s thinking about you.

Crap, you really screwed this one up.

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The rest of the day goes by pretty fast. There is the usual blur of classes, training, sparring and lunch. Mr. Aizawa reappears for combat training later in the day. He does not share an explanation as to where he has been. Instead, he doubles down on training and makes everyone work twice as hard as usual.

Shoji lays you out on your ass during said combat training and you’re absolutely sure your legs are going to bloom with bruises later on. He apologizes profusely but you shake it off and tell him it was a great throw. The way you had flown through the air must truly have been a sight to behold, as other students are taking a break from their work to come and check that you are okay. Shoji, still incredibly embarrassed, offers to take you to Recovery Girl for a quick once-over.

You catch Shoto’s gaze watching with concern from across the room where he’s sparring with Tokoyami. The momentary lapse in his attention allows for Dark Shadow to hit him square in the chest. He falls back on his own ass and blinks up at Tokoyami with wide-eyed shock.

“You’ve been woefully distracted lately, Todoroki.” You overhear Tokoyami say to Shoto as he pulls the fallen hero back to his feet. “Is everything okay?”

You feel a mixture of shame and embarrassment pool in your stomach as you realize that you’ve been ruining Shoto’s focus. An anxious, terrible thought creeps into your brain…maybe Shoto is better off without you tangled up in his life. You’re a distraction from his hero training, and he from yours. Plus, you’ve most definitely hurt him with the way you jumped to conclusions and then left him to sit with your angry vibes. Maybe for Shoto’s sake…maybe you need to break this off sooner rather than later? You shake your head in an effort to clear the thought from your mind.

“Y/N…are you sure you don’t want to go to Recovery Girl? You’re definitely going to have some nasty bruises from the way you hit the ground.” Shoji tries one more time. You wave him off, starting to get annoyed at the way everyone is dotting on you. Your nerves are absolutely fried.

“No, no. It was my fault for not breaking my own fall. I need to be more careful. Let’s go one more time – but give me a second or two to practice my counter move so we can see if it would be effective against your dupli-arms.” Shoji nods and squares up to you, giving you a moment to collect yourself and get into a position with more leverage. You train together for a few more rounds of sparring before Mr. Aizawa comes around and adjusts your posture to better protect your body from damage. You’re annoyed at the correction, but grateful for the advice.

After combat training, you shower and roll back to the classroom for your final lesson of the day – math. Ugh. You settle back into your desk, taking out your notebook and pencils and trying to convince your brain to cooperate for one last hour.

During the class, Mina passes you a hot pink post-it note that has two quick sentences scribbled out in her neat script: “Stage Two: Rendezvous in the Library at 8pm. Be sure you aren’t followed.”

You roll your eyes at her and tuck the note into your book bag. Mina’s flare for the dramatic could be the thing that blows this whole party operation; you need to keep her in check. You pull out your planner and scribble a quick reminder to meet up with Mina, Toru and Nieto in the evening.

You’re tired and angsty and anxious – to be perfectly honest, you’re not in the mood for a dose of party planning and strategy tonight. In fact, you’d rather take a second, longer shower and spend the evening brooding in your room. You need to figure out how you’ll make things right with Shoto. And you need to determine if hooking up is posing for too much of a distraction to you both. You return to your quadratic equations, morale low and enthusiasm for math crumbling.

The day ends unceremoniously. You pack up your bag, stuffing your notebooks and pens into the small book bag as best you can. Your math textbook peaks out at the top and you can’t zip it all the way. You want to throw it at the wall, you’re so frustrated. What a shitty day it’s been.

Your phone buzzes as you walk through the door. You open it up to see a text from Shoto.

Shoto: Y/N. I don’t understand why you’re upset with me. Will you walk with me back to the dorms so we can discuss your feelings?

Ugh. You totally knew this was coming. You turn and see Shoto packing up his own bag back in the classroom. There are a few other stragglers from Class A – you watch as he attempts to hang back. He looks up at you and finally catches your eye. He looks sad, his expressive eyes shining with more than a little hurt. You nod at him before turning back down to your phone.

Y/N: Of course, I’ll wait for you outside of the classroom.

You loiter outside the classroom door for a moment, nodding at your classmates as they pass through the threshold and make their way back to the dorm building. Shoto is the last to exit; his fine brown leather backpack slung over one shoulder. The bright afternoon sunlight shines through the hallway windows and dances upon his fair face. It highlights the bright scar that encircles his left eye, giving it an almost fiery glow. He’s so gorgeous he could be a model.

“I saw you got your ass kicked by Tokoyami today.” You try to joke, but the comment just comes out lame. The two of you start making your way towards the exit, the sunlight streaming across your bare arms and wrapping you in a glow of warmth. The feeling is oddly comforting. You take a few steadying breaths as you prepare yourself for a tough conversation.

“Yes. I was distracted. I saw Shoji throw you to the ground and I was worried that you were hurt.” Shoto says, straightforward as ever. He fixes his gaze on the hallway ahead, not daring to look over at you.

A flicker of anger and madness licks at your insides. You try taking a deep breath to keep your emotions at bay, but you almost can’t help yourself when you snap out: “You can’t worry about me like that. I can hold my own in battle. I got into UA on my own merits, after all.” A beat. “You need to trust that I can handle myself.”

You’re on edge and upset at yourself, and once again today you’re taking it out on poor Shoto. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I’m going to be a hero.” You say with feeling, adjusting your backpack so the straps don’t dig into your shoulders as much. Damn, you’ve got too many books crammed into this thing.

Shoto is silent for a moment. He turns to stare out one of the large sunlit windows, gathering his thoughts. You give him some time. He takes a deep breath before he turns back towards you, his eyes bright.

“You’re right. I’m sorry Y/N. Is that why you’re mad at me – do you feel that I’ve been underestimating your abilities? Because I assure you its quite the opposite. I hold you in such a high regard, you are nothing but impressive to me.” He turns so he can focus his full attention on you, his mismatched eyes fit to burn a hole through your heart. The kind words roll off of his tongue sweet like honey, and you believe him. He thinks so highly of you. You’ve always known this. And yet, you needed him to repeat it. You need to be reminded, or else the anxious thoughts will have you in a chokehold.

“I truly think you are amazing.” At his words, the prickly anxious energy surrounding your heart and mind dissipates a bit.

“Shoto…I’m not mad at you. I’m not even sure how to explain why I was so dismissive of you this morning.” You say, trying your best to pin down a few of the swirling thoughts in your mind.

“Can you try?” He asks softly. “Recovery Girl said that I should be direct and ask questions. I would like to have an open line of communication with you, because I care about you and it has been hurting me all day that I can’t understand the way you’re feeling. Are you willing to discuss this?”

“Of course Shoto.” You say, trying to come up with the right words to describe your feelings. Your whole body aches from your sparring session with Shoji, and you’re so tired you feel like you could shut your eyes and fall asleep where you stand. Talking about feelings is the absolute last thing you want to do right now, but Shoto deserves an explanation and an apology. You try to adjust your backpack straps again, but it does nothing to alleviate the stiffness in your back.

“Here, Y/N. I know you’re a strong hero and that you can hold your own, but please let me help you with your backpack. It looks uncomfortable.” Shoto reaches out and slips the backpack strap off your shoulders. You feel instant relief – you lift your arms high over your head and feel your shoulders crack as you stretch out the muscles.

“Thank you. I’m not feeling my best.” You continue to run through some basic stretches and roll out your muscles as you explain how shocked you were to see the text from Momo come through the night before. “I wasn’t snooping on your phone, I promise. I would never violate your privacy like that. But I flipped it over and saw the message. I misinterpreted Momo’s text…I thought that when she said you’d left your sweatshirt in her room…well I thought it implied that the two of you had hooked up.”

Shoto’s eyes grow round with surprise, his eyebrows shoot up into his neat two toned hair. “You thought that Momo and I…?”

“Yeah. My imagination and my anxiety went into overdrive and I was up all night wrecked with worry.”

“But Y/N, I told you that I only want to be intimate with you. What reason would I have to lie to you?”

“Anxiety is a brutal thing. I spiraled out of control and assumed the worst. And then when you had a perfectly reasonable explanation for why your sweatshirt was in her room…I was ashamed at how upset and needy I let myself get over the whole thing.” You hang your head in shame, unable to look him straight in the face. “I was up most of the night anxious about the situation and I let it consume me. I was mad at myself, and I took it out on you. I’m so sorry Shoto, that was wrong of me.” Your eyes focus on the floor beneath you.

“Y/N.” You feel Shoto’s hand reach out to take your own. It’s his cool hand – it feels refreshing to have your fingers wrapped around each other in the sunny glare of the wide UA windows. “It’s alright. I’m not upset with you. That makes a lot of sense, and now I understand why you feel the way you do. But I hope you believe me when I say I only want to be intimate that way with you.” He rubs his thumb across your hand lightly, the gentle touch sending goose bumps up your arms. “I like Momo as a friend – but that’s all. I promise.” He squeezes your hand lightly, a physical manifestation of his assurance.

You look up into Shoto’s face and his gaze is open, warm. He repeats: “I’m not upset with you.”

“But you should be!” You burst out, nerves still buzzing. “I was so cold to you this morning, and I clearly hurt your feelings.” You pause, your emotions welling up and bubbling too close to the surface for comfort. “And…and I’m too much of a distraction to you. Ever since we started hooking up, you’ve been less engaged in class and in training. I just can’t stomach the thought of holding your hero training back because you’re too focused on me.”

This is clearly not what Shoto was expecting you to say, because his mouth hangs open in surprise. He stands in the hallway, flabbergasted.

The hallway is silent, save for simple notes of birdsong wafting through a nearby open window.

Shoto looks at you now, narrowing his eyes. “Hey, Y/N…I am going to ask you a question and I don’t want you to think I’m being demeaning here. But…when was the last time you had a full night’s sleep? You look exhausted.”

You blink at him, confused for a moment. But then you realize its true – you’re utterly drained and you haven’t gotten a good nights’ sleep all week. In between late night study sessions and your hookups with Shoto, you’ve really been burning the midnight oil. And then, of course, there’s the way you’d kept yourself up the night before agonizing over the text from Momo…

“It’s been a while.” You say slowly.

“I think that maybe you need to relax a bit. I’m not mad at you. You’re not distracting me. In fact, you’ve done nothing but enhance my life since we’ve started seeing each other more…intimately. You let me just be myself around you. I can’t convey to you how much that’s helped me lately. I need you to believe that.”

You nod. He’s being far too kind to you.

Shoto uses his free hand to check his phone for the time. You see his boring blue sky phone background light up briefly before he re-pockets the device.

“It’s 4:00 right now. Do you have time to rest before dinner?” He asks gently, squeezing your hand again.

“Yes. I don’t have anything planned until 8 o’clock tonight.” You say, thinking back to Mina’s note.

“Good. Then I’m escorting to your room and enforcing a mandatory nap.” He uncouples your hands and marches forward towards the dorms. You follow behind; head foggy with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. Shoto isn’t mad at you.

Within minutes, you’re back in the Class A dorms. Most of your classmates are scattered across the campus – fitting in some last minute training in the gym or working through homework in the library. You feel guilty – you should be in one of those places, too. You need to work towards your goal of becoming stronger, becoming a hero. You voice these concerns to Shoto as he leads you through the empty hallway and towards your dorm room.

“Heroes need rest, too.” He says simply, dismissing your worries with a wave of his hand. “How can you become stronger if your exhausted?” He has a point there.

You turn your key in the lock and push your door open. The two of you enter the tiny dorm and you lock the door behind you. Shoto places the two backpacks on the floor near your desk and turns to you expectantly.

“Where do you keep your comfortable clothes?”

“Um, in the second drawer on the right.” You direct.

He moves to your dresser and opens the aforementioned drawer, drawing out a pair of cream-colored sweatpants and a grey tank top. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the pieces are not a matching set. He tosses the outfit in your direction and tells you to change. Meanwhile, he grabs the water bottle off of your nightstand and walks to your tiny bathroom to fill it for you. You hastily change in his absence and throw your worn uniform in your hamper for washing.

Shoto returns with a full water bottle and a damp cloth. He sets the bottle back on your nightstand and tugs you to your bed. You pull down the covers and climb up into the fluffy monstrosity, tucking your cold feet under the covers.

Shoto climbs up with you and sits next to you. He brings the cloth to your face – it’s damp with warm water. He lightly dabs at your cheeks, eyebrows and forehead, refreshing your skin in an insanely sweet gesture. “My mom used to do this for me before I went to bed.” He mumbles under his breath. “It always helped me sleep better.”

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You flush at the tenderness of his actions, overwhelmed with gratitude but feeling unworthy of his gentle attention.

“Drink some water.” He says before sliding off the bed and moving to ring out the cloth in the bathroom sink. You oblige, grabbing your water bottle and taking several large gulps of the cool liquid.

You feel ten times more relaxed than you had in class today. The loose clothes feel comforting on your aching body, and your face feels fresh and clean from Shoto’s attention. You lay your head down on your soft pillow and exhale deeply.

Shoto exits the bathroom, shaking the excess water from his hands.

“I’m sorry to be such a burden to you, Shoto.”

Shoto looks at you with a piercing gaze, almost angry.

“Y/N. I care about you – it is not a burden to take care of you when you need it. All I ask is that you are more open with your feelings next time. Don’t bottle things up and keep me in the dark.” He walks over to his book bag and reaches inside to grab one of your English class books – The Great Gatsby.

“Alright…I can be more open with you for sure. I’m sorry I was so harsh and mysterious this morning, I was processing too much and I got myself all worked up thinking that you and Momo had…well, you know.”

“Momo and I are good friends. You and I are also good friends but we have a more intimate relationship. There is nothing to be jealous about. As I said - I don’t care for Momo in the same way that I care for you.” He states simply, climbing back up beside you with his book in hand. “Here, turn onto your side and I can use my quirk as a heating pad on your back like last time.”

“You sure? I don’t need you to go to all this trouble…” You trail off as you feel his calloused hand works its way under your tank top. He spreads his fingertips wide as he cradles your lower back in his powerful hand. You feel him slowly start to modulate his temperature and the heat feels delightful against your aching muscles.

“Let me do nice things for you. I want you to relax. Now close your eyes and take a nap – I’ll wake you up before dinner.” He settles in next to you and you turn onto your side to give him better access to your back. He adjusts his position and props himself up against a few of your plushies. He flips his book open with his free hand and starts to read, brow furrowed in concentration.

You drift off, drawing comfort from the heat of Shoto’s left hand. You feel your muscles relaxing into his warm touch, the pains of the day melting like butter on a hot plate. You stretch out your legs into a more comfortable position and bury your face into your pillow.

“Thanks Shoto.” You sigh, letting your heavy eyelids drop. You feel so comfortable and safe; it’s not hard to let yourself fall into a soft, dreamless sleep.

True to his word, Shoto wakes you up two and a half hours later with a gentle shake of your shoulder. You blink up at him, bleary eyed. He smiles down at you, eyes soft as ever. It’s funny that you’ve never really noticed this – his face can be so blank and stoic, but all of the emotion shines through his pretty mismatched eyes.

“Did you have a good nap?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your brow before getting to his feet.

“Yeah…I feel like a totally new person.” You say. And its true – you feel refreshed and 90% better than you had earlier this afternoon. Your training aches and pains are still present, but have subsided a bit under Shoto’s gentle heat. Shoto hands you your water bottle and encourages you to take a few more gulps before getting out of bed. You indulge him, making a show of draining the bottle before you slide out from under the covers. You stand and wrap your arms around him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder. “Thank you Shoto.”

Shoto returns the hug, taking care to run his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture. “We take care of each other.” He says simply.

“How’s the book?” You ask as he breaks the hug and walks to his backpack, tucking his copy of The Great Gatsby amongst his notebooks.

“I finished it.” He says, scooping the bag up and onto his shoulders. “I don’t want to spoil the ending for you, but I’ll say this – it’s not a happy book.”

“Oh. Well I wasn’t really looking forward to it anyway. I much prefer sci-fi to the classics.” This seems to surprise Shoto, his eyebrows quirk up into his bangs in a gesture that’s rapidly becoming familiar.

“Sci-fi? Wow, I learn new things about you every day.” His tone is filled with surprise. “You’ll have to lend me one of your favorites sometime.” He checks the time on his phone, his factory default background glowing in the lowlight. “I should get going so I can drop my bag off in my room before dinner.”

“Hold on a sec – can I see your phone?” You hold out your hand, palm open. He looks at you for a moment, curious.

“Is this something to do with YaMomo again?” He asks, handing you the device.

“Not at all – I just noticed you have a basic-ass phone background. I think we need to change it to be more you, ya know?” You say, opening his Internet browser app and going to Google images.

“Oh, I’ve never really thought about that before.” He says, leaning to look over your shoulder curiously. “What are you thinking?”

“I feel like lately when we talk you’ve revealed that you like ocean creatures. That whale pillow on Pinterest? The Squirtle plushie? You seem to really like the sea vibe.” You say, typing a quick prompt into the search bar under Todoroki’s watchful eye.

“Huh, that’s true. I find the ocean to be very calming. And the creatures are usually cute.” He wraps his arms around you from behind as the image results populate on the screen. “Oh – I like that one a lot.” He points at a tiny thumbnail image and you click to expand it. It’s an old Lisa Frank design depicting two dolphins leaping out of crystal blue water. The art features a rainbow background of colorful corals and palm trees. It’s vibrant and filled with energy, and seems to fill Shoto with excitement as he buzzes behind you eagerly.

“Oh, I like that one too! All the colors are really nice. Let’s see how it looks as your phone background.” You smile as you save the image and set it as Shoto’s phone screen. He gives you a brief squeeze around the middle as he hugs you, bringing his chin down to rest on your shoulder as he watches you work your tech wizardry. You feel warm and fuzzy inside – Shoto is truly opening up to you. It feels like each day you chip away at his stoic exterior to reveal bits and pieces of his true self.

You hold up the phone and he unfurls an arm from where he’s holding you. He brings the phone to his face and smiles down at his new technicolor dolphin lock screen. You reach up a hand to cup his cheek tenderly and he leans into the touch.

“Thanks, Y/N. I really like this.” He says, turning his phone every which way to admire the artwork. He’s always surprising you. You’re happy he’s starting to get comfortable showing off his true self.

“Of course, Shoto. You should surround yourself with things that make you happy!” You feel your stomach growl and you remember that dinner is only minutes away. “We should really get going, shouldn’t we?” You both laugh as your tummy rumbles again.

Shoto unwinds his from around your stomach and gets to his feet. “Mind checking to see if the coast is clear? I’ll drop off my bag in my room and then see you at the common area.”

“Sounds like a plan.” You slide off the bed, unlock the door and peer out into the hallway. Thankfully, there’s no one in sight. You have a feeling that most of the class is already down in the common area assisting with dinner preparations.

“All clear.” You give Shoto a goofy little salute before opening the door wide for him to exit. He smiles and leans down to place a kiss on your cheek before booking it down the hallway. He hits the staircase and he’s out of sight in a blink of an eye.

You smile and head back inside your room, moving to change into a top that better matches your sweatpants. It feels nice to be taken care of. You wonder how Shoto knew exactly what you needed in order to feel better. Sometimes he seems so…out of touch. And yet, as soon as you need something he seems to lock in and know just what to do. You suspect that’s the true mark of a hero – seeing someone in need and figuring out a way to help. Who would have thought that Shoto Todoroki would become your own personal hero!?

In the dorm, Class A takes turns cooking with everyone rotating meal prep responsibilities. Tonight, Bakugo, Kirishima and Ida are handling the meal and you know it will be delicious. For some reason, Katsuki has some insane cooking skills. The smell of cooking vegetables wafts up from the kitchen and your stomach growls again in response. You leave your room, ambling down to meet the rest of your class in the kitchen area.

You feel much lighter, much happier. Shoto Todoroki is a goddamn prince of a man.

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“Alright, Mineta. We need you to do this for us.”

It’s 8:05 pm and you, Toru, Mina, Nieto Monoma and Minoru Mineta are all holed up in a study room within the Geography section of UA’s oversized library. Nieto purposefully chose this location for your clandestine rendezvous because “no one at this school studies goddamn geography, so it’s the perfect secret meeting spot.”

Mina had invited Mineta with a secret post it note as well. She had passed him a hot pink note in between classes. The note had implied that the two would be having a private meeting to discuss the “raw romantic tension between them.” Needless to say, Mineta had been extremely disappointed to find you, Toru and Nieto all waiting alongside Mina in the geography study room.

After a few not-so-sincere apologies, Nieto and Toru had gotten right to the heart of the matter and explained their master plan and Mineta’s potential role in it. The small purple classmate had listened intently; nodding as Toru unrolled schematics and Nieto explained timing and strategy. He seems genuinely interested in the party plot, and for a moment you think that he might say yes and help you all pull this off.

“What’s in it for me?” Ah, there’s the kicker alright. He looks around at you all expectantly.

Mina crosses her arms and stares him down. “The gratitude of our class and the joy of knowing you helped out your classmates.”

“No way. I want something out of this.” He rubs his hands together, scheming. “If I’m going to participate in this crazy ass plan so that you all can throw some stupid party, I better get something out of it. So here’s my price - 7 minutes in heaven. With each of you.” He looks at Mina challengingly.

“First of all – that’s 21 minutes in heaven. And second of all – majorly GROSS!” Toru bursts out, turning to you for confirmation. You shake your head in disgust as well, ready for Mina to jump in and negotiate terms.

“Absolutely not.” Your pink friend says, her antenna bristling.

“You’re not really in a position to be negotiating, are you?” Mineta leers up at you all. “After all, you need something from me. You should be grateful I’m even thinking about helping out with your crazy scheme considering how much trouble you got our class in last time.”

Mina makes a sour face. Honestly, he kind of has a point.

“7 minutes in heaven is off the table. Name something else.” She spits out, her dark eyes murderous.

“Fine. I get a kiss from each of you. And I get to grope Hagakure’s ass at least once.”

“What!! Why my ass!?” Toru explodes, waving her arms in upset.

Mineta salivates. “Because I have no idea how juicy it is. Just give me one good squeeze so I can truly know.”

“You absolute perv!” Toru roars, reaching out to grab Mineta and give him a good thrashing. You catch your friend’s invisible hands before she can rain down terror on the little miscreant.

“Hey you’re the ones who want to play Spin The Bottle and watch our classmates kiss. You’re just as pervy as me.” Mineta levels you all with a superior look. “I bet Monoma here is getting something good out of this deal, so why shouldn’t I?” He gestures up at Monoma, who up until now has stayed completely silent. This is all part of Mina’s strategy. Ahead of the meeting, she had advised Nieto to keep his talking to a minimum since its likely Mineta wouldn’t trust him.

“What are they promising you in exchange for your help?” The little creep asks Nieto.

“That’s none of your business.” You say, squaring up to your classmate. You decide to play into his insecurities. All’s fair in love and war, right!?

“Look, Mineta. We need your help to get this party off the ground. You’re the only one who can do this job, and it would mean the world to all of our classmates if you went through with it. You’d literally be hailed as the coolest guy in our class. Isn’t that enough? You don’t exactly have the most social clout at the moment.”

Mineta looks at you for a long minute, clearly weighing all of his options. He seems unfazed by your comment about his “coolness” factor.

“Nope. I want whatever he’s getting.” He points at Monoma, who gives him an unhinged look.

“You Class A stooges are so entitled!” He booms, laughing a bit maniacally. Mina smacks the back of his head to give him a hard reset.

“Stay with us, Nieto.” She turns back to Mineta. “Okay in the spirit of transparency, we are helping Monoma get a kiss during Spin The Bottle. To keep things fair, we can guarantee one kiss for you as well. Tell us who you want to kiss, and it will be delivered upon successful completion of work.”

“Heh.” Mineta smirks evilly. “Fine, I accept your terms. For my kiss I choose…Y/N!” He points directly at you, blood dripping from his nose.

You look at your friends and shrug. Unenthusiastically you say: “Fine. Why not.”

“My ass thanks you.” Toru squeaks out, covering her behind with invisible hands. Nieto glares down at Mineta in disgust, but lets you continue to do the talking.

“If this will get our party off the ground, I’m willing to do it.” You look down at Mineta. “Here are the conditions – It’s gonna be a single kiss. Lips closed, no tongue. No groping. No touching. Lips only. Got that?”

Mineta nods eagerly. “Don’t worry. Once you get one taste of these lips, you’ll be begging for more.” He turns back to Mina, awaiting instructions. “So what do you need me to do?”

You all return to the dorms forty minutes later, with plenty of time to get back to your separate rooms before the curfew takes effect.

A battle plan has been drawn out, and commitments have been made. You have a sour taste in your mouth at the thought of your eventual kiss with Mineta, but sacrifices must be made. After all, the fate of the party of the century hangs in the balance.

You make a mental note to make sure that Shoto is cool with all of this – after all, it would be super hypocritical for you to be jealous of Shoto’s non-existent relationship with YaMomo, and then to turn around and give another guy a peck on the mouth.

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

When you finally make it back to your dorm, you’re riding an absolute high. You and your friends are planning the biggest secret party in UA history, and with the kickass strategy you all have developed, you anticipate the whole thing going off without a hitch. Monoma truly is a genius – you can’t wait to see his tightly orchestrated plan come to life. The man truly loves pulling all the strings behind the scenes.

Thanks to your nap, you’re feeling a bit more rested and energized. You text Shoto.

Y/N: Hey Shoto, you up?

Shoto: It’s only 9. Of course I’m awake.

Y/N: Have time to come through? I want to properly thank you for taking care of me earlier.

Shoto: I just finished some homework, I can come over for a bit before curfew.

Y/N: Perf! I have the perfect idea of how I can return the favor and TAKE CARE OF YOU! 👀

Shoto: I’m nervous. The all caps coming from you is aggressive.

Y/N: That was supposed to be cute and flirty 😉 Don’t be scared!! ☠️

Shoto: Ok. I’ll be down in 5.

True to his word, Shoto arrives in a timely fashion. He slips through your unlocked door like a ghost in the night.

“Hey, Y/N. How was your meeting with Mina and…?”

His jaw drops in surprise when he looks up to find you in nothing but your bra and panties. It’s a matching set – midnight blue and lacy around the edges. You’re feeling bold.

“I was trying to think of a way that I could properly thank you for taking such good care of me earlier…” You trail off, reaching behind him to turn the lock to your door.

“…And I came up with an idea. Get on the bed?” You ask sweetly. Shoto wastes no time obeying your request. He hurriedly scrambles onto the bed with the speed of a teenage boy who’s been promised a sexual favor. You climb up after him, lifting the hem of his t-shirt suggestively.

“Clothes off.” You say, tugging at the shirt a bit to see a flash of his perfect stomach before dropping the fabric from your fingertips.

Shoto doesn’t need telling twice – he strips, pulling the shirt over his head with lightening fast reflexes. His perfectly toned abs glow under the fairy lights, and you lick your lips at the sight. He hurriedly slips his sweatpants down his hips and takes them off one leg at a time, still managing to look graceful despite his frantic energy.

He throws his pants out onto the floor, out of sight. He’s wearing a pair of loose grey boxer shorts, his hardening cock already visible through the thin fabric. You reach out a hand to trace along the outline of his pulsing member, causing him to get even stiffer under your teasing touch. He looks down at you with that heaven-piercing gaze. Perfect.

You lean towards him, ghosting gentle kisses along the curve of his pale neck.  “What do you want Shoto?” You breathe wetly into his ear, running your hand down his bare chest. “Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.” You hear Shoto’s breath catch in his throat at the implication. An open ended offer is a valuable thing – you wonder how he’ll use it?

“I’m thinking…maybe you could do that thing with your hands again?” He says sheepishly, pupils blown wide as he watches you palm at his dick over his boxers.

“You mean a hand job? Are you asking for a hand job?” You say, laughing, as he blushes crimson as his hair.

“I guess I am.” He says, breathing shakily. He leans down into your hair and mumbles “It feels so much better when you do it. I’ve been trying to replicate it on my own but…it’s just not the same.”

You smile. “I can definitely do that for you. Tell me, how badly do you want it?” You ask in a tone that’s barely above a whisper. You squeeze his package lightly over the boxers. He almost moans at the touch.

“I want it…so badly Y/N. Please.”

The light begging sparks something in your core and you’re already so wet you fear you may soak through your panties. Again. Wow, this is becoming quite a bad habit of yours.

“Take off the boxers.” You command softly, and Shoto accommodates – stripping down to nothing. Once again, here is thisa beautiful man buck naked in your bed. It’s enough to make you see fireworks behind your eyes.

He sits there, fully exposed, his cock hard and laying flush against his taught muscled stomach. You long to reach out and take him in your hand, but you know you know you need to be patient.

“Shoto, you said you’ve been trying to replicate the hand job I gave you?” You ask amiably. He nods. “I want you to show me how you like to do it on your own. Show me how you touch yourself, Sho.”

He glances up at you uncertainly through thick lashes, looking between you and his cock with trepidation. “Are you sure? Would that not be…weird?”

“Not at all!” You reassure him. “It’s the best way for me to learn how to pleasure you. I want to see what you like so I can add it into the mix. It’s like hero training – we need to learn from each other to be the best we can be.”

This analogy makes perfect sense to Shoto, who understands the importance of training. “Alright. If it would help. But I feel pretty self-conscious right now.”

“That’s perfectly understandable.” You say, placing another string of kisses to his jawline. “Try not to be too nervous. Remember - we’re just having fun and exploring, right?” You pause. “Plus…it would be really fuckin’ hot to see you jerk yourself off in my bed. So know that I’m completely and totally into this. If that helps.”

This makes Shoto smile. “It actually does help.” He laughs softly, turning his head to capture your lips in a brief smooch.

“Right.” Shoto says, drawing in a shaky breath. He looks at you nervously, before glancing down at his erect cock once more. He reaches for it, wraps his fingers around himself and gives a light tug. You watch as he slowly starts stroking at himself, concentrating a bit more on the head here and there. He glances up at you from time to time, letting his eyes roam across your breasts and the gentle curves of your hips.

You move the straps of your bra off your shoulders, giving him a bit of a show before you reach behind you to unclip the bra all together. You toss the fabric to the floor in what’s rapidly becoming a familiar gesture with Shoto. His breath hitches in the back of his throat as his eyes take in your perfect breasts. He picks up his pace, jerking himself off in a succinct rhythm as his eyes devour your chest.

“Come here.” He groans. You scoot towards him in the bed.

“What do you want?” You ask, voice soft but demanding.

“I want your breasts in my mouth. Right now.” He says, not breaking stride as he continues to work at his rock hard cock.

You reposition yourself so that you’re slightly above him and you lean forward. He can’t help himself – before you’ve settled into a comfortable position, he’s captured one of your nipples in his mouth. He suckles on it, using his tongue and teeth to tease the delicate flesh. The pleasure that shoots through you is unquantifiable. You lean into his mouth and your eyes flutter shut as he uses his free hand to give attention to your other tit. The gratification is so good you hope he never stops.

But then you remember – you have a goddamn plan here. You should be watching and learning to see what Shoto likes. Your eyes fly open and you try to ignore the absolutely incredible things this Todoroki blessing is doing to your breasts.

“Shoto…” You try to get his attention. He looks up at you from down where he’s sucking on your tit and cocks and eyebrow questioningly.

“Mmm?”

“Shoto, this is fucking hot, but I’m trying to concentrate. Please – show me what you like and talk me through it.” You try to keep your voice as level as possible, even as he pinches a nipple and rubs the pad of his thumb over the delicate nub with his free hand. After a quick moment, comprehension dawns in his eyes and his mouth releases your boob with a wet “pop!”

“Sorry, I got carried away.” His face is red with embarrassment as you slide to sit next to him.

“Don’t be. I like it when you get carried away. You’re so goddamn hot Sho.” You plant a kiss on his cheek. “Now get back to it – and talk me through what you like.”

Shoto looks down at his cock and resumes stroking it. “So I hold my hand like this around it, see?” He demonstrates how he keeps a loose closed grip around his dick, sliding his hand along the base for a few deep strokes before concentrating around the head. “This part is the most sensitive, so when I want to finish I concentrate a lot here. But first I work myself up by starting down here.” He moves his hand down to the base of his dick to show you. “And I’ll tease myself a little as I work back up to the top.”

“Sometimes, I like to touch my…um…testicles a bit. It feels really nice to kind of…uh this is super awkward to explain…it feels good to move them around?”

“I think I understand.” You say, watching as he shows you how he likes to be played with. You let him work at himself until you see shiny beads of pre-cum form at the head of his cock.

“Okay, my turn to drive.” You say, reaching to shoo Shoto’s steady hand out of the way so that you can replace it with your own. “There we go.” You wrap your hand around his hard cock and start at the base the way he explained. You slowly roll your hand midway up his shaft before bringing it back down to the base. Shoto sighs at the motion, his hips flexing in a way that implies that he’s dying to thrust up into your hand.

You continue to tease him that way, coming closer and closer to the sensitive tip of his cock without truly touching it. You can tell by the expressions stretched across his face that he simultaneously loves and hates what you’re doing to him. You grin; enjoying the control you have as you edge him.

With your free hand, you reach down to fondle his balls, trying to mimic the motion he showed you. There’s a sharp intake of breath when you start to shift his package around, and you can tell from the way he bites back a moan that it must feel so, incredibly good to be touched this way.

Finally, you release his cock and bring your small hand to your mouth. You make a show of licking the palm of your hand before spitting cleanly into it. Shoto’s eyes widen in surprise at the crude gesture, but his cock twitches in anticipation.

You bring your spit-filled hand down to his dick and resume jerking him off – this time starting low at the base and continuing all the way up to the tip. Your saliva allows for your hand to slide and glide in a delicious way that it hadn’t previously. Shoto lets out a curse followed by your name at the feeling.

“Fuck, Y/N. Holy fucking fuck.” It’s the most you’ve ever heard him curse, and the lilt of his lust filled voice is absolutely sinful. You grin like a Cheshire cat as you stroke him the way he showed you, focusing on the sensitive head. His breathing is ragged, and he’s absolutely wrecked as you continue to run your lubed up hand along the very tip of his rigid member. “Shit. Y/N. I’m going to - ”

Shoto orgasms hard - thick waves of hot cum shooting up and flowing over your delicate hand as you continue to work at him. His legs jerk with the suddenness of his climax. His breath hitches in his throat and you fear that he’s stopped breathing as his hips roll up, thrusting his cock into your grip over and over and over. You use your hand to milk him for all that he’s worth, being sure to mimic the way that you had watched him grip his dick earlier in his demonstration. The expression on his face is priceless – his eyes are wide and filled with an expression of rapture, his mouth caught open in a small “o.”

Whatever you’re doing seems to be doing the trick, because it is quite a bit before he catches his breath and politely removes your hand from his spent, pulsing cock. He’s over stimulated and panting, looking at you with wide eyes.

“Y/N, that was…” He’s still breathing heavy.

You reach across him to grab a conveniently placed washcloth off of your nightstand (you had a feeling that you’d be needing some cleanup supplies tonight). You wipe the sticky mess from your hand before giving him the cloth. He gratefully accepts, wiping the cum that’s pooled along the defined planes of his stomach and in the well of his bellybutton. “That was incredible. You take direction so well.” He says, his voice a bit fuzzy around the edges as he drops his head back to rest on your pillow.

You lay back with him, moving your clean hand to stroke his hair slowly. He leans into the touch, eyes heavy and half lidded as he comes down from his high.

“I’m a fast learner.” You say, enjoying the soft texture of his fluffy hair as you flutter your fingers through his dense locks. You lay there for a few minutes, playing with  Shoto’s hair and letting him bask in the afterglow. He’s completely naked and gorgeous in the glow of your fairy lights, his pale skin rippling with muscle.

“It’s almost curfew…you’d better get going in case Mr. Aizawa makes a bed check appearance.” You say with regret, wishing Shoto could stay with you through the night.

Shoto turns his head and groans into your shoulder. “But I want to stay here forever. It’s so comfortable here with your hands in my hair. And I’m so tired now.” He almost whines. You smile – a month ago you would have never thought Shoto Todoroki capable of whining. 

“I wish you could stay, too.” You coo, continuing to card your fingers through his mismatched locks.

“I like it here. Maybe I’ll move in. Stake claim on all of your plushes.” He reaches out and grabs his favorite plush from behind your head. He holds it close to your face and waves it up and down a few times, pretending to make it dance. “Squirtle, Squirtle.” He says in a strained, warbley voice. You giggle at his goofy attempt at mimicking the water Pokémon.

Afterglow Shoto sure is chatty. He looks so open and relaxed, his facial features at rest.

“Oh my God Shoto…did you finally look up Pokémon!?”

He hugs the plush to his bare chest and laughs. “I watched 12 episodes. I had to keep watching until Squirtle showed up. I would give my life for the Squirtle Squad.”

This cracks you up. You laugh even harder when you look up and see the way that Shoto is sprawled across your bed – completely naked except for the large Squirtle plush clutched to his chest. You point at him and make a little choked squeak. He realizes how ridiculous he looks and soon you’re both in hysterics, gasping for breath. It’s a wonder that no one has knocked on your door yet and asked you to quiet down.

After a few minutes you both calm down enough to catch your breath. You slide off the bed and scoop Shoto’s grey boxers off the ground and toss them in his direction. He drops Squirtle for a moment so he can shimmy into his underwear. Partially clothed once more, he flops on his back and pulls the covers up to his chin. He tucks Squirtle in beside him. You move to get back into the bed and join him, but he holds up a hand and puts on a serious expression. “Sorry – there’s no room for you. This bed is for card carrying members of the Squirtle Squad only.”

You smile and then paste a theatrical pout on your face. “You goof. How does one apply for Squirtle Squad membership?”

“Hmm.” Shoto brings his hand to his chin as if deep in thought. “You need to pay our membership dues. It’ll cost you a kiss.”

“That’s pretty expensive.”

“Squad Membership is well worth the fee, I promise.” He nods stoically, looking over at the Squirtle plush beside him. “Squirtle can confirm.” He gestures at the plush, which stares up at you blankly with its large embroidered eyes.  

“What does Squad Membership include?” You ponder aloud, pretending to think it over.

“If you join up now, I’ll act as your official heat and ice pack.” Shoto holds up both hands above his face as an offering. “And I’ll make you cum whenever you want.”

“Whenever I want?” You repeat. “Now that’s an intriguing offer. I think I’ll take it.” You lean down and cup his soft cheek in your hand, bringing his mouth to yours. Your lips melt into his and you kiss him soundly. He moans into your mouth, moving his lips softly against your own.

It’s wonderful to be with him like this – so open and having fun like regular teenagers. There’s no pressure to put on a brave face and to be strong heroes in training. In these stolen moments, its okay to just be. You break the kiss and pull yourself up into he bed and under the comforter. Within seconds, you’re wrapped up in Shoto’s arms and he pulls you against his bare chest.

“Welcome to the Squad. Your membership is approved.” He places a kiss on your forehead and you snuggle into him. You take a deep breath, letting your tired body relax against Shoto’s solid warmth. 

You lay in silence for a bit, just enjoying each others company. Shoto’s breathing is slow and even. You can tell he’s feeling comfortable and relaxed after his orgasm. He nuzzles his face into your shoulder and huffs into the curve of your neck. After a bit, Shoto gets too warm and uncouples himself from you so he can pull down the comforter a bit.

“You know, I was thinking…” Shoto rolls over onto his back and crosses his arms behind his head. He’s partially naked and gorgeous in the glow of your fairy lights, his pale skin rippling with muscle. He looks up at the ceiling. “Summer training camp is coming up. I heard that this year we are going for 2 weeks. They plan to put us through a week and a half of training, and then we’ll get a few days just to have fun and enjoy being outside. There will be hiking, and campfires…maybe the two of us can sneak off and just have some time together? No curfews, no whispering. No hiding away.” He turns his head to look at you.

“That sounds really, really nice.” You say, reaching over to give him a big boop on his nose. He smiles at the contact. You love seeing him like this – usually he is so closed off and stoic. Every smile you can get out of him is a prize in itself. “I doubt we’ll truly be able to sneak off given how large and damn nosy our class is…but we can definitely try.”

Shoto closes his eyes, a blissful expression etched across his features. “I just picture the two of us on a moonlit hike, just able to enjoy the scenery together. We can listen to the cicadas and the crickets in the quiet of the dark. It’s such a calming thought in my mind. I’d like to share that moment of peace with you.”

“Orgasms make you talk nonsense.” You joke, trying to ignore the way that your heart is squeezing at his words.

He opens his eyes and scans your face. “You’d like that, though?”

“Of course I would, Shoto. It would be nice to get out of the city and to see some greenery. To be together outside of our dorm rooms. I wish that we didn’t need to sneak around so much…I wish that we were older and that we could just do whatever we want without consequence.” You say wistfully, reaching to grab your phone and check the time. “Crap, it’s nearly 10.”

Shoto pulls you into another embrace, shifting his hands around you so he can cradle your breasts. He plays with your nipples a bit, swirling his fingertips around them delicately. You gasp at the contact, your pussy instantly responding to the touch.  “I can’t go yet – I haven’t made you cum.” Shoto whispers thickly into your ear, pinching a nipple with each hand. You make a strangled sort of noise, sliding a hand down between your legs to give your clit a brief pulse to sate the hungry way its pulsing beneath the smooth fabric of your panties.

“Shoto…if you stay any longer and Aizawa comes around, we’re gonna get caught.” You say in a pained voice as he continues to play with your tits. You can’t let this go any further or you both are done for. “Shoto, you’ve gotta go.”

“But it’s not fair if I don’t make you - ” You move to regretfully remove his wandering hands from your boobs.

“I can take care of it myself this time.” You say, in a sultry tone. “And I’ll think of you the whole time.” You turn to look over your shoulder to see Shoto’s face has gone beat red at the implication that you’ll be spending the rest of the evening masturbating to thoughts of him.

He lets out a shaky breath, still clearly uncomfortable with the thought of leaving you hanging. “Alright, Y/N. But next time, the focus is all on you to make up for it. Okay?”

“I think I can live with that.” You smile, and reach behind you to give him a light shove to leave.

Shoto grins softly as he untangles himself from you, climbing over your body to get out of the bed. His feet hit the ground and he stretches languidly before reaching for his abandoned clothes. He pulls his shirt and pants on unceremoniously as you watch, laughing at the way his soft sweatpants stretch back into place over the smooth curve of his ass.

“You’re too cute.” You say, reaching to pull him back to the bed so you can give him one more quick kiss. He smiles into the smooch, wrapping his arms around you in a warm, steady embrace.

“I’ll text you?” He says softly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I’ll make sure I take my phone back with me this time.” This earns a laugh.

“Please do.”

“Well, goodnight then.” He kisses your cheek and then makes his way to the door; he peaks out into the hallway before making his usual fast exit. You pray he doesn’t get caught by Aizawa again – he would probably demand an explanation from Shoto.

You lay in your bed, relaxed, staring up at your ceiling. Life sure has been complicated lately – between school, training, an unexpected romance, and the illicit party planning, you sure are having an adventure.

You allow yourself to replay a scene from earlier in your mind: “Fuck, Y/N. Holy fucking fuck.” Shoto curses as you stroke his cock mercilessly, bringing him to the brink of climax. “Shit. Y/N. I’m going to…”

You feel arousal twinge between your legs once again and you bring your fingers down to touch yourself over your panties. You wish Shoto was still here to help – all you can think of is the loving way that he sometimes uses his wet tongue to play with your nipples. You roll over onto your stomach so you can increase the pressure of your fingers against your clit. Mmm. You replay the image of Shoto’s pretty “O” face over and over again as you bring yourself to the brink of climax.

Before long, new thoughts are blooming into your brain. You imagine what it would be like to have Shoto’s fingers on you instead. What would it be like to feel that pretty cock slide inside of you - to be physically filled to the brim with Shoto Todoroki? You’ve never really fantasized about actual act of intercourse before, and you wonder how it would feel to be that connected with Shoto. You picture his voice pitching and sighing as he slides in and out of you, his strong hands bracing on your hips. The thought of Shoto’s thick cock sliding against your wet pussy causes your breath to stick in your throat. Your heart pulses impossibly fast as you use your fingertips to push yourself over the edge, gasping into your pillow. Oh fuck that’s good.

Shoto Todoroki and his hot body are truly going to be the death of you. You can picture your epitaph in your head – “Here lies Y/N. She was brought to the gates at heaven by Shoto Todoroki’s hard cock. May she rest in peace, having known what true ecstasy feels like.”

You smile at that unhinged thought. Your phone buzzes next to you and you flip around the screen to see a text from Shoto.

Shoto: I made it back to my dorm room. Did not get caught this time.

Shoto: Typing.

Shoto: Did you…take care of things?

Y/N: Haha yeah. I just finished. Was thinking about you the whole time.

Shoto replies with a single word.

Shoto: Fuck.

Shoto: Next time, I’ll take care of you myself. I promise.

Y/N: You've already taken care of me so much today, but I’ll hold you to that. ☺️ Goodnight, Shoto.

Shoto: Goodnight Y/N.

You put your phone back on your bedside table and snuggle up in your bed, pulling the Squirtle plush close to you and wishing that it were Shoto Todoroki.

End of Chapter.

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Previous Chapter: Part 4 | Next Chapter: Part 6

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Author's Note:

HOLY GUACAMOLE!! This chapter ended up being 30 pages - I know in my last chapter post I said that Chapter 5 would focus on The Party - but y'all all of your reactions to the Chapter 4 cliff hanger made me want to create a more satisfying plot line surrounding the YaMomo text. In short - the comments you leave influence the story a lot more than you'd think! So I hope you enjoyed this chapter and Shoto's sweet way of taking care of the Reader. I try to make The Reader a pretty general character so that it's easy to self-insert, but she's kind of developing her own personality which is fun too!

Part 6 is already in the works and partially written. I have most of THE PARTY scenes drafted and typed out, and I'm really excited for you all to see what I've been cooking up for this story arc. I also want to lay the ground work for future arcs as well - I don't anticipate this tale ending any time soon! It seems to take me a month/month and a half to churn out each chapter, so please feel free to check out my other work on My Master List as you wait!

I have been so locked in on this Todoroki story that I've been neglecting one shots lately. I hope to finish a little Kirishima focused fic soon, plus I have an idea for a tale surrounding All Might (the working title is gonna be something like "United States of Smash that Ass" idk its gonna be goofy and All Might is gonna have a huge cock or something stupid like that). TLDR: Keep an eye on my blog for more fun content surrounding our other favorite heroes as you wait for Chapter 6!

As always, thank you thank you thank you for all of your positive comments, messages and reblogs of my work. This passion project has brought me so much joy and I love how much joy it seems to bring all of you. Thanks for joining me on this wild ride, excited to see all that happens next!

XoXo, Red Riot Unbreakable Heart ❤️

❄️🔥THE ICYTHOTS🔥❄️

Want to join or be removed from the tag list - let me know! Once again, this is an ADULT ONLY blog. The IcyThot club is exclusively dedicated to the Shoto's First Kiss series and will only include A18+. Do not request to be added unless you are over 18. I'm also adding the "sexual content" label/tags.

supersecretsamm luvsymai s0uldarling quackledoodleduck

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[boltonbritreads]

🗣️Eddie Munson Fic Recs

This is gonna have a sappy start before I get into the fic rec portion: but I just wanted to say that at the end of May 2022, I was finishing up my first year of law school. It was rough, challenging, lonely, and basically everything you’d expect and I was in a bad place and the fandom I’d been in was slowing down just naturally. I truly wish I could remember how I even became aware of Eddie Munson because stranger things wasn’t really on my radar anymore and whoever I followed at the time that started to veer off into Eddie-mania, thank you. In the two years since then, I’ve graduated and become the worlds babiest lawyer and I genuinely owe a lot to this fandom and community on here for giving me a fun, usually safe, creative place to escape to when it got rough.

I’m just hoping to maybe remind people that there are already an incredible, incredible amount of existing stories to read and talk about that deserve your attention and love if you’re looking to read some Eddie stories. Some of these will be fics I’ve recommended before but I’m going to try my best to pull together writers and fics that I love and think everyone should read in the hopes that someone like me who still scrolls through eddie tags looking for my nightly bedtime story can find something new to them to read! ✨

Previous Fic Rec list here!! some overlap but there’s no such thing as too much hype for these writers

@munson-blurbs I hope it’s ok but I’m linking Bug’s full masterlist here because I have genuinely loved everything she has written. There are blurbs, series, and special events which are all incredible and worth a read! Bug is currently still writing the “Living after Midnight” series which is my current obsession and features rockstar!eddie x motelheiress!reader and it’s angst and lust galore

@corroded-hellfire also sharing the Eddie Masterlist here because there’s so many fics to read!! As You Wish, Big Brown Eyes, Where the Heart Is are all incredible but truly there’s so much here to enjoy

@upsidedownwithsteve SIMMER!! jk I’m actually linking the Eddie Masterlist here too because I love them all but “I Want You To Want Me” and “Simmer” are out of this world

@pinkrelish The Yes Policy I love it, you love it, we all love it and if you haven’t caught up yet oh my god I wish I was you and could read these chapters for the first time again

@ghost-proofbaby I’ve previously told people to go read 24 Hours, and you should, that’s an order; but Maroon is ongoing! and it’s actually infiltrating my every thought so go on over and get caught up bc I think it’s safe to say things are getting amped up

@trashmouth-richie I have also previously recommended Honey, I’m Home because it’s a work of art but Ziggy has a new mini series “Crash + Fall” that I’m completely obsessed with the concept for and I’ve loved every piece so far!

@tiannasfanfic I just reblogged Conviction again but I genuinely am not exaggerating when I say I think about this story and these two monthly and try and find this story all the time to re-read it endlessly. It’s a really lovely story of unplanned pregnancy and two characters not realizing they’ve been smitten for each other the whole time and I love it

@carolmunson I’m sharing another Eddie Masterlist here because I’d be making this post far too long but Carol’s stories are all incredible, complex, and honest. “Let’s go, don’t wait” just got updated and I had to read it like 3 times last night because it was too good to just read one and done

@rebelfell I just discovered Sarah’s blog after reading the most recent “Frenemy” fic and idk what I was doing wrong to not already follow her and not have already read her whole Masterlist but I’m linking the whole thing bc she’s so good!!

@the-au-thor I also only just discovered Elle’s blog and that’s criminal but thank god I found Babysitting Mun because I am a sucker for rockstar!eddie and this series has me on the edge of my seat rn

@storiesbyrhi I’m sharing the Masterlist folks because I have genuinely loved every single story and series and I have read them all now (some several times). So many of Rhi’s stories have a wonderful warm witchy vibe that I crave and I’ve read Siouxsie and the Soulmates, The Cabin in the Woods, Our Patron Saint of the Arts, Vintage Reeboks, and Burning Yarrow (insert screaming fan gif) multiple times now

@heart-eyed-love this fic is the epitome of a soft, cozy, domestic night with Eddie and if you need a hug read this 🥹

@eddieandbird I JUST got caught up on Eddie/Tour Manager series and I’m fully obsessed and desperate to know how they’re gonna navigate this - for folks new to the story, Eddie and his tour manager accidentally drunkenly get married- what could go wrong??

@eiightysixbaby the scream I scrumped when I finished reading Princess Leia, and Other Wishes - look bffs to lovers is already my absolute weakness on this earth but then you had to make it witty and funny and FLUFFY I just can do nothing but re-read and pine

@superblysubpar I’m still obsessed with this addition to The Boy is Mine writing challenge and oh god it’s so good 😩

…and while we’re talking about it - here’s the entire The Boy is Mine masterlist with an INSANE amount of incredible stories to read

@the-unforgivenn !!! tumblr hates me and deleted this bullet (so if you already saw this post, no you didn’t) but And I Need You to Know is a proper novel! I can’t imagine how much time, love, effort, planning, and work went into creating this insane and absolutely incredible world but everyone needs to read this!! and then follow up with She’s So Cold bc I love it and I am so reader

~~ this is not the end nor an exhaustive list! I just wanted to put something out there now that I plan to build on because I know I’m always scrolling and searching for new things to read or old things to revisit ♥️ ~~

[acourtofquestions]

EMPIRE OF STORMS :

— Chapter 65 - 75 —

10 Chapters left (either a little less or more than 100 pages)

*post to be added onto as I read*

Binge-reading-day-time (to finish it off😭) Tower of Dawn at the ready, bonus chapter saved & on hand

… and whatever the heck this post template is 🤷‍♀️ to add onto with rambling & insanity & quotes & emotions so we shall see what happens… this post shall live update (idk if that works here… we’ll find out… I may also just go read in a cave for a week, grieve & wear all black, & them come out eventually… mostly it’s here because I don’t want to post 80 times & flood the feed for historical fangirl purposes (if you wanna know follow this post if not skip it :-) & more so I’m too tired (it’s been a LONG week) & too far into fangirling & feels mode to edit lol) 🤦‍♀️🙃

(of course spoiler warnings cause these 10 chapters & earlier books are on the table for discussion if not already specifically the discussion itself) & of course please be aware or give spoiler warnings for me too within interactions of this post (I am only to EoS Ch. 65 rn) and now *drumroll please* the spoiler “more” bar of safety & feed spam semi-prevention🤞

Final warning: this post will probably be ridiculously long!!! So… read at your own risk… it may be rambling, artsy, incoherent, boring, filled with nothing, or like 75 pages😅 — I mostly make these posts cause it’s fun for me to look back & see when & what I thought on a first read; I love talking fandoms with y’all about it, but like plz skip these posts if you don’t like them😂 not even I know what this will be🤣

Current Pre-Read RAMBLE:

I NEED MY BRAIN TO STOP HUMMING “HOW DID IT END”😭 — It is also replaying the John Mulaney quote: “I try to stay optimistic, even though I must admit things are getting pretty sticky.”🤣 … legit don’t think any other series has had so many problems at once, like maybe the final scenes of Deathly Hallows, but I’ve still got two more VERY (thankfully) long books… so…

Current theories (just finished Chapter 64, as previous post addressed): I think Aelin & Rowan may have had a secret wedding, both based on SJM style, the fact Rowan feels like King & Aelin will not leave him (I still don’t know why the “spark died”), and random fandom knowledge that isn’t clear but has led me to believe it. I think Elena may be Manon’s ancestor as well as Aelin’s both due to the moon white hair descriptions, Yen/Yang yet the same “dyad” vibe they have, & the eye belonging to both. I’m really hopeful that everyone’s side plots will come in handy, Aelin while lost seems to have something, Rowan’s calling all his cousins, Aedion is ready for war, we have Lysandra who’s a friggin dragon, and maybe Abraxos will show up with all the 13 and Petrah’s clan and I’m going with that because I refuse to accept any other answer. I am concerned there is going to be a betrayal of some sort, a revealing of info from long ago, and some possible faked deaths. I’m intrigued by repeating lines like the terms “endure”, “yield”, “live”, “hold the line”, or plots like “time” “ash” etc.

What the heck does Maeve want (worried about the way she gets revenge), definitely don’t trust the keys or the lock (though I’ve got faith in Manon & Aelin as a team + Dorian’s smarts), & don’t trust any of these plots. Or any of their self-sacrificial tendencies. Also I need everyone to admit there mates/soulmates already because it’s pretty dang clear *coughs* I’m looking at you Elorcan, Manorian, Lysaedion (ok I’ll give yall some credit for going slow), & ROWAELIN (my gods how have you not yet?). Also Aedion dude I love you but why are you being like this but also mood. And Rowan’s sad eyes could kill me. COME ON ELIDE SMARTS SAVE US! Let’s go team, we’ve got Ansel, let’s go Grettles SOMEONE SHOW UP AND SAVE THE DAY replenish the power LETS GO!!!

Quotes I think are about to come full circle: The Queen Who Was Promised … The Threads of Fate — hoping? Nameless is my price. — I am terrified of this one … And I’ve got a feeling the answer to your first question (ghost-Queen Elena Galathynius) is no, I don’t think I’m going to be able to forgive you for whatever you’re about to do😅😂.

Wondering?: what is Maeve’s power (I think I forgot), I still wanna know more about Fenrys & how his powers work (I’m worried about his twin), trying to remember what the stone from Kaltain is & how many Wyrdkeys we have? … why do I feel like someone’s gonna break out shadow fire… or Aelin’s water powers… just something!

Worried: it’s the Valg, and they haven’t been doing their posses/mind-trip thing (did Lysandra go through it) and with Maeve I don’t see her not having some connection to Erawan & I’m worried over all of it. Also Lorcan as a character (because this entire book he’s been under a death sentence & he would die for Elide). Rowan & Aelin because they are always ready to die together. Slightly less for Aedion cause he’s determined to fight for a life with Lysandra, hoping Lysandra shares that instead of “save my friends even if I have to die for it”. Still crying over Dorian’s line & simultaneously holding onto THE FEAR OF LOSS quote cause IT IS DESTROYING ME JUST AS MUCH so I can try to take Ardions advice and hope that’s enough torture for Maas to leave my bb’s be😂

Hoping for: that⬆️ they’ll be fine (I know it won’t be but I need this) & maybe some more throwbacks LETS GET SOME SPIDERSILK GUYS

But I’m loving the character growth, interactions, and friendships; and in a small way am stupidly optimistic (because I need them to be okay) & I know-I know, something happens I just don’t know what & don’t want to but have to & aghhhhh time to read

Chapter 65:

this is giving MAJOR NIGHTFALL vibes (with a minor in HoF Aelin’s past paralells/vibes). LETS GO FIREHEART, SHOW UP ELENA, ITS GOTTA BE EROWAN IN THE TOMB—THATS GOTTA BE GOOD—WHY DOES EVERYTHING SEEM LIKE DOOM?

I can summarize this chapter by saying the tears have begun.

LOST MEMORIES… okay this is really feeling like deathly hallows

They talk about the lock like it’s a living thing?

I’ve been watching too much TVD & now I’m scared of everyone getting trapped in coffins/sarcophagi

ALWAYS WITH “THE PRICE”

Ten years

Always that word “fool”

Wait Elena was Demi-fae? — did I miss or forget this?

Anything… but not that.

The three goddesses… wait… was one Maeve??? was one hella or annieth?? too many questions!!! too much information!!! MY SOUL HURTS! AGH!

“They were as mighty and vast and eternal as a human was to a mayfly” — how does Maas make everything so poetic

So you’re telling me Erowan is one of them too — shit — why couldn’t we have killed the duke like chapter one?😭

HOLY SHIT — Did ELENA kill Aelin’s parents?? — How many plots have been running? The world’s longest long game… this is seriously… I don’t know rather to curse say wow cry or reevaluate my life and I’m only barely in… HERE WE GO INDEED

As mad as I am at Elena I kinda think this is the worst punishment, one that isn’t yours… like… I almost pity Elena. Knowing her children were raised to die. Watching for hundreds of years as everything she loved died and fell to ruin. All because she was foolish because she wanted to save them.

She and Aelin are far more alike than I knew… but she shaped Aelin to be different… to listen… those edges have been taken off by tragedy… that Elena caused…

It’s Dorian or Aelin. It has always been one or the other. Aelin the Queen they need. Or Dorian the witches soulmate. Lambs to slaughter. — MOTHERFU-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO-No-NONONO-NOPE!☠️ I WILL NOT LOSE EITHER OF THEM — ARE YOU KIDDING ME (this isn’t the cauldron😭) … wait but is Amren one of them😅🤣? But NO! These are THE MAIN characters! We are not losing them. No. No way. Nope! — IF ROWAELIN PULLS A ROMEO & JULIET I WILL LOSE IT

Nehemia knew and that’s why she made Aelin promise😭…

Also RHIANNON CROCHAN!!! — BESTIES???

Guess I’m gonna need these rants for any chance at keeping my sanity & breathing while reading😅😂

CHAPTER 66:

YES COURT OF TERRASEN — This is all there is to say.

Why is the mention on Rhoe and Evelin getting me all emotional?

“His real father” — oh that’s why — crap does that mean Gavriels gonna die?

Okay so egging on is Aedion’s style maybe that’s what’s been going on a little bit too

Also Rowan using a flair of white light? Did he pick up some Aelin tricks?

“To alter what the gods had made to her own liking” — my gods I love her GENIUS

SHE CAN TURN HERSELF INTO SPIDERSILK — HOLY WOW — okay so can she just become anything now?

“The court that could change the world” — I don’t know whether to laugh cry scream or all of the above

A promise to Aedion🥹

I LOVE LYSANDRA — this isn’t new it’s just EVERY CHAPTER👏🫰👑

Things are going so well it’s scaring me — Oh yeah I just remembered we still don’t know how to wield the locks, only that you have to die for it (so cool, no worries, only hope is the amulet still kinda worked after… but haha… yeah that’s gonna be a problem…) thanks brain for reminding me

Rowan knows how to use the rage THAT’S how he taught Aelin

“Ice coated his veins his heart” — I think it’s also cause there’s no Manon… but we knew Rowan’s training would come in handy

What is Aedion trying to say? Die so she’s pissed and kills everyone? I’m confused… like I think I get it I think he’s saying trust in her let the others fear don’t let fear get you killed but it also doesn’t quite add up to me

She might very well end the world for rage — an ongoing one that she fears… perhaps it’s just saying how powerful she and her love and consequential rage are? At least it’s not judgement cause he does say — Maybe she should. Maybe the world deserved it.

“Maybe Manon Blackbeak would help her do it. Maybe they’d rule over the ruins together.” — what was that vision again… wait where’s Dorian in it?

Dorian is giving Cassian vibes of I only regret not having more time with you

COME ON MAELIN (whatever Manon + Aelin friendship is named) I KNOW THIS WONT END WELL BUT COME ON… I get more nervous the more Maas warns

DORIAN HAS FIRE POWER??? — Will they mistake it for Aelin?

I’ve been worried/wondering this for a while but how does magic affect the humans? Like Aelin never burns herself… maybe cause she’s fae? But she has almost cooked from the inside out… what about Dorian? Does being human mean the flame could kill him?

Still they held the line

Dorian you didn’t fail😭

“BUT ROWAN WHITETHORN HAD NOT.” — oh HECK YES — REBELLION!!! BETRAY MAEVE!!! LETS GO! WAIT WHY ARE THINGS GOING THIS WELL

A SILVER BANNER WITH A SCREAMING HAWK — trade in the owls y’all — THE WHITETHORN HOUSE — YES finally not the betrayal I feared but the one I needed YES

And now we know what he meant by he knew the flags!!!

CHAPTER 67:

ROWAN LOVES AELIN AELIN LOVES ROWAN Time to go dig up the quote I keep pondering about him looking back and laughing at what that hawk watching the drunk brawling woman would think to know she became his world and happiness and changed everything: “He knew the house flags that flew beneath Maeve's own crest. Had counted and cataloged them all day, sorting through the catacombs of his memory. Rowan slid into his clothes and waited until he'd crept into the hall before buckling his sword belt. Still gripping the doorknob, he allowed himself one last look at her. For a moment, the past snared him--for a moment, he saw her as he'd first spied her on the rooftops of Varese, drunk and battered. He'd been in hawk form, assessing his new charge, and she'd noticed him--broken and reeling, she had still spotted him there. And stuck out her tongue at him. If someone had told him that the drunken, brawling, bitter woman would become the one thing he could not live without ... Rowan shut the door.”

I can summarize this chapter with the update that I have now begun to cry happy tears

… which is also scaring me … but YAY

Rowan had told Enda of Aelin🥹 he told them all… an army of ship protection squad in every sense of the words…

He had gotten on his knees to beg for her… the only man foolish/hopeful enough to beg the gods to let him stay with the woman he loves😭 MY SOULLLLLLL

“He had told his cousin about the woman he loved, the queen whose heart burned with wildfire. He had told Enda about Erawan, and the threat of the keys, and Maeve's own desire for them.” — he had hoped

ONE chance at peace

Darkness from Morath or Maeve or both??? — also like is Morath the same as (I want to say Gannan lol why do I keep thinking Zelda) Erawan! — like all these lines about the mountain alive and all that is it actually him — cause SJM loves a good creepy mountain plot

“To fight not for the queen who had enslaved him, but the one who had saved him.”

I will consider it

MY GODS THIS MAN (male? Fae? Idk just HIM)

TERRASEN CAN BECOME THE HOME FOR ALL THE LOST WONDERFUL TRAITORS

“EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. As if they had all met, all decided to risk ruination together.”

“Rowan had not possessed an army of his own to give to Aelin. To give to Terrasen. So he had won an army for her. Through the only things Aelin had claimed were all she wanted from him. His heart. His loyalty. His friendship. And Rowan wished his Fireheart were there to see it as the House of Whitethorn slammed into Maeve's fleet, and ice and wind exploded across the waves.” — I wish Aelin could see this too😭 UR HONOR — THEM!!! His Fireheart🥹😭 — So does power run in family’s? All whitethorns possess ice & wind??? — Yeah okay Maasverse I agree Rowan wins boyfriend of the verse/century/every fandom — Like talk about a testament of character they all would for him and even Lorcan knew it and I’m taking so much time cause I am shook cause wow wow wow WOW — “Whitethorn had done it for her. All of it, for Aelin.” — is this the first time Lorcan has called her by her name (and not his “nickname”)😂

Aedion shouting for his brother😭. A true king even if he’s just boyfriend consort👏. A good man, they did it for him, he did it for her🥹. And Maeve that’s called Karma🫰 — now I’m crying happy tears

“For a heartbeat, Lorcan allowed himself to ponder it — the power of the thing that had compelled Rowan to risk it all. And Lorcan wondered if it would perhaps be the one force that Maeve, that Erawan, would not see coming.” — LOVE TRUE LOVE MORE POWERFUL…

STOP REMINDING ME OF MAEVE AND SUFFERING SARAH😅😭 WHYYYYYYY — I wish the answer was sorry Maeve can’t come to the phone right now why because she’s dead but I guess we’ve got to have more books but like can’t we get down to one villain only huh?

Yay team bro! Go Dorian and Rowan! Go Aedion! MY COURT OF TERRASEN!!! (Just imagine them + the night court *👌👌) — DONT ANYONE DIE AND RUIN THIS FOR ME

Can Maeve just summon them? How? NO! — what price does Gavriel pay? — she didn’t even show COWARD!!! — NO MAEVE IS ON THE BEACH NO NO NOOO—

Yeah actually I’m with Lorcan GO TO ELIDE NOW “He had made a promise to her first.” 🥹😭🫶 finally the love she deserves but F-WHY-MAEVE-AGH-DAMMIT-WHY — the soldiers weren’t stupid enough and I actually think both Aedion and Rowan would back him up and say GO GET ELIDE NOW… wait… is that Maeve’s plan? WAS GAVRIEL TRICKING? AGHHHHHHHHH

Maeve is far from Lorcan… but not you… Elide darling please RUN or SEE or SOMETHING — I can’t have another Elain kidnapping style situation

Who are the eight guards?

Why would a goddess have to flee from a fae queen? SOMETHING IS UP WITH MAEVE

— WHAT THE —

CHAPTER 68:

IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ELIDE I SWEAR — Calling this chapter before even starting: I feel more fear right now. — OH WAIT IT STARTED OW AGONY NEHEMIA OW — well… this is gonna be a mess!

Better yet it’s opening line: It was AGONY!

Final update on this chapter before the book ends I want to call this one: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME CAUSE REALLY LIKE ARE YOU

HERE COMES THE PAIN THERE GOES THE SUN DODODODO

“Elena had laid these plans a thousand years ago.”

“To break her, so she could walk away from the assassin and ascend her throne.”

Worse that she would go so far into the pit of rage and despair that she wouldn’t be able to get out. Not as Celaena. Nehemia had been right.

Okay so she does have a body… that’s answered😂 — “Aelin was shaking shaking in her half-invisible body, shaking so badly she thought her skin would ripple off her bones. Manon stepped closer, perhaps the only comfort the witch knew how to offer: solidarity.” — Even Manon comforting… she knows… OW!!! Trying to picture Gilmore girls haha solidarity sister for comfort but it’s not working cause — This chapter is everything not everything like EVERYTHING but everything like EVERY PIECE OF AGONY BEHIND THE SCENES. Every scene. All at once. — ONLY ONCE — I can’t even note just gotta read cause I can’t function

Well I guess I know what I’ll be talking about in therapy this week cause I am triggered and healed and crying and shocked all in one fucking hot mess of good writing and cruel plots

The only coherent note I made was Maeve you bitch😂 so there we are this is gonna take days to process onto chapter 69

Gonna go update one of my incorrect quote posts on getting stabbed cause honestly I think my reaction would be it hurts less than Empire of Storms SOOO

Yeah had to stop typing time #1 (finished the book) resuming note updates but this THIS is when I broke (the first time) 😅

“Aelin wasn't sure she could stomach another truth. Another revelation of just how thoroughly Elena had sold her and Dorian to the gods, for the fool's mistake she'd made, not understanding the Lock's true purpose, to seal Erawan in his tomb rather than let Brannon finally end it—and send the gods to wherever they called home, dragging Erawan with them.” — Yeah I don’t think I can handle another truth either … or forgive you Elena Galathynius

THIS ISNT THE FRIGGIN CAULDRON WHY MUST THEY DIE TO UNIFY — why can’t like Dorian & Aelin go halvesies??? — maybe she just has to be willing to die NOT actually — can we just resuscitate? COME ON GUYS WE HAVE IMMORTAL HEALING MAGIC

Why is the lock JUST ONCE?

NAMELESS IS MY PRICE

“The face ... it was the same. Manon's face, and Rhiannon Crochan's. The last Crochan Queens—of two separate eras.” — I think this means a lot more — maybe the gold eyes? Which btw still have the no Valg possession theory for that

“As he forged the Amulet of Orynth. As he placed a sliver of black stone within either side, then sealed it, defiance written in every line of his body.”

“For her. For his true heir, should Elena's punishment and promise to the gods hold true. The punishment and promise that had cleaved them. That Brannon could not and would not accept. Not while he had strength left. Nameless is my price. Written right there in Wyrdmarks. The one who bore Brannon's mark, the mark of the bastard-born nameless … She would be the cost to end this. The message on the back of the Amulet of Orynth was the only warning he could offer, the only apology for what his daughter had done, even as it contained a secret inside so deadly no one must know, no one could ever be told. But there would be clues. For her. To finish what they'd started. Brannon built Elena's tomb with his own hands. Carved the messages in there for Aelin, too. The riddles and the clues. The best he could offer to explain the truth while keeping those keys hidden from the world, from powers who would use them to rule, to destroy.”

I feel sorry for Brannon… he sacrificed everything, his wife, watched his daughter fade, knowing his descendants would face a horrible death for a price he cannot pay — DON’T GO SHOWING ME A MORTAL IMMORTAL COUPLE THAT ENDS LIKE THIS — Okay do we have each of these Wyrdkeys? — THE QUEEN WAS AN ALLY? Intrigue for this witch & queen combo! — She cried for him even knowing what she knew she cried too —we all feel sorry … why can’t these “gods” deal with their own problems? — “For the mortal king he hated and had barely tolerated, but he had leashed that loathing for his daughter's sake. Even if Gavin had taken his daughter, the daughter of his soul, away from him.” — he had loved his daughter & all of his children, ever “bastard” born heir was loved… but he couldn’t save them — You don’t understand Manon… but she does… She knew SHE HAD KNOWN and she couldn’t tell him😭— “It was where he had wanted to end this all along anyway.” — THIS BETTER NOT BE FORSHADOWING — Only his heir would be able to do that. Or whoever held another key. … and Maeve wants to be that…no.No.NO. — “And then he walked into that molten river, into the burning heart of his beloved. And Brannon, King of Terrasen, Lord of Fire, did not emerge again.”

Elena’s sorry & she meant it & I’m sorry too even for her

The sapphire eyes😭 … Dorian wasn’t ready …

thieving and cowardice

“I did not know darkness would fall. I did not know that your land would suffer. Suffer as I tried to keep mine from suffering. And there were so many voices ... so many voices even before Adarlan conquered. It was those voices that woke me. The voices of those wishing for an answer, for help." Elena's eyes slid to Manon, then back to hers. "They were from all kingdoms, all races. Human, witch-kind, Fae ... But they wove a tapestry of dreams, all begging for that one thing ... A better world.” — WAIT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH THE WITCH WAR TOO???

This is one of the most telling chapters of the series like HoF half truths chapter level… also one of the best written ones… like as much as it broke my heart this right here was writing at its best, emotions I haven’t felt since deathly hallows, things I haven’t seen done so well in a long long time.

The courts of dreamers…

“"Then you were born. And you were an answer to the gathering darkness, with that flame. My father's flame, my mother's might-reborn at last. — she had been watching her that long — And you were strong, Aelin. So strong, and so vulnerable. Not to outside threats, but the threat of your own heart, the isolation of your power. — and yet she knew love, she had the world fall in love over and over and it broke her heart over and over yet there she was resilient — But there were those who knew you for what you were, what you could offer. Your parents, — did they know? — their court, your great-uncle ... and Aedion. Aedion knew you were the Queen Who Was Promised without knowing what it meant, without knowing anything about you, or me, or what I did to spare my own people." — Aedion had loved her for her alone even then — The words hit her like stones. "The Queen Who Was Promised," Aelin said. "But not to the world. To the gods—to the keys." To pay the price. To be their sacrifice in order to seal the keys in the gate at last.” Deanna's appearance hadn't been only to tell her how to use the mirror, but to remind her that she belonged to them. Had a debt owed to them.” — … It is not fair that Aelin has never been free… always being reminded whether Arobynn or Maeve or the gods that she is not her own… it’s cruel to never allow such a wild soul to be truly free for even a moment. She almost has been so many times. But there’s always a catch. A clause. A horrid reminder.

Elena… what happened that night??? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED THAT NIGHT?!

“Aelin made herself stand still when that familiar, frozen wood appeared, exactly as she remembered it. — literally having to live it again what a nightmare — As she appeared, so small and young, — so young, so wild, so broken — white nightgown torn and muddy, hair wild, eyes bright with terror and grief so profound it had broken her entirely. — she’s breaking again & it’s breaking me — Frantic to reach the roaring river beyond, the bridge. There were the posts, and the forest on the other side.-Her sanctuary- EVEN MANON SWORE AT THE HORROR — She had forgotten how far that fall was. — There was so much death," Elena whispered — "So much death, and so many lights extinguished," Elena said, voice breaking. "You were so small. And you fought ... you fought so hard." "You clung to that log with all your strength. Everything had been taken from you—everything—and yet you still fought. You did not yield. And they told me to hurry, because even then their power to hold me in that solid body was fading. They said to just take you and go, but ... I hesitated. I waited until you got to that riverbank." — WHAT — WHAT —

"You died," Elena whispered. "Right there, you died. You had fought so hard, and I failed you. And in that moment, I didn't care that I'd again failed the gods, or my promise to make it right, or any of it. "All I could think was how unfair it was. You had not even lived, you had not even been given a chance ... And all those people, who had wished and waited for a better world ... You would not be there to give it to them." Oh gods. "Elena," — ELENA! — SARAH — WHAT — SOBBING

"I could not allow it. I could not endure it. Not for the gods' sake, but —but for your own." — "And then I defied them."

SHE GAVE HER TO AROBYNN — her parents had known? — he lived in Terrasen??? — but who killed them — WHAT?! — “Only a few years older than she was now.”

"I knew what he was, what he'd likely do with you. What training you would receive. But 1t was better than dead. And if you could survive, if you could grow up strong, if you had the chance to reach adulthood, I thought perhaps you could give those people who had wished and dreamed of a better world ... at least give them a chance. Help them—before the debt was called in again." — WHAT. The.

"You were so young," Elena said again. "And more than the dreamers, more than the debt ... I wanted to give you time. To at least know what it was to live.

"What was the price, Elena? What did they do to you for this?" Elena wrapped her arms around herself as the image faded, Arobynn mounting his horse, Aelin in his arms. Mist swirled again. "When it is done," Elena managed to say, "I go, too. For the time I bought you, when this game is finished, my soul will be melted back into the darkness. I will not see Gavin, or my children, or my friends ... I will be gone. Forever." "Did you know that before you—" "Yes. They told me, over and over. But ... couldn't. I couldn't do it." Aelin slid to her knees before the queen. Took Elena's tearstained face between her hands. "Nameless is my price," Aelin said, her voice breaking. Elena nodded. — OH MY GODS

A mark glowed on Aelin's brow, heating her skin. The bastard mark of Brannon. The mark of the nameless. "Mala's blood must be spent-your power must be spent. Every drop, of magic, of blood. You are the cost—to make a new Lock, and seal the keys into the gate. To make the Wyrdgate whole. — NO — Aelin said softly, "I know." She had known for some time now. Had been preparing for it as best she could. Preparing things for the others. — NO —

“Will you come with me? Help me end it once and for all?" Will you come with me, so I will not be alone? Elena nodded, but whispered, "I'm sorry." — to whatever end.

"You were barely climbing out of slavery," Elena said. "Hardly holding yourself together, trying so hard to pretend that you were still strong and whole. — OW!!!

Glacier-blue eyes met hers at last. "I know. Maeve has long wished to regain possession of the keys. My father believed it was for something other than conquest. Something darker, worse. I don't know why she only began hunting for them once you arrived. — WHAT — But I sent you to Wendlyn for the healing. — WHAT — And so you — OH MY WYRD — would ... find him. — SHE SENT HER TO HEAL; with him

AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“The one who had been waiting so long for you."

“Aelin's heart cracked. "Rowan." — mine too😭

"He was a voice in the void, a secret, silent dreamer. And so were his companions. But the Fae Prince, he was .. Aelin reined in her sob. "I know. I've known for a long time." "I wanted you to know that joy, too," Elena whispered. "However briefly." "I did," Aelin managed to say. "Thank you." … the dreamers😭😭😭 — STAB ME WHY DON’T YOU

“I will be with you. Until the very end, every step of the way, I will be with you.” — BUT WILL YOU PAY FOR THE THERAPY I NOW NEED???

And now… now I truly do feel sorry for Elena… I can forgive her for what she did… it really wasn’t, I mean it isn’t her fault? — She was young. She was trying to end a war. She didn’t know. And I think Aelin and many of them may have made the same mistakes had they not known. … And she had to live losing everything, knowing everything she loves will lose, a child would have to die for her mistake, I think she got the worst punishment one that doesn’t fit the crime. I think she almost got the truest tragedy of anyone… next to Aelin of course; the lamb to the slaughter, beautiful Aelin; honestly this chapter broke my heart the most because it is the heart of why you love Aelin. She is the beautiful bright force of light and life and you love her for it in all her fiery brutal hilarious lovely strong brave ways.

“But Aelin did not fight it as Elena leaned in to kiss her brow, where that damning mark had been her whole life. A bit of chattel, branded for the slaughterhouse. Brannon's mark. The mark of the bastard-born ... the Nameless. Nameless is my price. To buy them a future, she'd pay it.” — oh hell no to the last part

“It was the only thing she could give them, her last gift to Terrasen.” — WHAT KINDA ROWAN WHITETHORN BS IS THAT — YOU WAIT TILL HE GETS WORD OF THAT — NO WE GONNA SHUT THAT ISH DOWN

“To those she loved with her heart of wildfire.” — tattooing this on my soul

Aelin knew that laugh. And knew that somehow, perhaps they had not traveled through the mists ... But they had been placed here. By whatever forces were at work, whatever gods watching. To stand in the sandy field before the turquoise sea, dead guards in Briarcliff armor slaughtered upon the nearby dunes, still bleeding out. To stand before Queen Maeve of the Fae. Elide Lochan on her knees before her-with a Fae warrior's blade at her throat. — OH MY FUCKING GODS YOU HAVE TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME — IF ITS LORCAN BEING CONTROLLED IM GONNA BECOME A FERAL WRAITH

CHAPTER 69:

HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO ENDURE SIX MORE CHAPTERS AND A WORSE CLIFFHANGER *apologies in advance people the language is about to get rough😂 because legit WHAT THE FUCK* … is there a word for both triggered, healed, confused, personally offended, and impressed all by one passage of writing?

Me curled up in a corner rocking back and fourth and laughing about “how sad” I thought the first ACOTAR UTM passages were THEY FEEL LIKE A SITCOM NOW and I haven’t even read the final book of TOG/KoA! But I’m scared to cause I don’t think I’m gonna get so lucky that all the (🚨 SPOILER for WINGS AND RUIN🚨 Rhys & Amrens of the world get resurrected… no this series is gonna break me isn’t it HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAH) *hysterics*

HERE WE GO AGAIN *sobbing to Mamma Mia!* Alternative titles currently ranked at: AND THE PAIN CONTINUES, SURE LETS SEE HOW MUCH WORSE IT CAN GET, EVEN MY DOG IS CONCERNED NOW, HOW ARE THERE FIVE MORE CHAPTERS OF THIS AND HOW WILL ANYTHING BE OKAY, I CANT DO MATH ANYMORE HOW MANY PAGES UNTIL EVERYTHINGS OKAY, I AM DEAD INSIDE

MAASVERSE KNOWS HOW TO MAKE AN ENTERANCE

My THIRTEEN THE WITCHY ANGELS YES

Okay legit stopped typing notes because 68 broke me and they were my only solace so I just just read, have finished and now am adding notes while in shock… so… HERE WE GO AGAIN… AGAIN…

Gavriel protecting his son😭 with Golden magic again Aelin?? AND PROTECTING LYSANDRA BECAUSE THAT IS PROTECTING HIS SON

Outgunned WHAT outmanned WHAT outnumbered WHAT… come on Aelin Mastermind & Rowan!!! Don’t let us be outplanned😅😅😬🫥🫡

I wish that bitch wasn’t about to be all y’all’s problem

Why does his sword arm hurt sound so funny in the midst of chaos or am I just in hysterics

Aedion used the reprieve to whirl to Lysandra. Blood from his own wounds and ones he'd inflicted covered him, mixing with the sweat running down his skin. He said to the shifter, "I want you to run." Lysandra turned a fuzzy head toward him, pale green eyes narrowing slightly. — everytime they describe her in a different form I can’t help but giggle and feel happy, also I love her mannerisms — Aedion held that gaze. "You turn into a bird or a moth or a fish-I don't rutting care-and you go. If we're about to fall, you run. That's an order." She hissed, as if to say, You don't give me orders. "I technically outrank you," he said, slashing his sword down his shield to clear it of two protruding arrows as they again swung in toward another ship crammed full of well-rested Fae warriors. "So you'll run. Or I'll kick your ass in the Afterworld." — it’s giving my ghost won’t associate with your ghost/I’ll kill you if you die vibes 😂 — Lysandra stalked up to him. A lesser man — so a greater woman wouldn’t beg but a lesser man would’ve backed awary cool thanks Taylor & Sarah I made a note😂 — might have backed away from a predator that big prowling close. Some of his own soldiers did. But Aedion held his ground as she rose on her back legs, those huge paws settling on his shoulders, and brought her bloodied feline face up to his. Her wet whiskers twitched. Lysandra leaned in and nuzzled his cheek, his neck. Then she trotted back to her place, blood splashing beneath her silent paws. When she deigned to glance his way, spitting blood onto the deck, Aedion said softly, "The next time, do that in your human form." — HE USED THE REPRIEVE TO ASK HER TO RUN (Aedion you always make any small temporary idiocy up) also cackling that last line GLORIOUS😂

“It was the last mistake the male made.” — yeah girl (she put the grrr in girl?😂 I LOST IT OKAY)

Okay well that’s a description when you say killing THREE TIMES

The fact Dorian thinks Aedion is hurt (which btw bro why did you give me a heart attack) but because he hears Lysandra roar for him

WHEN I TELL YOU I STARTED CACKLING KICKING SCREAMING AND CRYING I AM NOT KIDDING — A wivern with shimmering wings — MY BABY — MAASVERSE KNOWS HOW TO MAKE A ENTRANCE AND I JUST KNEW IT — wicked delight — !!!

CHAPTER 70:

“I think I can finally breathe” — BECAUSE THANK GODS THE THIRTEEN AND ABRAXOS AND ASTERIN ARE OKAY

The last time I said that while reading probably😂

I CAN FINALLY BREATHE ITS ASTERIN OH THANK GODS ITS ASTERIN AND ABRAXOS AND THE TWELEVE FOR MY THRITEEN I CANT SPELL OR TYPE OR MATH JUST AGHHHH

Lysandra knowing Abraxos roar… I love her animal buddies

TWELVE RIDERS AND THE WIVERNS AND A PALE BLUE ONE AND GOLDEN HAIRED WITCH

I KNEW ABRAXOS WOULD GO GET HELP

“Then we shall clear the field for you.” — OH HELL YES

I wish I could fly with them into glorious chaos too Lysandra

HELLO LYSAEDION ;-)

Let’s just be glad the coven is on our side and not think about it😅😅

REALLY ITS NAME IS THE NIGHTINGALE REALLY

Thanks the gods Rowan knows Maeve’s style cause umm YEAH GO NOW

FIND HER

“Flame and shadow and death” FUCK NO

Rowan choosing her best chance at survival even as it’s the most triggering thing for him and going with the team but oh gods hindsight and ugh whyyyyyy

LETS GO WIVERNS! COME ON ABRAXOS!!

Hehe yeah now the rain is pouring down… did not age well!

CHAPTER 71:

“Dreams and nightmares given form.”

Yep… opening quotes said it all…

“No crown adorned her head, for all who breathed, even the dead who slumbered, would know her for what she was. Dreams and nightmares given form; the dark face of the moon.”

Ugh she reminds me of Amarantha & it’s nauseating

What does Maeve even want/need to conquer for — WHATS THE DARKER UNDERCURRENT PLOT???

Okay so it’s just some random sentry???

Manon had gone still as death at the sight of Elide, her iron nails sliding free. — thank you, they’ve got her,

“Aelin forced a half smile to her mouth, shoved her raw, bleeding heart into a box deep inside her chest.” — & somehow that line ripped mine out

And the snark shall buy time & save the day! Hooray!

"What a joy, to learn that your usual good spirits remain undimmed in such dark days." "How could they not, when so many of your pretty males are in my company?" — nice one, point Aelin for the burn (she is the heir/queen of fire after all)

How does Maeve know her face? She was there then?? What is going on with her??? THERE IS MORE THERE!!!

"Claimed by queen, and witch, and … my Second, it seems." — for once Elide is not Malone, she has people that will look out for her, she deserves to be loved so well with protective sisters (minus the horror of the situation) I just appreciate that everyone can agree to protect the precious cinnamon roll

AELIN KNEW

Does Elide know it’s beyond Lorcan’s control? Oh OW!

Graceful as a moonbeam… do you mean Fenrys because I need some comedic relief and I’m gonna believe that

OKAY BUT LORCAN ANSWERED THAT VERY SMART he says “she has them” not Elide, not Aelin, “she” because then he doesn’t have to specify which has which while still telling the truth and not clearly masking it, and yes he does give Aelin up BUT Maeve already knew it bought some trust and time and I give him points for that smart quick response/work-around

Elide does the mind reading notes of reading people so well (autocorrect her name is not Elise!)

She had been draining her for weeks… oh gods…

Hope soared in Elide's chest. — mine too

“To sacrifice her own fleet—or part of it—to gain one prize ... This was madness. The queen was utterly insane.”

DO SOMETHING — AGREED

You can tell that Elide is an innocent among madness, she doesn’t understand, she can’t, she’s not a monster, she’s in a long-game of good players, and right here it’s heartbreaking

The fact Maeve didn’t want to kill Aelin is even more terrifying

The impact shook the world — not just like Lorcan & Rowan fighting… no this is bigger

But that means Maeve knows Aelin could beat her

“fire flickering like dying embers around her” — NONONONONONONO okay but like really gods anyone do something you want the one to wield the lock STOP IT — DO SOMETHING — NOW!

Fenrys defending her🥹😭

the young QUEEN OF FIRE (the new title)

DAMN SHE KNOWS ABOUT AEDION

Can Fenrys please get to destroy Maeve like Leah with Jane in Twilight?

“No fire left in the queen. Not one ember. And the only way Aelin could face this, accept this, was to go down swinging. Like Marion had.” — OW… ya know that part of HoF when Aelin says hitting her would hurt less… YEAH that line I feel like that

Why does Maeve not want to quarrel with witches? Perhaps the gold eyes? Perhaps the fact she could beat her?? Hmm???

Please tell me Rowan can’t feel all of this

No

NO

NOOOOO

“Get up”😭😭😭 nonononononono … she’s trying and she can’t & I’m sobbing … I DID NOT NEED THIS FULL CIRCLE

An assassin, Elide reminded herself. Aelin was an assassin, and if Maeve got close enough But Maeve didn't. — DAMMIT — And those invisible hands cut the tethers on Aelin's sword belts. Goldryn thunked to the ground. — Okay so the invisible hands trick is a raw magic thing?

Gathering her strength. For one last strike. One last stand. Let the queen believe her broken. "Why?" Aelin rasped. Buying herself time… — hope, no. She’s out. No. Rowan’s coming. What will Maeve do? Be fast enough! AGH! Something is wrong & unplanned something very bad.

“Because I can't very well let you sacrifice yourself to forge a new Lock, can I? Not when you already have what I want. And I have known for a very, very long time that you would give me what I seek, Aelin Galathynius, and have taken the steps toward ensuring that.” — WHAT?! She knows??? CAN WE GET ONE BREAK?!

“But all bloodlines fade. And I knew a time would come when Brannon's flames would dim to a flicker, and I'd be poised to strike.” — what *said in lethal calm voice.

No.

ONLY YOU

WHAT

NO!

“And I saw who you were, what you were. I saw who you loved I saw your mate.”

What did she do?

WHAT DID SHE DO?

"What a powerhouse you two would be you and Prince Rowan. And any offspring of that union ..." A vicious smirk. "You and Rowan could rule this continent if you wished. But your children ... your children would be powerful enough to rule an empire that could sweep the world." Aelin closed her eyes. The Fae males were shaking their heads slowly—not believing it. "I didn't know when you would be born, but when Prince Rowan Whitethorn came into this world, when he came of age and was the strongest purebred Fae male in my realm ... you were still not there. And I knew what I would have to do. To leash you. To break you to my will, to hand over those keys without thought once you were strong and trained enough to acquire them." Aelin's shoulders shook. Tears slid out past her closed eyes. "It was so easy to tug on the right psychic thread that day Rowan saw Lyria at the market. To shove him down that other path, to trick those instincts. A slight altering of fate." "Oh, gods," Fenrys breathed.” — unpopular opinion I wish they had just allowed him to have had two mates, instead of making it so singular, allowing there to be love after death, more than one love of one’s life (she still could’ve been the cause) I just personally would’ve liked it more but why it does make Maeve really crazy SO SHIT that’s REALLL BAD and I didn’t know anyone could do that so now we’ve got some new concerns also the fact Aelin’s heart broke FOR Rowan right then

“So your mate was given to another. And I let him fall in love, let him get her with child. And then I broke him. No one ever asked how those enemy forces came to pass by his mountain home." Aelin's knees gave out completely. Only the invisible hands kept her upright as she wept. "He took the blood oath without question. And I knew that whenever you were born, whenever you'd come of age ... I'd ensure that your paths crossed, and you'd take one look at each other and I'd have you by the throat. Anything I asked for, you'd give to me. Even the keys. For your mate, you could do no less. You almost did that day in Doranelle." Slowly, Aelin slid her feet under herself again, the movement so pained that Elide cringed. But Aelin lifted her head,” — this may be the worst villain confession I’ve read… this is next level evil… there are no words.

"I will kill you," Aelin snarled at the Fae Queen. — get in line sister

"That's what you said to Rowan after you met him, wasn't it?" Maeve's faint smile lingered. — UM—OW—F-YOU-MAEVE!

"I'd pushed and pushed your mother to bring you to me, so you could meet him, so I could have you at last when Rowan felt the bond, but she refused. And we know how well that turned out for her. And during those ten years afterward, I knew you were alive. Somewhere. But when you came to me ... when you and your mate looked at each other with only hate in your eyes ... I'll admit I did not anticipate it. That I had broken Rowan Whitethorn so thoroughly that he did not recognize his own mate that you were so broken by your own pain you didn't notice, either. And when the signs appeared, the carranam bond washed away any suspicion on his part that you might be his. But not you. How long has it been, Aelin, since you realized he was your mate?" — MY FUCKING SOUL — THE ROMAN EMPIRE IS FALLING — OWOWOW — I mean I knew Aelin knew, I knew why Rowan kinda-didn’t, but Maeve… she’s a monster. Also dude what was the plan? Get Evelin to bring an 8 year old for some 200 year old guy? CREEPY!!!

Aelin said nothing, her eyes churning with rage and grief and despair. Elide whispered, "Leave her alone." — THANK YOU ELIDE FOR REPRESENTING US ALL IN REACTION AND REASON —Maeve ignored her.— RUDE! And dumb… Elide is very wise, you would do well to LISTEN!

Also having Elide’s perspective is super interesting because to her Aelin’s fight was brutal where Aelin might have thought of it as minor or Manon like a warrior it’s more of a fan perspective and you feel it all in shock even more while also thankfully not having to hear what poor Fenrys is thinking etc.

“When did you know?" — THIS IS NOT HOW I WANTED THIS TALK TO GO OR WHO I WANTED IT WITH — "At Temis's temple," Aelin admitted glancing to Manon. "The moment the arrow went through his shoulder. Months ago. — NO THAT LINE, Asterin, OW — "And you've hidden it from him, no doubt to save him from any guilt regarding Lyria, any sort of emotional distress ..." Maeve clicked her tongue. "What a noble little liar you are." — she loves him so much😭 — Aelin stared at nothing, her eyes going blank. — me too — "I had planned for him to be here," Maeve said, frowning at the horizon. — I wish he was here to help or protect or fight… but I’m kinda glad he isn’t… I don’t want to see him see this… also glad this is Elide’s perspective, Aelin’s would hurt too much (though Manon WHATS THE PLAN? Come on man-on with the plan-on?) — "Since letting you two go that day in Doranelle was so that you could lead me to the keys again. I even let you think you'd gotten away with it, by freeing him. — hey, we know, but hey! Let us have hope for one ding dang second! — Maeve shrugged. "If it's any consolation, Aelin, you would have had a thousand years with Prince Rowan. Longer." — OWWWWWWWW, okay it’s fine it just means when she gets out they’re both immortal, it’s fine IT WILL ALL BE JUST FINE! — "My sister Mab's line ran true. The full powers, shifting abilities, and the immortality of the Fae. You're likely about five years away from Settling." Aelin's face crumpled. This was not a draining of magic and physical strength, but of spirit. — NOPE NOT FINE NOT FINE NOT FINE

NO. Not Cairn. Not a whip. Not Elide. No.

MAEVE I BEG YOU TOO — AND HOW DARE YOU SILENCE FENRYS

CHAPTER 72:

I can’t keep calm if Aelin doesn’t have a plan

SARAH WHAT ARE YOU DOING AGAIN

Lorcan speaking softly is even more terrifying than I thought because it isn’t the lethal calm it’s a true beg and plead

“Good—Manon would get Elide out. The witch had been waiting for Aelin to make a move, not realizing that ... she had nothing left. There was no power left for a final strike.” — even Manon is worried — Aelin has no plan, so what do I keep calm in??? MANON GET THE GIRL AND RUN RIGHT NOW

They just compared him to Rourke Farran and I want to throw up because Aelin made the connection and that hurts even more

Okay yes I’m mad at Lorcan but also I really think he’s playing the long-game and trying to save Elide who he loves… I guess I’m not surprise he’d betray Aelin & I’m glad he isn’t betraying Elide (even though betraying Aelin betrayed Elide) I just am not surprised? Frustrated? But not quite furious I guess?

"She belongs to the Ironteeth. If you have no quarrel with me, then you have no quarrel with her. Leave Elide Lochan out of it." — THANK YOU MANON

FIGHT IT!

Aelin knew Elide would fight. Would not understand that Maeve had been playing this game for centuries, and had waited until this moment, until the trap was perfect, to seize her. Aelin found Maeve smiling at her. She had played, and gambled, and lost. Maeve nodded as if to say yes. — That doesn’t mean Aelin deserves this either, it’s almost worse because she knows, she knows.

The witch knew her orders. Her task. — she’d get Elide out… but the fact that’s all Aelin is thinking about NO😭

"I will bear the keys in one hand, and Aelin Fire-Bringer in the other." — No you will not — She'd have to break her first. Kill her or break…” — this is sick, legit nauseous

Why does Cairn have to sound like Cain

"I'll go with you, I'll come with you-The girl would. The girl would face Cairn, and Maeve ... But Terrasen would need that sort of courage. If it was to survive, if it was to heal, Terrasen would need Elide Lochan. — and once again this is where I began weeping and also heard Gwyn in ACOSF all over again… and Elide had feared not being needed or wanted… their sisterhood 😭 Oh sweet Elide & Aelin WHY MAEVE WHY SARAH WHY — and I would scold Manon but she’s got a hand she’s not playing I just know it she is too uncomfortable too aware not to want to help Aelin

"Tell the others," Aelin breathed, trying to find the right words. — NO. I will not listen. Don’t you dare give a final speech Aelin Galathynius. DONT YOU DO IT! ELIDE DOES NOT NEED TO CARRY LAST WORDS FOR TEN YEARS! NOPE. NOT HAPPENINGx NOT AGAIN. NOT A CHANCE! COME ON — SOMEONE — THIS CANNOT BE THE WARNINGS I WAS GIVEN! No!

“Tell the others that I am sorry. Tell Lysandra to remember her promise, and that I will never stop being grateful.” — WHAT PROMISE?! WHAT TALK DID THEY HAVE AFTER NAMELESS

Tell Aedion ... Tell him it is not his fault, — NO TOO SOON TOO CLOSE TO HOME — and that " Her voice cracked. "I wish he'd been able to take the oath, but Terrasen will look to him now, and the lines must not break." — No! She . Did. Not. — WHATS WITH THE “LINES MUST NOT BREAK & HOLD THE LINE” LINES?

And tell Rowan… — I’m gonna need 30 minutes before I finish this sentence —

"And tell Rowan," Aelin said, fighting her own sob, "that I'm sorry I lied. But tell him it was all borrowed time anyway. Even before today, I knew it was all just borrowed time, but I still wish we'd had more of it." She fought past her trembling mouth. "Tell him he has to fight. He must save Terrasen, and remember the vows he made to me. And tell him ... tell him thank you-for walking that dark path with me back to the light."

“Aelin glanced at Lorcan, whose dark eyes were fixed on her own. And gratitude shone there. For sparing the young woman he'd given his heart to, whether he knew it or not.”

"I'm glad we met. I'm proud to know you. And I think your mother would have been proud of you, too, Elide." — somebody come zap my memory

AELIN YOUR IN THE NEVER LIST TOO

No… not the tattoo… wait is there a new add on? “Rowan’s loving words, written in the Old Language.” (Hindsight: Did they get wedding tattoos? The 15 minutes😅😂😭😂)

My god it’s more than Endovier… I don’t think books have legitimately made me cry this much in a long time

TIME COME ON BE ONE HER SIDE MOVE FASTER COME ON

Manon is telling Aelin “good luck” not Maeve isn’t she?

“Time she was grateful Elena had given her that stolen time. Grateful she had met them all, that she had seen some small part of the world, had heard such lovely music, had danced and laughed and known true friendship. Grateful that she had found Rowan. She was grateful. So Aelin Galathynius dried her tears And did not fight when Maeve strapped that beautiful iron mask over her face.” — worst Aelin Galathynius ending line yet… I’m out of words… just the quote… the quote that ruined everything 10 times over again SORRY IF YOUR READING THESE CHAPTER REVIEWS TOO OR THIS BOOK CAUSE OW THE FEELS HIT DIFFERENT

CHAPTER 73:

I don’t even know what I want from the book ending… I don’t want more Aelin… I don’t want to see Rowan find out… just show me Asterin and Abraxos with Manon & then sedate me?

SHE HAS THE KEYS — I KNEW IT! YES MANON PLAN

Let that be the cost — Oh, sweet Manon😭🖤

Come on… let that be hope; they had to forge a box to contain her that’s her power level, she’ll find a way out (so many were coming for her even in Endovier) there’s no way, now. not with Rowan. not with Manon. and Elide. and Lorcan. they’ll get to her… just go fast please

Okay good Manon’s on the lookout

Same Elide Same

Pretty sure Lorcan is lying and yeah he did this for you TO DESTROY YOU

What. A. Bitch.

ABRAXOS!!! — I needed that thank you wivern bb🥹😭 — Her heart thundered in her chest, joy sparking, but—

“For her sanity, Manon prayed that Aelin wouldn't be awake the entire time she was inside. And for the sake of their world, Manon prayed the Queen of Terrasen could survive it. If only so Aelin could then die for them all.” — WHAT KIND OF LINE IS THAT

AND HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO READ TWO MORE CHAPTERS WITHOUT ANSWERS HOPE AND IDK IT WAS ALL A DREAM

CHAPTER 74:

THERES A HOLE IN ALL OF OUR SOULS NOW

Time loop? We’re repeating phrases? None of it’s real! Let’s go with that!!

Wait THE THIRTEEN ARE TOGETHER SAFE AND SOUND WITH ELIDE AND ABRAXOS AND MANON OH THANK THE WYRD MY GIRLS I NEEDED THAT OKAY THERE OKAY THEY CAN GO GET HER ITLL ALL BE FINE

“Where is Aelin.” — no. DONT MAKE ME READ THAT SARAH — NO! Why is it not even a question😭

That better not be one of Rowan’s shirts that she stole cause again OW

What. the. FUCK?! YOU. DID. NOT. JUST. SAY. WIFE. YOU ARE NOT DOING THAT TO ME?! WHAT?! THE ACTUAL?! WHAT!

“Where is Aelin. What had he done, what had he done. Rowan hissed, "Where is my wife?" Lorcan swayed where he knelt. Wife. Wife. "Oh, gods," Elide sobbed as she overheard, the words carrying the sound of Lorcan's own fractured heart. "Oh, gods..." And for the first time in centuries, Lorcan wept. Rowan dug the dagger deeper into Lorcan's neck, even as tears slid down Lorcan's face. What that woman had done ... Aelin had known. That Lorcan had betrayed her and summoned Maeve here. That she had been living on borrowed time. And she had married Whitethorn... so Terrasen could have a king. Perhaps had been spurred into action because she knew Lorcan had already betrayed her, that Maeve was coming ... And Lorcan had not helped her. Whitethorn's wife. His mate. Aelin had let them whip and chain her, had gone willingly with Maeve, so Elide didn't enter Cairn's clutches. And it had been just as much a sacrifice for Elide as it had been a gift to him. She had bowed to Maeve. For Elide. "Please," Rowan begged, his voice breaking as that calm fury fractured.” — the fact that Rowan probably knows and can smell the blood and still begs to know because he didn’t want to believe it the fact he says please — and there is no way that that is the only reason she married him — it wasn’t the lack of time it was the level of love

“Lorcan had been wrong. He had been so wrong. And he could not entirely regret it, not if Elide was safe, but ... Aelin had refused to count. Cairn had unleashed his full strength on her with that whip, and she had refused to give them the satisfaction of counting.” — I can’t tell if Lorcan admires her strength or fears it fears how far Maeve will go

Aedion trying to clean her sword 😭

When did Dorian learn to heal?

Manon told them everything (as she should) but I didn’t think she would… and now they had to hear it… from her

“But it was Elide who then took up the thread, leaning against Lysandra, who was staring at that blood and that shirt as if it were a corpse, telling them what had happened on these dunes. What Aelin had sacrificed She told Rowan that he was Aelin's mate. Told him about Lyria. She told them about the whipping, and the mask, and the box. When Elide finished, they were silent.” — I MEAN WHAT IS THERE TO SAY — something about Elide taking up the thread — and no Aedion not what you said… man Ashryvers have TEMPERS (but fair😅)

Lysandra was going to play as Aelin… that’s what the vision told her… did she think she could trick Rowan into believing she never died? — Aedion she obviously loves you that’s not the reason why — Okay fair point bro — Even fairer point girlie — "I will not apologize to you. I serve her. And I am willing to spend the rest of my life pretending to be her so that her sacrifice isn't in vain- — WOAH REACTION UNCALLED FOR but except under the circumstances (child’s play back in school is forgiven under my rule cause ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE)

It’s hurting her changing her it’s uncaged — Endure — like lines like that that I must … how did so much change in one book… that’s part of the sad part I know they’ll get Aelin back but things won’t ever be the same

“entering a sanctuary of wings and claws and teeth.” — oh how I missed and needed them back

“I will never forget that” — no one will unfortunately, not even Lorcan… yet once again if Aelin can forgive why can’t we? It’s like Feyre with fam stuff…

Umm can someone go check on Rowan please

Asterin was alive. The Thirteen were alive. And it was joy in Manon's heart—joy, she realized, as she beheld those smiling faces and smiled back. — so happy like this is the last shred of sanity

But Abraxos found us and seemed to know where you were, so we followed him." She scratched at some dried blood on her cheek. "And saved your ass, apparently." I KNEW HE WOULD — he’s the bestest boy (is what I would say, but he feels smarter than your average pet sidekick and would probably hate that, so let’s just wish him a vacation in flower fields while manon tans and everyone’s happy for once and Aelin is not in a coffin cool? Cool. Ps oh Asterin how I missed you, man if only Fenrys and the 13 could hang out more

Not soon enough to stop this. To save Aelin Galathynius. — BUT YOU WILL

They all looked to Manon … still …

A child not of war ... but of peace.

"And will you follow me?" Manon asked them quietly. "To do what needs to be done before we can return to the Wastes?" Aelin Galathynius had not beseeched Elena for another fate. She had only asked for one thing, one request of the ancient queen: Will you come with me? For the same reason Manon had now asked them. As one, the Thirteen lifted their fingers to their brows. As one, they lowered them. Manon looked toward the sea, her throat tight. — YEAH IM NOT CRYING EITHER TOTALLY JUST THE SALT WATER (legit I don’t know at this point what’s joy sadness fear anger sleep deprivation etc. lol)

GO SAVE THE QUEEN YALL

"Aelin Galathynius willingly handed over her freedom (she did give up her freedom😭) so an Ironteeth witch could walk free," Manon said. Elide straightened, pulling from Asterin's arms. — she’s one of them🥹 — But Manon continued, "We owe her a life debt. And more than that ... It is time that we became better than our foremothers. — YAS QUEEN — We are all children of this land." — why can’t more people be like Manon — no longer just dealing in life debts but honor — "What are you going to do?" Asterin breathed, her eyes so bright. Manon looked behind them. To the north. "I am going to find the Crochans. — like the opposite same of past centuries so she’s good at it I guess — And I am going to raise an army with them. For Aelin Galathynius. And her people. And for ours." "They'll never trust us," Sorrel said. Asterin drawled, "Then we'll have to just be our charming selves." Some of them smirked; some of them shifted on their feet. Manon said again to her Thirteen, "Will you follow me?" And when they all touched their fingers to their brows again, Manon returned the gesture.”

“What Aelin had done ... what she'd lied about … Some of the blood on the ground had dried. If Aelin was gone, if her life would indeed be the cost if she ever got free …Oh, Aelin. Aelin. She'd worked Maeve into such a frenzy, made the queen so focused on capturing her that she hadn't thought to confirm if Aelin held the keys before she vanished. She'd been dealt such a wicked, impossible hand-and yet Aelin had made it count. One last time, she'd made it count.” “I am sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't help.”— the way Aedion is speaking oh beautiful buddies and Aelin oh and ugh it just feels so trapping with fate but at least we know Manon has wanted to help (as I knew she would have) but also this won’t be the last — now Dorian trust yourself as she trusts you (but ugh both houses NEITHER OF YOU DIE) but she knew but aww he would for her but good he’s got Manon protection — "Elena said Mala's bloodline can stop this. It runs in both your houses." — I like that Manon gives options not just her wishes but the full truth to decide — The golden eyes were weary-heavy. He realized what Manon was asking.

Aelin had never planned to see Terrasen again. She had married Rowan knowing she would have months at best, days at the worst, with him. But she would give Terrasen a legal king. To hold her territory together. She had made plans for all of them—and none for herself. "The quest does not end here," Dorian said softly. Manon shook her head. And he knew she meant more than the keys, than the war, as she said, "No, it does not." He took the keys from her. They throbbed and flickered, warming his palm. A foreign, horrible presence, and yet ... all that stood between them and destruction. No, the quest did not end here. Not even close. Dorian slid the keys into his pocket. And the road that now sprawled away before him, curving into unknown, awaiting shadow ... it did not frighten him. — here we go then … I mean she had to know they wouldn’t be that smart lol

I can’t even edit this post or work on autocorrects. How does this always happen? How? BREAK PART I LOST COUNT NO MORE MATH OR BRAIN CELLS TO GIVE

… *2 hours later voice* I feel like a mother-in-law learning her child eloped in Vegas and didn’t invite her for the second time

CHAPTER 75:

“Rowan had married Aelin before dawn barely two days ago.” — The first time we hear Rowan and it absolutely gutted me the hardest it could

“Rowan had known. Part of him had known that Aelin was his mate. And had turned away from that knowledge, again and again, out of respect for Lyria, out of terror for what it'd mean. He'd leapt in front of her at Skull's Bay knowing it, deep down. Knowing mates aware of the bond could not bear to harm each other, and that it might be the only force to compel her to regain control from Deanna. And even when she had proved him right ... He had turned from that”— my heart — she’d proved him right — he know AHHHH — it just hurts more — she’d known too though Ro — “Proof, still unready, pushing it from his mind even as he claimed her in every other way. Aelin had known, though. That he was her mate. And she had not pushed it, or demanded he face it, because she loved him, and he knew she'd rather carve out her own heart than cause him pain or distress.”

His Fireheart.

His equal, his friend, his lover. His wife.

His mate.

That gods-damned bitch had put her in an iron box. — yep that’s how I feel too

“His Fireheart, locked in the dark.” — NO NOT THAT LINE LIKE THIS OH OH NO😭

He’d known she was trying to tell him💔

Her IMMORTAL life (what about the mortal one?)

“It was all borrowed time anyway. Aelin did not expect them to come for her. She, who had come for them, who had found them all. She had arranged for everything to fall into place when she yielded her life. When she gave up a thousand years to save them. And Rowan knew she believed they'd make the right choice, the wise choice, and remain here. Lead their armies to victory-the armies she'd secured for them, guessing that she wouldn't be there to see it through. She did not think she'd ever see him again.” — the fact she doesn’t, she doesn’t want them to, even now she’s surprised to learn people tried on Endovier but hon they are coming just hold on and what was that final parting and the next line same dude same UTTERLY UNNACEPTABLE

“He did not accept that. He would not accept that. And he would not accept that he had found her, and she had found him, and they had survived such sorrow and pain and despair together, only to be cleaved apart. He would not accept the fate that had been dealt to her, would not accept that her life was the asking price for saving this world. Her life, or Dorian's. He would not accept it for one heartbeat.” — then don’t. Go get her. ALSO props for having Dorian on there this isn’t a kill one for the other no it’s a save both THANK YOU

Him and his cadre now… and hers…

“The sea rolled away, undulating under the clearing blue sky. He speared that bond into the world, casting it wide as a net. Flinging it out with his magic, his soul, his cracked heart. Searching for her. Fight it, he willed her, sending the words down the bond—the mating bond, which perhaps had settled into place that first moment they'd become carranam, hidden beneath flame and ice and hope for a better future. Fight her. I am coming for you. Even if it takes me thousand years. I will find you, I will find you, will find you. Only salt and wind and water answered him.” — A THOUSAND YEARS, their heart I WILL RESCUE YOU till the stars are dust

Memory? HE KNOWS EVERY STORY

Their all so numb😭

Where is she? THEY HAD COME (they didn’t abandon Terrasen) all her plans — But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the color of his eyes. Turquoise with a core of gold. Aedion breathed as if in a trance, "Galan." Galan Ashryver, Crown Prince of Wendlyn. The young man's eyes widened as he took in the warrior-prince. "Aedion," he said hoarsely, something like awe and grief in his face. But he blinked it away, self-assured and steady, and again asked, "Where is she?" None of them answered. Aedion demanded, "What are you doing here?" — those too telling eyes

It still smells like her😭 — OH MY WORD THE LETTER — TERRASEN REMEMBERS EVALIN ASHRYVER. DO YOU? I FOUGHT AT MISTWARD FOR YOUR PEOPLE. RETURN THE GODS-DAMNED FAVOR. — I FUCKING LOVE HER — Clever girl she knew when and who to ask

Lysandra has her MY HEART

ROWAN KNEW CAUSE HE KNEW HER TALE

Okay but legit how long can Lysandra fake it was she told all the stories

The fact he chose to be quiet like his dad I love the irony of knowing and all of them every thing she called in for them for him

WHY IS ILIAS MAKING ME CRY SO MUCH (also is it Ilias like “Iliad” with an s & no d or or like ELLE-EYE-Az or like Ill-eee—iss?)

“The Queen of the Wastes whispered, "Ilias." Ilias, son of the Mute Master of the Silent Assassins, gaped at Ansel, his back stiffening. But Rowan stepped toward the man, drawing his attention. Ilias's eyes narrowed in assessment. And he, like Galan, scanned them all, searching for a golden-haired woman who was not there. His eyes returned to Rowan as if he'd marked him as the axis of this group. In a voice hoarse from disuse, Ilias asked him, "We have come to fulfill our life debt to Celaena Sardothien—to Aelin Galathynius. "Where is she?" "You are the sessiz suikast," Dorian said, shaking his head. "The Silent Assassins of the Red Desert." Ilias nodded. And glanced at Ansel, who still seemed near vomiting, before saying to Rowan, "It seems my friend has called in many debts in addition to ours." As if the words themselves were a signal, more white-clad figures filled the dunes behind them. Dozens. Hundreds. Rowan wondered if every single assassin from that desert Keep had come to honor their debt to the young woman. A lethal legion in themselves. — They knew Rowan was the closest to her and how did Dorian know who they were

“"Tell Aelin Galathynius that Wendlyn has never forgotten Evalin Ashryver," Galan said to him, to Aedion. "Or Terrasen." I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come, Aelin had told him she'd sworn to Darrow. I'm going to call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners. And she had. She had meant and accomplished every word of it.” — she doesn’t break her word… their are still many wars left

“Tears slid down Aedion's face as he silently sobbed. Where are our allies, Aelin? Where are our armies? She had taken the criticism-taken it, because he knew she hadn't wanted to disappoint them if she failed. Rowan put a hand on Aedion's shoulder.” — good job Rowan, Aedion it’s not your fault… both oh sweet AELIN😭 YALL I will defend this woman at all costs lol

“For Terrasen. For them. For a better world. Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath ... but to rattle the stars.” — now I’m sobbing on my metaphorical knees with very real non metaphor tears — if only you dared — what is it with Maas and good star quotes?

“She'd known that she would not get to lead it. But she would still hold true to her promise to Darrow: I promise you on my blood, on my family's name, that I will not turn my back on Terrasen as you have turned your back on me. And the last piece of it ... if Chaol Westfall and Nesryn Faliq could rally forces from the southern continent ... Aedion at last looked up at him, eyes wide as he came to the same realization. A chance. His wife, his mate, had bought them a fool's shot at this war. And she did not believe that they would come for her.” — they are coming, but my heart is breaking (come on Chaol, especially as I keep thinking it’s you😂or Yrene… this list is already long and that’s without all those lol) also I keep hearing Kingsley “they are coming” lol and also EVERY-TIME HE SAYS HIS WIFE

That smile ... It punched a hole through his heart. Lysandra had taught herself Aelin's smile, that bit of wickedness and delight, honed with that razor edge of cruelty. Lysandra's acting, honed in the same hellhole Aelin had learned hers, was flawless as she spoke to Galan.

“Their allies, their enemies, could not know that the immortal fire of Mala had been stolen. Leashed.”

She kept her word, FIND HER, king consort, give them a chance, TOO MUCH HAPPENING

Good job Lorcan. I love you Elide. — Healing therapy boat time! —

"I will go with you. I will help you get her back." — "Together. We'll go together."

To WHATEVER end😭

I love when they call her “Lady of Perranth”

HE CALLED HIM BROTHER🥹😭

“eyes burning bright. Rowan knew how much it killed him. But if the world believed Aelin was returning north, then one of her generals had to be at her side to lead her armies. And since Aedion commanded the loyalty of the Bane ... "Bring her back, Prince," Aedion said, voice cracking. "Bring her home." Rowan held his brother's stare and nodded. "We will see you again. All of you." — everyone come home plus ships gotta sail plus the home part ow okay and let’s take the promise as foreshadowing

Hopefully they knew in the plan Rowan would notice😅 but yeah you were probably king

"The witches fly north," Dorian said. "And I will go with them. To see if I can do what needs to be done." "Stay with us," Rowan offered. "We'll find a way to deal with the keys and the Lock and the gods—all of it." Dorian shook his head. "If you go after Maeve, the keys should be kept far away. If I can help by doing this, by finding the third will serve you better that way." — he will help … and stay with his Witchling

Rally like Aelin had said

Dorian again looked to Manon, who now smiled faintly at him. It was a smile that softened her face, made it come alive. "He won't die if I can help it," the witch said, then surveyed them all.

Hope-precious, fragile hope—stirred in Rowan's blood. — I feel it too.

BOTH of you

And then Aedion forgave him😭

THE SWORD

And we get more Sorrel and Asterin time!

THANK MANON

Red haired queen with a wolf’s smile

“Felt something stir in him-felt the bond flicker. He let the shirt drop, let the wind carry it far out to sea, far away from this blood-drenched place that reeked of pain. I will find you.” — the bond is STILL there

Chaining the wind to him, swiftly catching up with his companions now flying down the coast, he committed her scent to memory, committed that flicker in the bond to memory.

Is this the first time she hasn’t ended the book?And in paralell it’s still her but his lens? Ow?

HIS WIFE & War cry time & HER last name

“That flicker he could have sworn he felt in answer, like the fluttering heart of an ember. Unleashing a cry that set the world trembling, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.”

Hope? & I WILL FIND YOU …

Final weird opinion: this was somehow both worse and better than I thought it would be? Like no one died. And there’s hope. And so many awesome things. But also Ow! Why? wtf? It made sense but also it didn’t? And WHAT?! But also it was so well done? I don’t know… perhaps pondering is needed.

Bonus chapter then back to life for me! With ToD.

(possible) BONUS chapter(s?):

Bonus Chapter 1. “Aelin & magic in Terrasen in EoS Beginning:

Why are the pages always so pretty?😂

Nice to see everyone together again for one moment (esp. now😅😬)

So was this cut cause they don’t go to Orynth?🤷‍♀️

I thought only Ellywe was burning?

Are the scars a reference to Evangeline?

So two days isn’t the book like three so this is right beginning or pre-begining? Is that what the ToD one is then too? Also any KoA?

I WANNA SEE SQUIRREL STEALING SUPPLIES LYSANDRA

“Aelin stuck out her tongue at the Fae Prince. Evangeline giggled— then quickly hid the grin when Rowan shot a look at her. The girl darted to Lysandra-wholly missing the crinkling in Rowan's eyes as she took over pampering Fleetfoot. Something tightened in Aelin's chest at Rowan's quiet amusement. He and Aedion had both been kind to the girl-knowing when to tease, when to comfort. Two bossy, overbearing older brothers-and trained, lethal killers. Gods help Evangeline when she was old enough to be interested in anyone romantically.” — why do they delete this stuff it tends to be my favorite🥹

I LOVE THEIR LITTLE FAMILY

Represent!!

Oh Aelin jsur wait till you meet Elide & you and Manon try to out-big-sister each other

“They’d have a fire-breathing bitch-queen and a shape-shifter capable of turning into the face of their nightmares waiting to have a little chat.”

“If you turn into a squirrel," Evangeline said into Lysandra's road-dusty white shirt, "will you travel on my shoulder and let me make an acorn hat for you to wear?" Aelin bit her lip, striding toward Rowan and the water before she could make the mistake of meeting Lysandra's gaze and howling. Rowan was indeed clamping his lips together, eyes dazzlingly bright.” — His eyes are so happy for once in these moments😭

Off to the woods again

Oh Oakwald

WAIT THIS SCENE😂

“Indeed, they all were inclined to make the girl happy. Evangeline had suffered enough-seen far more than a child should ever witness. Aelin and Lysandra had as well. As had Aedion, she supposed. But out of all of them... "You had a fairly happy childhood," she said, more musing than question. Rowan nodded nonetheless. "Yes— my parents faded when I was still young. But in all honesty, my uncle's house was much more... fun.” — I can appreciate the cousins more now too … so did Elena fade or is that different?

So can all Whitethorns fly? — Would that mean Aedion can shift? — okay wait it’s being addressed and the golden eagle is cool

"Would they have sided with you—against her?" "It's been so long since I bothered to spend more than a few minutes with them that I honestly don't know. I was not kind to them for a great while. I was worried that they might add more obstacles for you and me." — FORSHADOWING

That explains the cadre even more

Even with Lyria as not his mate he still loved her as did she him (she might not even have felt the bond… it explains disagreements) and the grief is still heavy … he very well might have found her anyway since so long passed and finding mates is so rare

I’d love to see the Whitethorns places like let’s see where he grew up and the houses and stuff… or just build a home together

SHE MADE A BIRD JOKE

When did he officially get banished?

"If I weren't banished from Doranelle for the rest of eternity, I'd invite you to come play house. And I'd give you two days before you were bored out of your mind and grousing to me about it." "I happen to love playing house. Nesting is an art form for me." Her lips twitched. "Don't you dare turn that into some joke about birds."

Ah yes Lysandra & Aedion’s many odd strolls😂

"You looked at me while we were running through the trees, and you smiled." She swallowed. "And you looked... you looked so alive, so wild and alive, and." She traced the contours of his mouth. "I think that was the moment when I began to want you. I didn't know it at the time, but ....I think it was then. You were real and wicked and as savage as I was, and when you saw my speed and the Fae heritage and you didn't balk ... When you only smiled at me... No one had ever done that before. You saw all of me, yet you still smiled." Rowan brushed her unbound hair out of her face. "I think we both tried for a damn long time to convince ourselves of our ... neutrality." He kissed one of her cheekbones, then the other. "I find I prefer this much more." Her toes curled inside her boots. "Likewise, Prince," — why do they cut these moments I’m so glad they at least have bonus chapter

How Rowan had wandered the wilds for ten years ... Aelin didn't like to think about it. Him alone for that long, or the grief and guilt and rage that had thrown him so far into that abyss. That even when he'd returned to civilization a decade later, he hadn't really ... lived. Yes, he'd gone off to war, gone on a thousand adventures, but ... Aelin kept close to Rowan as they made their way into the little village, hooded and cloaked.

So the king had ordered the executions even if he was trying to stop Valg he still did it

That’s why she was learning how to make water butterflies

Same age as Aelin was

Rowan really is a good magic teacher

“A laugh of joy lodged in Aelin's throat as she surveyed the fine details up close. The girl wasn't just strong. She was creative. She'd used different currents to shape patterns into the wings, the entire butterfly in constant motion within its form.” — this is just lovely, Aelin so happy, just a moment of peace

"You're like me?" The accent—the Terrasen accent, the lilt to the words ... She had not spoken to one of her people, in her own land, in ... a very long time. — once again I wish we knew the accent but I’m starting to think Scottish? Irish?

"Not as talented, but yes." And the sound of her accent, the mix of Terrasen and Adarlan... The girls chin lifted. Mistrust—a bit of fear. But courage. A great well of cour-age. The girl did not back down.

So can water magic always heal?

Aelin knew who she meant, but she still looked over her shoulder to Evangeline, who stood between Aedion and Rowan, each warrior with a hand on her shoulder. — protecting her — In the bright sun, the girl's scars were stark—-brutal. "Bad people tried to hurt her," Aelin said. "Mama says that with my magic, I could be a great healer." "You indeed could," Aelin replied, flicking her attention over to where the woman now monitored them with a stone face. "I could heal her scars one day, maybe." Aelin considered. "That is very generous of you. I suppose it would be up to my friend, though—whether she wishes to remove them." With magic-based healing, it'd still be a brutal process, but ... perhaps it was possible. "I could fix yours, too." Clever-eyed little thing. "You could do that, and a great many more things," Aelin said. She went on a bit louder, just so the adults could hear, "You could ensure your fields and farms get proper water. You could keep the fountain's well safe. And yes, you could learn to heal and tend to the sick and injured." "Where?" said a low female voice. Aelin looked to the older woman seated on the cracked fountain lip-the town's matron. "Where does she learn such things?" the woman pushed. Aelin paused. She didn't know. Had no idea. "They burned the magic academy," the woman said. "There's no place left to learn." "I know," Aelin said. "Then don't put dreams in her head," the woman snapped. Aelin's cheeks heated. But Aedion said behind her, still hidden beneath his hood, "Terrasen will be rebuilt. Give it a few years, and there will be a place."

"If war comes, if we survive, wait a year after it ends. Then come to Orynth, and find Celaena Sardothien. Go to the castle and tell them you're looking for her, and have come at last for magic lessons." — I really want this full circle (and ugh that means Aelin still believed she’d see it back then) and also so many peoples she’s helped and then all showing up in EoS

"Do not be afraid of what makes you shine brightly." — how in the world did that line get cut?

The double sided gold coin (is her head/picture on it)

Eyes so bright from Fireheart

The water butterfly followed🥹

Is the next day where we resume then?

"There is nothing to fix"

I wish they all blamed themselves less

"You don't need it, Evangeline. You're perfect as you are." — reason 5013 why I love Aedion — Lysandra was just staring at her young ward, devastation in those pale green eyes. Devastation and yet... Lysandra glanced at Aedion, who had moved to sit beside Evangeline and was showing her how to make a proper daisy chain. Aelin didn't miss the change in Lysandra's expression, even in ghost leopard form, as she took in the warrior.

Rowan knew she told the girl

“The pride in his eyes made her throat tighten. "It is an honor to serve you.” — yeah I needed that chapter after this cliffhanger ending — “But Aelin shook her head, looking at him, at Aedion, at Evangeline, and Lysandra, watching over them all. "The honor is all mine," she said softly.”

AHHHH ITS SQUIRREL LYSANDRA I AM LIVING FOR THIS — Lysandra remained in squirrel form throughout the day, and the next one after that, and wore her acorn hat as proudly as any fine lady while she rode atop Evangeline's shoulder.

Bonus Chapter 2: Chaol & Nesryn travel (pre ToD)

Actually looking forward to this I needed it and I missed them

Well I had notes but tumblr deleted them and now I’m just disappointed

Where’s the fan art and how to tell special editions / get them?

It’s chaol all in one, every side, the one I loved, the one I hated, the one he was, the one he will be

SARTAQ sounds familiar

Brutal upbringing by the sounds of that cheery deacription

Can’t wait for the map; please tell me there’s a new one

Even he knew about Rowan; that they were soulmates

Needing an additional Aedion your not style broken moment

Adventure to save and risk what they love most

She on fleek

Terrin please be in terrasin

Someone please tell them so they don’t worry when they hear and actually have letters this time pre Rifthold falls so they don’t see all that

So do they already know then about the witches?

Endure — that word again!

Old king hatred line sneak peek for tower of dawn my how much has changed

Aelin’s negotiations lol yeah it fits her vibe

He tried everyday CHAOL WESTFALL YALL

Dorian sent them with books🥹

From the moment Nehemia died OW AGAIN NO WHY AN I ALREADY CRYING

This is the HoF for Chaol? isn’t it? His healing? Taking me back to Chaolaena to break me again? — cause I’m back there again

No verbal wars😭 I miss the days of sparring and no one dying

He would beat this he would fight it YES HE WOULD

Come on with the army HURRY NOW PLEASE

How about empress??? Hmm??

Oh wait yeah!!!

Oh noooooo

How do you solve a problem like Maria but it’s Aelin lol how to describe her well maybe try 9 books

She does fall for the world, in love & apart

She’s a storm; that much is true

Empire you say??? Perhaps one of storms

Assassin queen YES

She was always her but yes it did change — He calls her Aelin now And is harsh again — then the name mix back to Celaena Aa I FELL IN LOVE WITH A FACET… so much was just said — crying again — Nesryn says Aelin’s because he knows what she meant the respect or whatever it is living there

Unfaltering THATS NESRYN

What’s her connection to SARTAQ??? Could we get a queen ally? Maybe Yrene is one of the kids of the secret assassin? Some kinda connection?

Oh Nesryn

Oh chaol

Oh the feels

Yet also needed after that ending back to the good old days and a story and I’m already hooked But also the timeline I MUSR KNOW But also so SO much and legit I’m ready to start the series now

Together.

Thank you Nesryn for that speech!!!

What conclusions? Chaol??

He’d yet to find the one that makes him want to live again 😭

See Aelin has Rowan Dorian has Chaol neither will die great we’re good then

More random thoughts out of order: so you would say he is NOT the captain now? Yay therapy ship? Did she steal another of Rolfe’s?

Quotes time cause I’m lazy & remixing:

“The beginnings of an adventure that may doom or save those they love most ...” — well that’s not concerning after this last book

“Wind Cuttor”

He wouldn't have put it past either of them to have bribed or bullied the ship's captain into yielding the room- but from the polite, cool distance with which the captain treated him and Nesryn, Chaol suspected that the Queen of Terrasen had made a point of visiting the ship before departing for her own kingdom. A suspicion that was only solidified by the handprint burned into the desk across the room.

He tried. Every day he tried to get just one of his toes to move. The empty silence that greeted him was more terrifying than those moments facing the king. — so did the king not trying to kill him?

Has a very “she never talked” “he never asked” vibe

Everything with her had been out of order from the very start. They hadn't even really become proper friends until this spring. And they certainly weren't lovers now.

“They'd vanished the moment Nehemia Ytger had died,”

Dorian appointed him the King's Hand, he was still no better than an oath-breaker, a liar, a traitor. — join the club kid

It’s interesting that Chaol’s starts acknowledging mercy as the term and Nesryn starts with merciless

"It will only get worse," — I don’t care if your talking about the sun stop it and knock on wood right this second before it comes true

“Peacefully- calmly. Not at all like the verbal sparring that had always accompanied sessions with Aelin. He wondered if it made him a bastard for not knowing what he preferred.”

“He would beat this; he would fight this.” — there’s the foreshadowing I need/want

Is there a possibility Khagan have to do with silent assassins?

Maybe Maeve’s far away place will be this continent and they can help?

The last khagan had been female a mighty empress who had made slavery illegal, paid good money to bring in artists of all kinds to enrich her cities, and opened trade routes with previous enemies, filling her empire's coffers to the point of overflowing.

Chaol wondered what it had been like to grow up in that household-to be a potential khagan heir and know your siblings might one day kill you. Though Chaol supposed it wouldn't be too different from his own upbringing. — ow lol

"How do I explain Aelin Galathynius?"

“do you still hold hope for her?" "No," he said, his voice flat and hollow. "She changed her mind; she changed—as a person. And even if she had wanted to be with me, I would not have left Dorian, and she would have gone to Terrasen, and it would never have worked. And perhaps we would have been a bit shattered by it, but whether in a year, or ten... Rowan would have been there. Waiting for her, all that time." — It’s romantic but it’s true — "That's a rather romantic view of it." But her gaze rose to his face—to the scar along his cheek, courtesy of Aelin. "She's allowed to fall in and out of love as she chooses." "And have you fallen out of love with her?" "This spring and summer was a maelstrom," he said tightly, glancing at the burned handprint peeking from beneath a stack of papers across the desk. "Between Dorian, and all that happened ... Everything fell apart. If the price of getting Dorian back was losing her, then so be it."

"Am I supposed to lie in bed and weep over it? That I was not the man she wanted? Am I supposed to mourn the fact that the dreams I had, the plans I made, were all for a woman who did not exist? Loving an assassin with no responsibilities is completely different from loving a queen with a kingdom and a world to look after. Would I have loved her if I had known from the start what she is?" He shook his head. "If I had met her now... my first instinct would have been to protect Dorian from her. I expect the hagan to feel the same." His words sank in, one by one. He added more calmly, running a hand over his face

"That's the difference. Celaena was a fraction of Aelin- both good and bad. But Aelin... She is Celaena, and she is queen, and she is the Fire-Bringer. I fell in love with a facet, and I panicked when I realized it was a fraction of the whole— when I saw that power, that heritage, and... It was not a part of my plans." He looked to the sea gleaming behind her, the wind whipping the waves. "Rowan Whitethorn saw every-thing. From the moment he met her, he saw all of Aelin. And he was not afraid. I don't blame either of them for falling in love. I don't blame her." He loosed a shuddering breath. "I was what Celaena needed after Endovier. But Rowan is who Aelin needs— forever."

"And what about what you need?" "I have never been in a position to demand the things I need. This trip... is the first." "You give and give and give," she murmured. "When will it be enough?" "It is my honor to serve." "I don't mean in that way. When have you ever been selfish?" "Stop trying to make me out to be something I'm not." She lowered her hand from his hair, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. "And what is that? A good man?" "People died because of me." — I’m glad he has her looking out for him & there it is starting weight the weight of Cain to now

“He met those dark eyes. Unfaltering will glimmered in them.” — I love that THIS is how he describes her

"You will walk again," Nesryn repeated. "And you will remember that you are a good man regardless, a brave and selfless man. You will remember that you may not have magic, but there is mighty power in the strength of ordinary people. You will remember that..." Her chest heaved, and she steadied herself with a long breath. "You will remember, Chaol," she said, "that the world needs men like you. In war, and after it. Especially after it." — well said… remembering why I fell for him & Apart over it in the first place

"I will go where I am needed most." "And if that is at my side?" "Then that is where I shall be." Her dark eyes flickered. "But I hold you to no promises, Chaol. I expect nothing." "Why?" "Because I know who I am-what I am. You turned to me last summer, after Lithaen left you for Lord Roland. You turned to me again this spring, after Aelin. I am not the first choice. But for now, it suits my own interests to be here. I enjoy your company— enjoy you." He wasn't sure how the conversation had shifted toward this. "You-you aren't some sort of consolation prize." She let out a low laugh and leaned in to kiss the top of his head. "Would you have picked me if Aelin had come running back to you? Would you have noticed my existence?" — you are NOT an eternal consolation prize Nesryn you are MORE and ooh my word Not the flashbacks, oh my old Chaolaena heart😭 — He hated words, had always preferred action. And this ... He still had nothing to say as she shut the door behind herself. — Time to learn to communicate

"You can't stop fighting. You can't stop living. Or you will never survive what's ahead."

"Says the woman who barely smiles and laughs." "Do not mistake my reserve for lack of feeling. Do not think that because I don't flash my emotions around it means that I do not have them. That I do not have hopes and fears and desires. I have had to learn to be calm, to be quiet and aloof- because growing up in a city where most people were predisposed to dislike me for my heritage, I had to be those things. And now that we are headed into war, I find that those things are gifts. But I do not shut out the world. I do not shut out life. And I think you were doing that for a long, long time before your spine was broken. Before even Aelin came along." — before celeana too — & Like Lysandra and Aelin Nesryn is always right

And he would fight like hell to keep Dorian from that fate, to save Adarlan, but ... he didn't really see the point in bothering to fall in love with the world. Not when it could be taken from him. Not with so many dangers waiting to rip them apart.

“Even with the words between them, when he awoke at dawn, Nesryn was nestled against him, her hand curled against his bare chest. Right over his heart—as if she held it gently in her palm. Chaol laid his hand over hers, listening to her steady, unfaltering breathing. He would fight-but... he wasn't quite sure how to even begin this business of living.”

Also are there any half finished or cut ones to look up? — think I got em all?

Then onto my next read ⬇️

(possible) Tower of Dawn pre-read/first start thoughts: 4 later!

Okay now it’s officially time Road here I come bright & early (hopefully) yay

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

sweeter than blood │ Spike x Summers!Reader

everything he wants 'verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Part 1 │Part 2 (Work in Progress!)

Returning to Sunnydale for the first time since Angel lost his soul—older, bitter, unprepared for grief—you never expected to fall for Spike. Through the eyes of the others, it's obsession, danger, betrayal. But to you? It’s the only thing that still feels real. (Set post-episode 14 of Season 5, "Crush".)

Hey, guys! Briefly showing up to post a short fic I wrote after getting whacked by the Buffy bug lately. Not going to be frequently updating or anything - I'm literally just posting this and popping back out. Couple notes: this is a three-chapter fic that I'm posting in one single hit. It's like, 22,250 words, so it's long. Also, it's mixed POV from pretty much all the main characters. Keep in mind that my writing style doesn't exactly fit in the Reader or in the OC category; best way I can describe it as nameless, vaguely-described OCs written in second person. Enough from either category to justify calling it both. If that's not what you're after, I recommend you don't read.

Buffy rolls her eyes when she recognizes who’s behind all the commotion by the door, turning away from Giles to give the intruder one of her meanest eyebrow-raises.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, fists clenched and knuckles white as she glares at Spike, tension etched into every line of her body. Her voice is a low, warning growl, her fingers itching to wrap around something sharp and stabby. Anything will do, really. “It’s the middle of the day.”

It’s been only a few weeks since bizarro entered Spike’s brain and he tried to tell her he loved her, and in that time it’s like it never really happened. Sure, he’s been loitering around the house like a pervert, glances lasting a little too long on her as she deliberately ignores him to unlock the door and retreat to the safety of a freshly-Spike-free zone, but his focus is all screwy. It’s like the tap of grossness has spun itself off, still dripping a bit but like… not flooding. Or something. She’s bad with figures of speech.

The evil bleached wonder sneers over at her, still furiously smacking at the smoke trails rising from his exposed skin and stinking up the shop. “None of your business, Slayer. Ain’t my bloody keeper. I can go where I like.”

“Does that have to be where Buffy is?” Xander snipes. “You know you’re never getting a shot with her. Why make us all put up with you?”

Dawn’s here, so Buffy makes a cutty-motion with her hand at him, warning him off the tangent he’s on. Even though Dawnie’s just as mad as the rest of them about Spike’s confession, she still gets huffy and moody whenever anyone spends too long mocking him for it, and Buffy totally can’t deal right now.

Spike shakes his head. “Look, I dunno what Buffy told you about that stuff with Dru―”

Giles advances on him, shielding her from view. “Spike, you’re not welcome here.”

“Yeah, and by the way, we’re working on a way to de-invite you from here,” Willow adds. Though there’s nothing super snarky about the indifferent way she looks Spike up and down, for Wills it’s positively cruel. “Even if it is a public place.”

Spike looks away, lower lip curling under his teeth as he scoffs. “Alright, maybe there was some expression of feelings, but ’m all―”

Whatever he was gonna say dies in his throat. He straightens himself up and runs his fingers through his hair, which, strange, isn’t slicked back like he usually wears it. Has he suddenly realized―re-realized, or whatever―that she’s there and is doing some uber-sketchy peacocking thing? She’s just about to ask him what the hell is up when you brush just past her, bookbag swinging as you rifle through its contents.

“Buff,” you say, absent-minded, “d’you know where I put my―oh, hey, Spike. Nice hair.”

You look up and smile at him, a bit unfocused as you wander over to the table, scattering the items inside on its surface. Pens and textbooks go skidding across the wood as you dig through, muttering an aha! when you find your tube of chapstick buried at the bottom. Dawnie shoves at the stuff that’s rolled onto her homework, but you don’t seem to notice at all.

“Afternoon,” Spike says. Buffy narrows her eyes at him. “Settlin’ in alright?”

“Mm,” you hum, smiling, lips freshly glossy and reddened. “Stuff’s unpacked, classes all sorted… everything’s coming up me. How ’bout you?”

“Can’t complai―”

“Seriously, Spike,” Buffy snaps, folding her arms. “Clear outta here.”

She’s such a hypocrite for being so freaked by him basically ignoring her, she knows that. It’s not like she wants him stalking her, but she’s Puzzle Girl. She solves things, and the mystery is that Spike is acting stranger than usual. She hasn’t had time to figure it out, not between helping Mom, rearranging Dawn’s room—well, your shared room now—and grilling you about Hank’s way-too-young girlfriend. That doesn’t even begin to cover the stress of keeping Glory’s demon goons off Dawn’s back. Time is against her at the moment. And after Mom told you about the tumor? Yeah, no wonder you were all in for moving back.

“Wait,” Anya says, frowning. “I thought Spike didn’t know her. Why are they talking?”

“Introduced meself, yeah?” Spike’s stink-eye is ineffective as usual. “S’what civilized people do and all that rot.”

“If that’s civilized,” Anya mutters, too low for anyone but Buffy to properly catch, “then I’ve been using the wrong definition. Civilized people don’t pant like wolves in heat—”

“He’s nice,” you say.

“—yeah, most men pretend to listen,” Buffy hears her whispering to Tara. She tunes it out. “Vampires probably do it better. Less hormonal noise.”

Patting your sides down―looking for pockets, though as usual you’re wearing a dress that doesn’t have them―you shove your chapstick down the neckline before going back to sorting through the things you’ve discarded. Buffy watches Spike watch you, watches his eyes settle where the balm presses through your bra. Disgust curdles in her belly—but it’s not just disgust, and that’s the worst part. It shouldn’t matter. Really. He should look anywhere but at her. Still, the absence of his usual obsession lands like a slap. Her chest tightens, breath caught in her throat. Embarrassing. She rolls her shoulders back, forces her focus elsewhere.

“We talk sometimes,” you add. “He’s a good listener.”

“Thanks, pet.” Spike’s smile looks genuine enough to fool even her.

“Uh, he’s a vampire.”

“Good for you, Xan,” you say, levelling him with one of your are-you-the-dumbest-person-in-the-world? looks. You’ve always been good at that. “Your observational skills are A-okay. Congrats.”

Xander sputters. “He’s evil!”

“Not this again,” you mutter. Continuing in a deceptively mild tone, you say louder, “Evil’s relative, isn’t it? Is the lion evil for hunting and eating the gazelle? No, because you can’t moralize about the predatory drive of a completely different species with different—”

“He’s not another species, though,” Giles interrupts, taking his glasses off and scrubbing at them with his cloth. “He’s a demon.”

You cock your head, slight curve to your lip. “So, not human, right? Ergo, another species.”

“Okay, difference of opinion, agree to disagree!” Buffy calls out loudly. She really doesn’t want to deal with broken-brain Giles, and he always comes out when you prod at his whole Watcher upbringing. “We’re wasting time. Can we seriously get back to the whole April thing?”

Her resolve face is enough to get the Scoobies moving back to the counter, and though the conversation begins flowing in the right direction once again, Buffy can’t help but pay just a little more attention to what’s going on across the room. You’ve sat down opposite Dawnie, tugging out the worn copy of Emily Dickinson poems that Buffy had to read when she was in junior year, too. You probably borrowed it from her closet, actually, where she keeps all her old high school stuff. That’s not the problem, though. It’s that Spike’s gone and swung himself across the seat right next to you, spread-kneed with arms folded and resting on the chairback. You shift obligingly, murmuring something just out of earshot to him, and he seems to be considering your words thoughtfully—for him, at least—gesturing to the text on the open page before you.

She watches Spike watch you as you’re preoccupied with getting your essay perfect. He used to look at her like that. In fact, he hasn’t so much as glanced her way like he would usually. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s weird, right?” Willow’s nervous voice interrupts her focus, and she turns to find her staring in exactly the same direction. “That. It’s like, all sorts of ooky.”

“Spike’s, um… he was a poet, wasn’t he?” Tara asks, uncertain. “It’s no–not that weird. He prob–probably knows a lot and wants to he–help with her assignment.”

Suddenly, you laugh, drawing their eyes back to you. Buffy’s stomach twists. That laugh—light, happy, normal—doesn’t belong here. Not in this context. Not with him. Spike’s grinning at you, unaware of all the attention on him. Even Dawnie seems a bit startled, her gaze darting from you to him and back again. And you… you’re looking back at him like he’s a good friend of yours. Like he’s safe. Like he’s normal, and not the soulless demon who’s caused so much hurt to so many people in the room right now, who would go on to cause even more pain and suffering if not for the leash in his brain keeping him from harming them. It’s like watching someone pet a cobra and call it a puppy. And Spike just… lets you.

“Yeah, right.” Xander huffs, scathing. “He’s probably thinking ‘gee, maybe the Slayer’ll get the lust on for me if I play besties with little sis’―”

“Unlike the rest of you,” Giles cuts across, adjusting his glasses, “I have little care to understand why Spike does what he does. So long as he is being useful and is leaving Buffy be, then by all means… Shall we return to the problem at hand?”

Buffy nods absently, mind still whirling as she tunes back in to the previous discussion. She can totally do two things at once. Xander’s right. Spike’s probably just trying to get her interest. Is it that you’re her younger sister, or is he just trying to make her jealous? That won’t work. You don’t get involved in stuff like that. She’s wondered if you even notice boys sometimes, let alone get dragged into some messy demon-y love triangle. Line. Whatever. So it must be him thinking that you’ll get him on her good side or something, which ew. Talk about desperate.

It’s a good explanation. Perfect, actually. If only her chest didn’t feel tight in that way it gets when she knows, deep down, that she’s missing something. Not danger. She knows that feeling too well. This is worse. It’s something personal. Something close.

“… your thoughts, Buffy? Buffy? Buffy!”

“Huh?” Giles’s face is unimpressed. Buffy smiles apologetically, turning to face him properly. “Sorry. Problem-Solver Buffy, reporting for duty. Hit me again.”

For now, she’ll have to deal with the weirdness. She’ll figure it out later. There are more important things to worry about… like superstrong robot girlfriends causing havoc across Sunnydale. When did it begin?

Since you came back. The thought pops unbidden in her head as she tunes in to Slayer mode. Hm.

The muscle below his eye twitches as he watches Spike across the cemetery, moonlight tracing the sharp lines of his face. The graveyard is silent now, empty of mourners, the solemn faces of those in black who came to watch as Joyce Summers was laid to rest in the ground. Even Buffy is home now, numbed and tired from the hours spent cradled in Angel’s arms. Just faintly, his senses pick up the murmur of hushed voices: yours soft and raw, Spike’s a slow, gentle rumble. Of course he’s found a way to worm his way in, always lurking where he doesn’t belong.

You stand too close, arms wrapped tight around yourself and shivering despite the mildness of the night air. It’s the first time he’s seen you since you were sent away. Since Angelus. You were small then, too. Frightened, stalwart in your sadness over Buffy having convinced Joyce that spending some time with your father might make the night terrors go away. A cover that should’ve put you out for a month, maybe two, and instead led to years of isolation, all because of him. Guilt congeals acrid in the back of his mouth, from memory and from here and now, blurring together. He didn’t even think to check on you, so wrapped up in Buffy’s grief as he’s been. You look like Buffy did after the funeral. But not the Slayer version—the kid version. The girl who used to beg her mother for a later curfew. The one he couldn’t save from heartache, then or now.

He sees Spike shrug off his duster and drape it around you, fingers lingering on your shoulders. You tug it closer, inhaling deeply, the sleeves all but swallowing your hands. You look like a child in too-big clothing, hunched as though grief itself is sitting on your shoulders. Your eyes are puffy and red as you look down at the hole in the dirt, the place where what is left of your mother now lay, your cheeks streaked with the gloss of tears that glimmer under the glow of the night sky. Angel can hear the ragged edges of your breathing, the way you try and fail to even it out.

And Spike—

His posture’s casual, the type of relaxed Angel knows is deceptive, calculated. His focus is wholly on you, head bowed, eyes flicking over your face as if memorizing every twitch and quiver. His fingers find the crook of your elbow, stroking gently. Too practiced. Too careful. As if care could be learned by imitation. He’s never mastered the art of guile, for all that Angelus tried to beat it into him. Too soft. If not for the hair, the coat, Angel might mistake the demon ahead for the human he’d been.

It’s not just the way he looks at you that bothers Angel. It’s the way you look back. The small, anxious clutch of your fingers on his lapels, how you lean instinctively into the rumble of his voice, unguarded, drifting closer as though the space between you is a safety net. Spike’s too close, saying something low that makes your lips quirk up in a wobbly, trembling smile. His answering smile, lax around the edges, is unsettling—not the predatory leer or cocky smirk Angel’s used to seeing on his face. You step toward him, easily accepting the embrace he offers, and the way you fold into him makes the hairs at Angel’s nape rise.

He clenches his fists. It’s an act. It has to be.

Pushing forward, his bootfalls are deliberate and heavy, purposeful, and the noise draws your attention as he knew it would. The talking stops. You glance up, startled, and Angel takes note of how quickly you wipe your eyes, trying to hide the tears. Spike’s features harden, his mouth curved into a stubborn, disdainful sneer.

“What are you doing here, Spike?” Angel demands, crossing his arms. The chill of the air seeps through the layers of his clothing.

Spike smirks. “Nice to see you too, Peaches. Out for an evenin’ stroll?”

Angel’s glare doesn’t waver. “Get away from her. Now.”

You wince, but Spike doesn’t move. Instead, he lets his thumb brush the back of your arm, a gesture so brief, so casual that Angel might’ve missed it if he wasn’t watching so closely.

“Girl’s having a rough go, not that you’d notice,” Spike says arrogantly, “trailing after Buffy like you’re her bitch. Thought someone ought to check in.”

Angel’s eyes dart back to you, ignoring the barb. “You can talk to Buffy. Or Giles. Not him.”

“I tried, but… She’s got so much on her plate. She’s doing her best. I don’t—I don’t blame her.” You sigh, weary, pulling Spike’s coat tighter around you. “I just… I needed someone who could listen. Without trying to fix it.”

Spike glances down at you, the hardness in his gaze melting like ice in the heat. “Gotta let yourself feel it, pet. S’not weakness.”

You look up, eyes wet. It’s as though you’ve forgotten Angel exists. “It’s stupid,” you whisper. “I keep thinking she—she’s gonna just… walk in, tell me to wash my face, snap out of it.”

“Not stupid.” Spike’s mouth twitches. “Just means you love her.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a beat; two; three. Your chin dips, face crumpling, and Spike’s grip tightens, hand sliding to span the back of your head. You lean fully into him, forehead pressing to his chest, and he mutters something too low for Angel to catch. It makes you nod, knuckles clutching his red jacket. His hand drifts to your spine, drawing soothing circles, gentle and patient. It looks practiced. Habitual. Wrong.

“You’re using her,” Angel growls at him, feeling a bit of fang slip with the flare of his temper. “Trying to get to Buffy. It’s pathetic.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Oh, right. Because I’m raring for the Slayer’s approval. Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep, mate. Assuming you can.”

Angel’s jaw clenches. “If you think for a second that I’ll let you manipulate her—”

“Not manipulating anyone,” Spike snaps, snarling. His arm curls tighter around you, unconscious. You glance between them, wary. “She’s grieving. Thought I’d help.”

“Help yourself, more like.”

Spike’s eyes flash, his own fangs bearing down against his lip. “Don’t care what you think, sire. Just here for her. So unless you plan to dust me, sod off.”

Angel hesitates. He’d like to. It’s bad enough that Spike’s been after Buffy. But she can handle herself—you’re too easy a target.

“It’s okay,” you say then, shifting in place. You press closer to Spike’s side, entirely unbothered by the appearance of his game face. “He’s… he’s my friend. He’s kind.”

Spike scoffs. “Careful, pet. Man’s liable to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Nah.” You shake your head, the side of your mouth curling up ever so slightly. “You’re evil, remember?”

“Too right.” It’s warm, indulgent.

The words land heavy in Angel’s chest, like stones in a sinking ship. He glowers. “This isn’t a game, Spike.”

He’s not talking about Spike’s sudden helpfulness. The meaning is clear. ‘Not her. She’s too good for you.’

Spike stiffens, drawing himself up to height. “Never was. That’s your problem, Angel—you think everything’s about you. S’nothing to do with you, or anyone. Just me ’n her.”

Angel’s scowl deepens. “If you hurt her—”

“Get in line,” Spike interrupts, all arrogant swagger. “A popular threat, where she’s concerned.”

Angel’s stare lingers on you, on the openness of your expression: face relaxed, eyebrows tilted just upward, lax jaw. He watches the way you lean into Spike, nonchalant, his grip proprietary.

“You deserve better,” Angel says.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” You hold his gaze, unconcerned and unafraid, bolder than he remembers. Surely, it’s easy for you to front up to him when you’re tucked under the arm of someone like Spike. “Either way, it’s my choice to make.”

He eyes Spike, who glares back with an unspoken challenge. ‘Leave,’ he says without speaking. ‘Go back to where you came from. You aren’t needed here.’ Eventually, Angel turns away, shadows clinging to him. “If he lets you down—”

“He won’t,” you say, conviction lacing your voice.

The certainty makes Spike’s eyes widen, smile hinting at the edges of his mouth, a glimmer of something raw and unspoken to be read in the planes of his face. Angel’s frown deepens. How can you trust him? What has he ever done to deserve your confidence? Angel earned Buffy’s affection, her faith, and look where it got him: no girl, no love, no happy ever after. It’s as though Spike hasn’t even had to try, the resentment a sword to his chest all over again. He murmurs some vague attempt at goodbye, an invitation to reach out if you need anything, though you and he both know you’ll never do it. You’ll never need it. Spike, he snubs entirely, suddenly exhausted, not wanting to see the victory in the set of his frame. As he sets off, a shade in the moonlight, he expects some final dig to reverberate across the cemetery, some juvenile taunting yell that’s so typical of the other vampire. Instead, nothing. Angel turns, taking one final look at the pair of you, standing together so damn closely.

Cigarette smoke drifts up, curling in revolutions from Spike’s loose grip. “Brave girl,” he tells you, fond.

“Or stupid.” You sigh.

“Never that, pet.” Spike’s palm drops to the small of your back, spanning wide. He cards through your hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “Never that.”

Angel swallows, flexes his fists once, again, and walks away.

He doesn’t hear what Spike says next. Doesn’t see the way you press your cheek into his shoulder like you’ve done it a hundred times before. He never sees it coming. That’s what hurts most of all.

The sun is setting, the sky colored in bruised purples and fiery oranges. Anya leans against the half-wall that separates the porch from the side of the Summers house where she slumps, watching as night falls. A storm is brewing. A metaphor, maybe, but it definitely feels like something’s up with the world. It’s like the Earth knows what’s about to happen. What they’re up against. Dawn’s in trouble, and they have to save her from the hellgod who wants to bring death and destruction to this dimension.

Everyone inside is tense: dealing out weapons, talking through battle plans, trading worried looks. Buffy’s on a rampage, taking everything anyone says the wrong way, as an attack on her littlest sister—especially Giles. He only suggested killing Dawn once, and he apologized for it, but Buffy won’t let it go. Willow’s busy trying to distract Tara from walking out the door until it’s time to fix the brain-suck Glory pulled on her, so she can’t stop them from fighting like she would normally. Xander’s the one trying that, and even though Anya loves Xander, he’s not the best at calming people down. So yeah, everyone’s freaked, driven to it by all the waiting, trying to pretend like they aren’t secretly hoping for some miracle.

Anya doesn’t believe in miracles. She’s lived for a thousand years. She believes in what’s real: power, blood, the occasional loophole in cosmic prophecies. She knows the sound of desperation, though, the smell of it, even if she doesn’t have her old senses anymore. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand what she’s seeing now.

Spike’s standing in the front yard under the tree, far enough away that he probably can’t tell she’s out here too, smoking one of his cigarettes with a too-casual stance that only makes the tension on his face more obvious. He’s not alone: you’re with him, arms hugged to yourself like you can keep all your bottled-up worry and fear from exploding out. Anya’s watched the two of you skirting around each other for weeks now. She’s not the only one who’s noticed. Most of the others have. They’re just too determined to pretend they don’t know what it means.

She remembers the argument from earlier, how Buffy and the others tried to order you to stay behind, to leave Dawn’s fate to the rest of them. ‘Too young,’ they said. ‘Too helpless.’ Anya disagrees. She knows better than most that appearances can be deceiving. The fire in your eyes reminded her of a certain vengeance demon who once went toe-to-toe with hell lords and never flinched. She wasn’t all that shocked when you refused them, furious, but it was Spike’s support that threw her a bit. He sneered at them, claiming he’d make sure nothing happens to you. After you stormed outside, he rounded on the Slayer, reminding her how headstrong you were when you thought you were right, asked how she planned to stop you from following after. That exchange was ugly.

Buffy’s eyes narrow, lips pulled into a thin, furious line. “You think you can keep her safe?” she snaps, crossing her arms. “Like you kept Dawn safe?”

Spike’s jaw tightens, muscles twitching. “That was a trick. Can’t fall for the same one twice.”

“Doubt you’ll get the chance,” Buffy says, voice cold as a blade. “If you even think of letting her get hurt—”

“Yeah, yeah. Big, scary threats,” Spike drawls. “But if you think anyone’s gonna keep her from fighting, you’re wrong. Least this way, I’ll be there when the fists and fireballs start flyin’.”

For a moment, Buffy looks like she might argue, but then her shoulders sag, and she nods sharply. “Fine. But if she dies—”

“I’ll be dead first,” Spike interrupts. The promise lands heavy and solid, and Buffy’s glare softens, but only slightly. She turns away, shoulders stiff. He watches her go, tension simmering, then stalks outside.

Anya ducks a bit further down when Spike starts speaking, not wanting to get caught. Something’s telling her she’ll want to hear whatever it is that’s going on.

“I might die tonight,” he drawls, flicking ash to the ground. His voice is rough, a strange sort of fragility lurking underneath. Her brows arch. It doesn’t sound like his usual bravado.

Anya’s eyes flicker over Spike’s tense stance, and she huffs softly. She’s never understood him. A vampire with no bite, a demon mooning after a Slayer and now her sister. Pathetic, she’d say, but he fights for them anyway, chipped or not. Sometimes, she thinks he’s a fool. Other times, she wonders if he’s the only one who really gets it—that love comes with a cost.

You startle, brows knitting together as you frown. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

“Why not? Might be true.” Spike’s smirk is twisted, bitter. “Glory on the rampage, me all chipped ’n useless. But if—”

“Stop it,” you mutter, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t give me your ‘if I die’ speech.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Feels like the end, luv. Night like this—you say your piece or regret it forever.”

He tosses the cigarette, the cherry glowing and then fading in the grass. He doesn’t look at you, jaw tightening. “Bloody hell. Can’t believe I’m doing this. Stupid. Pointless. But when you’re up against a soddin’ hellgod and odds that make death look cozy, what’s the use in leavin’ things unsaid?”

He huffs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, agitation radiating off him. You stay silent, but the concern shows in your face, your posture.

“Suppose I should’ve said something sooner,” he continues, half to himself. “Not like I’m any good at this. Maybe never was. Back when I was… well, different story. Used to be all flowery words and grand gestures. Always had to prove meself.”

He risks a glance at you, eyes flicking away when they meet yours.

“Not much of a man now, am I? But the way you look at me… bugger me if it doesn’t make me feel like I could be.” He forces a chuckle, brittle around the edges. “Maybe it’s just my own foolishness talking. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Spike stops, swallowing hard. “But if this is the end, I need you to know that… that every stupid poem I scratched out, back when my heart was still beatin’—they were shadows of what I feel now. For you.”

You take a slow, shuddering breath, eyes wide and lips parted in a soft ‘O’ as you stare up at him. The porch light’s come on, the glow shading warmth into your expression. His fingers reach out and touch, delicate across your cheekbone, down to cup your chin. “You’ve gone and wrapped yourself ’round me. Tight as sin, sweeter than blood. I can’t stop wantin’ more… Reckon I never will.”

You’re voiceless, your mouth opening once, then again, before giving up. Anya smirks to herself. Powerless in the face of blunt truth. You mortals and your weird little problems.

Spike rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Said more than I meant to already. Should shut up before I make an even bigger mess. Send you runnin’. Hell, maybe I deserve it. Always cocked things up when it mattered.”

You inhale sharply, staring at him. “Oh…” You swallow. “Spike…”

His smile widens, but it’s not a happy thing.

“S’alright, pet,” he says, stepping back a foot. Ash is smeared across your cheek. “Not expectin’ anything. Just wanted to say it.” He hesitates, gaze dropping. “Never thought I’d be worth a damn to anyone, not really. But you—hell, you make me feel like I am. Like I’m enough. Like there’s somethin’ good left in me worth savin’.”

He turns to go, but you stop him. “Wait―I―”

The surprise on his face might seem deliberately put there to anyone who doesn't truly get demons. Anya knows it’s real. He really wasn’t expecting a response.

“You are enough. You are. And I―” You huff, biting your lip and averting your eyes. “You weren’t supposed to… be this—this important. To me.”

He looks at you then, eyebrows drawing together. You twist at your fingers, looking as though you’re desperate for something to hold on to.

“You drive me crazy,” you say suddenly, words tumbling. “With the attitude, and the way you think you can just―just―say stuff like that, like it doesn’t mean anything. Except it does. It does, and I—” You stop, breath trembling. “I can’t―I can’t lose you.”

His eyes widen, mouth opening, but you plow on, words spilling over themselves. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. You make me feel… like I can breathe, even when everything is falling apart. And I know it’s insane, and I shouldn’t, and everyone will hate it, but I—” You take a breath. “But I’m already lost. I don’t want to find my way back.”

Something startlingly human spreads across Spike’s face. He cocks his head as he stares down at you, shy wonder making his features less cutting. It’s as though he’s just a guy and you’re just a girl, and this is just a scene out of an ordinary life.

Suddenly, you laugh, a short, small sound, but it breaks the oppressive atmosphere. “Damn. This is so cliché,” you say, shaking your head ruefully. “It’s like we’re in a movie.”

The mood shifts, and with it Spike’s distinctive brashness returns. His posture adjusts, less bumbling fool and more leonine hunter, tongue curling behind his lip in invitation.

“Yeah?” he asks, sauntering into your space, up close and personal. “Pretty sure the sort you mean ends in a kiss. Rounds out all the talk.”

He’s goading you, trying to recoup and save face, but it’s also an offer veiled by provocative words. Anya sees your uncertainty, the red flush working its way across your skin, and her anticipation begins to fade. Darn. She should’ve expected you to quail under the full force of his charm. She’s realistic enough to recognize that even she wouldn’t be unaffected by him. He’s very pretty for a vampire, and he knows it.

But wait—

After a moment of vacillation, you surge forward, fists grasping the collar of his duster to pull his mouth to yours. Spike’s eyes widen briefly before sliding shut, hand tangling in your hair. She watches your lips mash together awkwardly for a second before Spike takes over, tilting your head just so until you slot together like puzzle pieces, your bodies converging to match. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss anyone—and it might just be. It’s intense. Desperate. Romantic.

You let out a squeaking sort of sigh, muffled, a sound answered by the bass growl of the vampire attached to you as his arm spans across your waist, raising you up on tiptoes and into him even further. The flickering globe lighting the front of the house paints shadows across your entwined forms. The corners of Anya’s mouth lift.

You look very nice together. The sex will be great, she’s sure—when you’re ready, of course. And you could do worse than someone like Spike, who definitely has decades of experience in giving pleasure. She’s happy for you. Quality orgasms are necessary.

But there’s an obvious catch. Buffy, Giles, Xander—they’ll hate it. Spike is nothing but a monster to them, a rabid animal on a choke chain. No way they’ll tolerate his increased presence, never mind the very idea of him even touching you. You might get Tara and Dawn on side—and if you have Tara, you’ll most likely get Willow, too—but the possibility is far-fetched. Even if you do, it’s easy enough to sway them. Anya’s seen it in action time and time again. She knows how it’s going to go, when this gets out: they’ll call it disgusting, wrong, the scheming of a soulless demon. She can already hear it.

In her heart, she wishes they were more understanding. Humans make love messy when it doesn’t have to be. Demons love simpler. When they want something, they just take it. No wringing hands, no guessing games. But there’s something intoxicating about all the fussing. She understands why some demons get obsessed.

Anya crosses her arms, thinking back to Xander’s proposal—so clear, so certain, like he’d already made the decision a hundred times before asking. It’s a rare, beautiful thing, certainty. Not like the mess playing out on the lawn now. She thinks about the ring, nestled in the little black box Xander offered. She didn’t take it then—no point in promises if they don’t survive the night—but the offer sparked something bright and unexpected in her. Delight, disbelief, a warmth and depth of emotion she didn’t know she was capable of. A reminder that demons, ex or otherwise, can know love as fiercely and deeply as any human.

Watching as the kiss breaks, Spike’s forehead resting against yours, she sighs. When it blows up, and it will, she’ll inevitably be dragged into it. Great, she thinks. More drama.

But, as she sees you embrace under the steadily darkening sky, she can’t help but feel a pang of… something. Envy, maybe, at your audacity. Nostalgia. Or the bitter understanding that love is a gamble, and fools are the only ones brave enough to take it. But it’s a gamble worth fighting, worth losing, maybe even dying for.

Giles stands in the corner of the back room, pretending to clean a counter already spotless. The pretence is for your benefit, perhaps Spike’s too, but not his own. He knows exactly why he’s here. Buffy is dead. And you, her younger sister, are throwing yourself into the very life she died living. He tells himself it’s just concern. That he’s watching to ensure you’re safe. But it’s more than that. With Buffy gone, everything he failed to protect now rests in you. And Spike—compulsive, volatile—is the one you’ve chosen to help carry that weight.

The Magic Box is still and dim, cloaked in that aching quiet that has lingered since her death. The only sounds are the thud of your fists on the heavy bag and Spike’s low, muttered instructions. You’re quick, focused, but Giles can see it in the way your shoulders tighten, the way your mouth presses into a hard line. You’re angry. You’re hurting, and Spike is right in the middle of it.

Once, he stood in this very spot and watched Buffy move.

Not like this.

She was light, fluid, grace sharpened into purpose, a dancer in motion even at her most frustrated. He remembers the flash of her blonde ponytail in the air as she twisted into a spin-kick that sent the padded dummy reeling. How she bounced on the balls of her feet with a smirk and said, “Again?” even when sweat was dripping into her eyes.

He remembers correcting her stance, only for her to adjust just slightly wrong on purpose, just to get a rise out of him. The way she’d laugh when she nailed something new. How she complained, always, but never stopped trying. Now, the echoes of those moments sit in the corners of the room like ghosts. But watching you move—raw, stiff, driven by pain instead of instinct—feels like watching someone drown slowly under the weight of her shadow.

You decided to train properly just days after her death. It’s understandable: each of you have found your own methods of working through your sorrow, Dawn blaring her uncomfortably loud music from within the confines of her room while you find yourself here, or away from the house, out at all hours of the night. The others are wrapped up in their own hurt, the wound too fresh to consider the plight of the Summers girls beyond the most basic of necessities. While Giles cannot make himself comfortable with the notion of you in any sort of battle, at least here he can keep vigil. For her.

You aren’t built like your elder sister: your frame is too slight, too small, and your punches lack the power to truly hurt. You’re about as threatening as a fly, but Spike does not coddle you.

“Potential there, yeah?” he said enigmatically when last Giles asked, smirking. “Something raw ’n fierce. She’s no Slayer, but she can surprise a nasty or two.”

When Spike offered to train you, he framed it as a way to keep you from getting yourself killed on the patrols you’d abruptly become insistent on joining. It is your way of honouring your sister’s sacrifice, Giles thinks, though he wishes you might choose some other means. With the Slayer gone, there were none suited to the task save Spike, and thus the proposition was reluctantly agreed to. The chip in the vampire’s head makes his sparring with you impossible, much to everyone’s relief, but he has turned instruction into drills for evasion, for striking with speed and precision, for using your size to your advantage. You’ll not make for a spectacular fighter, no, but Spike ensures you might hold your own.

“Footwork,” the vampire barks as you stumble back from a missed hit. “You’re dancing like a drunk. Move your feet.”

You scowl, breathing hard. “I am moving.”

“Yeah, like a duck. Gotta be faster, light on your toes.” His gaze flicks over you, lazy but appraising, lips curling. “All that talk about training—wouldn’t want to bruise anything too delicate, would we? Keep your face pretty. Gotta keep the goods intact, yeah?” He leans closer, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Though you might wear a bruise well, pet. Bit of edge suits you.”

You bristle, cheeks flushing and indignation flaring in the pout you level him as you obey, focusing on the way Spike glides predatory, almost elegant. He demonstrates a simple but effective series of moves, unnaturally fast, hands ghosting close but never touching. Giles can see your mounting frustration at your inability to replicate the finesse of the supernatural, limbs shaking with exertion.

You lunge abruptly, no rhyme or reason to it, throwing a punch that flies wide. Spike dodges easily, grinning. “That it? Come on, you can hit harder than a wet noodle.”

“Not like you can punch back,” you mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

His eyes narrow, playful. “Then make me dodge.”

You strike again, quicker this time, a low jab aimed at his ribs. He twists away, swift as a snake, but instead of stepping back, he moves into your space and catches your wrist in a carefully firm grip. Before you can react, his other arm wraps around your waist, pinning you flush against his body. Giles jumps, box slipping from his hands to the counter with a dull thud. Neither of you appear to notice.

“Close,” Spike is murmuring to you, voice a rough rumble, “but no.” His hand slides just a bit lower, fingers splayed against the curve of your hip. His mouth brushes your ear. “Distracted, baby? Can’t blame you. Hard to focus when you’re all tangled up, yeah?”

His hand twitches lower―just enough to provoke, to threaten―before releasing you with an odd little twist to his lips. Giles stiffens, teeth clenching as he looks on, sees Spike’s regard intent and glimmering on you. For a moment, he thinks the vampire wishes to bite you, to drain you dry, but in an instant, the moment is past and you return to starting positions.

It is hard to watch. But watch he must, for it has long been his mandate to guard against the malevolent creatures who hunt and slaughter innocents. Not only that, but in Buffy’s absence―the pang each time the memory resurfaces of her lying there atop the rubble nearly bowls him over―someone ought to keep their eye on this strange development between the pair of you.

“Ready?” Spike’s tone is clipped, stance relaxed. “Again.”

Giles watches as you push harder, your muscles trembling, frustration mounting with every falter. Spike’s needling is mild but targeted, sustained, enough to build up the uncharacteristic anger in you. The vampire never raises a hand against you―he cannot, after all―but he pushes, demands, making you curse your own limits and curse him just the same. He’d perhaps be grateful for the efforts Spike is undertaking if not for the way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long, or how carefully he listens when your voice cracks.

He’s tried to intervene. Truly, he has. It seems from the very second you returned to Sunnydale, armed with a superciliousness that can only come from having attended an institute like Thacher for near three years, you have met his every entreaty with a discourse on the intellectual failings of dichotomous thinking. Spike has no soul―one cannot unilaterally quantify a soul’s impact on the quality of personhood. Spike is evil―‘evil’ is subject to time, place, culture, any number of qualifiers that make it impossible to define concretely. Spike can only cause harm―then that is your cross to bear, and your lesson to learn. Interesting, certainly, but gullible. The accusation that Giles is in some way lacking rationality is galling, though he sees your point. However, he’s seen Spike in all his unholy glory, knows what he is capable of. You can question the basis of his suspicion all you like, but it does not change the simple fact that Spike has done things that even the most abominable human beings would shudder to behold, and he has rejoiced in the horror.

Ben, hand clawing at his arm, weakly trying to twist away—No. His thoughts turn back to you.

You protest Giles’s every exhortation, strong-willed, resilient and reckless in such an unassuming manner that it terrifies him. You aren’t a Slayer, but you are a Summers, and let no one tell you what you can and cannot do. You insist that Spike is helping. That you need the distraction, the outlet. That you need someone who sees you for more than the grief and the guilt that plague your waking hours. And perhaps that’s what terrifies him most: that Spike might actually be helping. That darkness, once cut loose from consequence, can learn the shape of meaning, wear it like a mask.

Over the following weeks, Giles observes from a distance, acutely aware of how your dynamic with Spike has changed. The vampire’s instruction has become softer, more invested. Confident, maybe, in the lack of challenge to his conduct. Spike encourages you, listens to you. Something protective lays in the way he steps closer when your voice wavers or when fatigue drags your movement. Giles sees it all.

The contradiction bothers him. Spike has no soul, his every innate impulse leashed by the metal sliver in his skull. And yet, here he is, teaching you, protecting you, caring. The chip keeps Spike in check, but it does nothing to curb emotions. Even a soulless vampire can develop fixations, obsessions that mask themselves as something softer, sweeter. Spike is a being of passion, his fascinations consuming. His almost violent preoccupation with Buffy has transmuted, found a new form in you as he reveals himself a man possessed, but it is the way you look back that worries Giles more. Longing, visceral and bursting. You cling to him like a tether, held together by someone just as lost and just as dangerous. He knows that Spike would chomp at the bit to take you in hand, to save you, possess you; though for what purpose, he knows not. It gnaws at him.

Giles lingers late in the shop now, a Watcher in a ghost town, listening to your sessions with Spike. He tells himself it is concern that keeps him still, ears searching for snippets of conversation―but the more he hears, the more he realises with growing dread that there is something more to your connection. Mouths too close. Bodies too familiar. Words too tender, hidden behind closed doors and from averted eyes. Spike is no longer a distraction. He’s become vital, like breath, like blood. A companion, a confidant. The full scope of it hides below the surface and out of Giles’s sight, save for the ripples of recognition that make themselves evident in gradual increments.

The question eats at him: what happens when Spike’s obsession inevitably turns darker, when fleeting touch and veiled intent no longer serve his desires? Will you recognize the danger before it consumes you? Will you even care? Though it keeps him up at night, Giles cannot bring himself to confront you. Not yet. Grief drives people to foolishness, the need for comfort outweighing common sense. He’s considered confronting Spike directly—pulling him aside, demanding he explain himself, threatening consequences if he oversteps again—but what good would it do? Spike would only smirk, lean back with that insufferable slouch, and twist concern into something vulgar. A taunt, a dare. He would make it a game, because that’s what vampires do. They play at humanity. And Giles is so very tired of playing.

The time for subtlety is drawing to a close. He must make you understand the risk, even if it costs your trust. Watching isn’t enough. Not anymore.

Upon an evening after your training comes to a close and you rest, smarting and sore as Spike prowls away to his shift on patrol, Giles corners you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he begins, the edge in his voice betraying his fear.

You look up at him. He sees it in your face when you grasp his meaning, your nostrils flaring just the once, frustration fleeting. “I know what he is,” you say after a pause, quiet and tired. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t choose to be more.”

Giles sighs. “He’s a vampire. Change isn’t in their nature.”

“Isn’t it?” you challenge softly. “He protects Dawn. He fights the good fight. He ca―He’s… trying. That has to mean something. Maybe he just needs a chance. Maybe everyone does.”

“Naive,” Giles mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Evil doesn’t change. It adapts.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” you admit, gaze unwavering. “But if people never get a chance to be better, what’s the point? Even you gave Angel a chance. Or was that different?”

Giles looks away, ashamed at how small the truth sounds when you say it like that. He absently pats the pocket of his jacket, fingers brushing the edges of a plane ticket he hasn’t yet decided to use. He doesn’t know if it’s cowardice, or mercy, that’s kept him from boarding it. “He had a soul.”

“And Spike has a choice.”

Silence hangs between you. Giles wonders if you’ll ever understand what he’s seen, what he’s lost. But the fire in your eyes is familiar. Unyielding. He thinks of Buffy, of her tenacity and persistence, and then of you: juvenile, grieving, determined to carry burdens too heavy for your shoulders. With her gone, he is supposed to protect you. But how can he protect you from yourself?

There is no future to be found here. Not with Spike. Not like this. And if Giles does not leave while he still can, he will remain stuck, resigned to watching the inevitable fall.

God help you both.

Dawn’s tears feel cold as they slide down her cheeks. She’s not sure if she’s crying because she’s angry or just tired—but either way, she’s so sick of them.

She doesn’t mean it. Deep down, she knows that. They’re trying. They get her up in the mornings, drive her to school. Pick her up, spend afternoons making stilted conversation. They help you with the bills, with dinner, with making sense of all of Buffy’s ID stuff so that Social Services still thinks she’s in the picture. Dawn sees the self-help books they hide whenever she enters the room, the step-by-step how-tos on helping their child cope with loss. There probably isn’t one on ways to fix a ball of mystical energy after her fake mom and fake sister die. She hates how they avoid it, how they won’t say Buffy’s name. The looks, the half-finished sentences, the careful choice of words. It feels like they’re all pretending. Months have passed, and nothing’s better. Mom’s dead. Buffy’s dead, and no one wants to say it out loud.

Tara’s soft voice echoes in her ears, gentle, soothing, so understanding it made Dawn want to scream. Willow’s hovering didn’t help either. It felt like drowning in marshmallow fluff. She had to get out. She needed air, space, somewhere she wasn’t the Key or a broken kid sister. Somewhere no one would baby her, hover, be in her face all the time.

It’s kinda depressing, but the cemetery has always felt peaceful to her. It’s familiar: the dirt beneath her sneakers, the rot of dying grass, the mildew dirtying the headstones that stick up like crooked teeth out of the ground. It’s bleak, but honest. The air feels cleaner here, cool and bite-y, a reminder that she’s still alive.

“The hardest thing in this world is to live. Be brave. Live… for me.”

Buffy’s last words hit her like a hammer, shocking her with a fresh wave of sadness prickling in the corners of her eyes. She looks up. The stars are out, cold and distant, glinting in the sky so far above her. It’s comforting, in a way. They’re all trapped in their own galaxies billions of light years away, never getting to meet each other. Alone in the dark, just like her.

Her vision blurs. She swallows hard, the lump in her throat thick and heavy. Everyone leaves her. Mom and Buffy, bodies in the ground, Dad and Giles an ocean away. She feels small. Insignificant. But at least here, the quiet feels less accusing, less full of expectations. She drags in a breath, shaky but grounding.

Shivering, she looks around as she nears Spike’s crypt. Everyone thinks she’s pretty weird for hanging out with him sometimes, but he’s the only one who doesn’t try to tell her everything’s going to be okay. He doesn’t try to make her talk. Sometimes, he doesn’t even say hello to her. He just nods at her, lets her sit there in silence until the anger and the hurt melts away. Spike is… Spike. He gets it. She remembers what he was like before: obsessed with Buffy, creepy and desperate, kinda vicious in his insistence that her sister felt something for him. The way Buffy looked at him—like he was disgusting, an ant under her shoe, like he was less than a bug to her—comes back to her. That was always painful to watch. But he learned from it, grew, turned his feelings into something else. He got less threatening and aggressive; pulled back, focused less on her and more on what was important to her, on you and Dawn. Showed Buffy that he could be someone to rely on, someone to help with the Slayer’s kid sisters.

Guilt eats at Dawn. She hasn’t come to see him a while. All the Scoobies have taken up so much of her time by dragging her through the motions, convinced that she’ll just move on with her life if they remind her to do her homework and stick a chore chart on the fridge. She’s seen him plenty at home, but it’s always hard to tell how someone’s doing when they’re just visiting.

I guess I’ll find out, she thinks with a slight prickle of nerves.

As she draws closer, she instantly notices something off. She squints, taking in the sight of the stone outside. Is the door… painted? Yup. Still has that slightly funky chemical smell, so it’s gotta be pretty fresh. The stoop is clear for once, none of the crackly dead leaves announcing her presence under her feet, and there’s a broom tucked behind the pot plant. Weird. There’s even a flowerpot sitting just next to the column, a splash of bright. The inside is cleaner than she remembers. Swept floors, no cigarette butts, the beer bottles gone. A faded throw is tossed over the back of the armchair Spike took from their house, and the moldy damp smell seems a little less intense.

Huh. Spike isn’t exactly Mr. Domestic. What gives?

It takes her a moment to realize that the trapdoor is open. He doesn’t usually leave it like that, whether he’s out or staying in. She’s heading for the ladder before she’s fully aware of it, careful not to make a sound as she goes down. Her steps are light, careful, not wanting to disturb Spike, or whoever’s in here.

Edging along the wall—not too close, because erghh and ick with the spiderwebs—she’s just before the bend when her ears pick up voices. More than one. Muffled, but clear enough to hear the difference. One is definitely Spike’s—gruff, low, offensively British—but the other one is… softer. Younger. Familiar. Her heart lurches before she can stop it.

What are you doing here?

Her curiosity outweighs her sense, and she peers just around the corner to see you. And Spike. You and Spike, together.

Her eyes widen. Spike lays in bed—a real one, not a ratty cot or a stone slab—bare-chested and propped up by kitschy pillows that match the new rugs on the floor. You’re spread out atop him, equally free of clothes, your chest pressed to his so that all she can really see is the span of your back and the way Spike’s fingers trace lazy circles across your skin. Your cheek rests in the crook of his neck, your hair messy. The rumpled sheets just barely cover some seriously X-rated stuff, though Dawn can tell that your legs are tangled together, and that his other hand is on your thigh beneath the coverings. It’s obvious what you’ve been doing. The scent of it clings to the air: sweat, skin, warm and strong. Heat climbs her cheeks, but she can’t look away.

She knows this is a scene she was never meant to see. Something private. It makes a strange, painful knot form in her stomach, but at least she’s finally figured out where you’ve been going now that you’re not at home as much. You’re here. With Spike.

Privacy, boundaries, respect, blah blah blah, she thinks, intending to back away until you speak again, finally near enough that she can hear you.

“… and I—I can’t fall apart,” you say, voice thick with sadness. She finally takes in your expression: crumpled, eyes rimmed red. The kind of face you make when you’ve cried too much and can’t anymore. “Buffy’s… she’s gone. Mom’s gone. And I―”

Spike hushes you, gaze locked on you in a way that makes Dawn’s heart skip a beat.

Your breath hitches. “I’m supposed to hold it together. For Dawnie. I’m the oldest now. And everyone expects me to―” You stop, hesitant.

“You can say it, sweetheart. Go on,” Spike encourages softly. “Let it out.”

You choke on a sob. When you begin again, your voice is small. “I… I’m her sister. Buffy’s. Her real one. The one with real memories and real love, and I have to… I have to bury it all. Because if I don’t, who steps up? Buffy’s the Slayer, but I’m the strong one, and I can’t―”

Your words break, face turning into his throat as a noise unlike anything Dawn’s ever heard escapes you. She almost throws up. Wants to storm in, yelling, asking you if that’s what you really think of her, if you see her as just some thing instead of a person. It hurts something fragile and breakable in the very darkest parts of her to hear you say what no one else will: that she’s a fraud, a phony that doesn’t belong. Not real. Alone. If that’s how you feel, then why do you even bother?

But then, Spike’s arms tighten around you, holding you even closer, and she pauses.

“Not wrong for what you feel,” he murmurs. “Bloody awful mess. Not fair. And you’ve been carrying too much of it alone.”

Your fingers curl against his chest. “I hate feeling this way. I hate that I even thought it. Dawnie… I love her.”

Spike presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re allowed. Doesn’t make you a bad sister. Makes you human.”

“I… I miss her,” you say, unsteady and so, so young. “I miss Buffy. I miss… I want my mom. I want them back. How do―how can―how am I supposed to do this?”

“I know, baby.” His hand slides up to cup the back of your head. You grip him like a lifeline. “It’s rotten, the hand you’ve been dealt. But you’ll get along. You’re brave. And you’re not alone. Never alone.”

Dawn presses a hand over her mouth, backing away slowly. The quiet, broken sound of your crying follows her as she slips out, heart pounding. She makes it halfway home before her legs wobble, forcing her to sit on a crumbling stone wall.

The way he held you… Like you were something precious to him. She swallows back the lump in her throat. You and Spike. You and Spike, together. It’s weird, and part of her wants to be grossed out, but the look on his face sticks in her mind. He’s never looked at anyone like that before. Not Drusilla, not Harmony, not Buffy, not Dawn. No one. No one but you.

She gets it now. Why Spike’s around so much. Why she seems to always find him with you at the Magic Box, at the house, in the cemetery, the Bronze. She wonders when it all started. What she’s seen tonight isn’t just random. It didn’t look like two people just trying to cope. It looked like… it reminds her of Buffy, how she was with Angel.

Dawn sighs. Sure, it stings, but she gets it. Her rage has left her, replaced by something stinging and bittersweet. She can’t unhear the pain in your voice, can’t unsee the way Spike held you like you matter, maybe more than anyone else in the world. She knows she should tell someone what she saw—maybe Willow or Tara—but the idea makes her stomach churn. It would hurt you, betray you. And Spike, he would never forgive her.

She rubs the salt from her eyes with the heel of her hand, then grips the edge of the wall like it might steady her. The choice settles into her chest, warm and a little heavy. She’ll keep your secret. For now.

The house feels thinner tonight, hollowed out. Smaller. Quieter than she’s used to.

Buffy’s away, dragged by Willow and Xander to the Bronze in the hopes that bass and bodies might shake loose the shadows she’s been carrying since her resurrection. Dawn’s at Janice’s, sleeping over, probably halfway through a horror movie and a bag of microwave popcorn, equipped with gossip and a parent who can pretend not to notice how late they stay up. And you—you’re usually the one who stays behind, always so gentle with Buffy lately, so patient with Dawn. Steady, in your own quiet, hurting way. Tara assumes you’ve gone to sleep already, or out again, whereabouts unknown.

For once, she can breathe. No awkward silences. No Buffy’s thousand-yard stare across the table. No tiptoeing around the tension that still clings to the walls like smoke. She’s been floating for weeks, a warm presence pressed into the background, not quite seen, not quite necessary. The only time anyone touches her anymore is when she initiates it. She can’t remember the last time someone held her like they needed to.

She moves softly through the hallway now, mug of tea in one hand, the intention simple: grab the spare quilt from the room you share with your little sister and curl up on the couch with a book. But then she hears it. A sound, soft and aching. A moan, breathy and real, the kind of sound that doesn’t come from pain.

Tara pauses outside your bedroom door, which hangs just slightly ajar. She should walk away. She knows she should. But something makes her glance through the gap. She tells herself it’s concern, not curiosity, that the sound you made could’ve been from pain. Just checking. One breath. One heartbeat. Just long enough to see something that will never leave her.

She freezes.

You’re on the bed, bare from the waist down, hips tilted to the edge of the mattress and thighs parted in surrender. Spike is on his knees on the floor, shirtless, pants riding low and sagging, undone, skin pale as milk in the moonlight. His shoulders ripple with restrained tension, arms banded tight around your thighs as he buries his face between them like a man starved. The lamplight from the corner casts long shadows across his back, glinting along the ridges of his spine, the curve of his neck. One of your legs is slung high over his shoulder, trembling. The other braces against the mattress, and you're huffing, squirming.

Your head tosses back on the pillow, lips parting on a soft, drawn-out moan. He’s working you over with slow, luxuriating confidence, worshipping, hungering. His tongue traces slick, purposeful circles, every movement intentional. Tara hears him, hears the filthy little noises he makes when you twitch and jolt beneath him, the wet suck of his lips when he draws your clit between them, savoring you like sin.

“Spike,” you breathe, and he groans like it’s the only word that matters.

Her breath catches.

Spike pulls back only to spear into the furl of your entrance, pressing his nose in hard and inhaling. Your body judders helplessly, your fingers digging into the bedspread, into the air, into nothing at all. The muscles in your stomach flex, then tremble. You whimper, low and wrecked, and he makes a sound in return: primal, appreciative, entirely unashamed. It’s obscene. And yet, there’s a softness to it.

Tara’s seen Spike grin through blood and violence, heard him mock the pain of others. But this—this isn’t that. She remembers the tower: his hands slick with blood, the way he stood, shaking and hollering your name as a stray hit sent you reeling to the ground, afraid. Broken. She hadn’t known then what it meant. She might now.

His hands aren’t being cruel. His mouth isn’t taking. It’s giving. Something in him is folded open, gentle. Wanting. He moves, draws his tongue over your clit with careful precision, then slips lower again, teasing your opening before easing back in, slow and sure. One hand trails up to splay wide across your belly, grounding you. He growls, eyes half-lidded like it’s better than blood.

“Such a sweet li’l cunt. Heaven,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and decadent, velvet dragged over grit. “Could die here, buried in you. Wouldn’t even mind.”

Tara flinches, face flaming. But you—you make a shuddering sound of agreement, helpless and high-pitched. Your hand fists in his hair, pulling without thought, and Spike laughs, low and delighted. Not mocking; giddy, like a man dizzy with luck.

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles, nosing along your thigh before dipping back in, tongue wicked and unrelenting. “Already twitchin’, beggin’ for more. Look at you. Bloody gorgeous when you come undone.”

Your hips cant forward, chasing his mouth.

“C’mon then,” he urges, licking slow and deep, practically cooing. “Lemme feel you break.”

Tara swallows, heart thudding. The room smells like skin and salt and something sweet, air balmy and thick enough to taste. She presses the mug to her mouth like an anchor. Doesn’t drink. Just holds it, fingers damp with warmth. Everything else goes quiet.

She should look away. But the way you move—hips lifting, breath catching—draws her in. You whisper his name like a plea, and he doubles down, suckling hard enough to make you arch off the mattress. Crying out, you twist the sheet in one hand and reach for him with the other. He catches your wrist and kisses your palm, never pausing.

Then—

“Oh god,” you sob. “Please, please, I—”

“Shh,” Spike soothes, voice ragged against you. “Give it to me. Let go, baby, I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You crest with a gasping, hitched cry, back arched and mouth open. Spike moans against you like he’s the one unraveling as you tremble, thighs clamped around his ears. Your chest heaves. Your lips part. For a moment, you look unmade: tears streak your cheeks, sweat glistens on your skin, and your breath comes in gulps, shallow.

He doesn’t pull away, his caresses softening, slow and adoring. It reminds Tara of how Willow once touched her wrist in a crowded room. She envies it, the ache turned to tenderness. To be truly seen, desired. She mourns how rare that feeling has become. There’s awe in it, and something worse. Need, maybe, or love. Ever since Buffy came back, the world’s been tilted slightly sideways—sunlight too yellow, silence too thick. But this? This feels real, loud, alive.

Spike presses his mouth to your thigh as you come down, uttering affection too low to catch. He licks up the mess he’s made of you, gentle now, like you’re sacred.

“Too much,” you whisper, blinking. “Can’t…”

He eases back, wiping his chin, then nestles into the cradle of your hips. His fingers trace the wet between your legs—not to arouse, but to relish in, the tip of his nose gliding along your belly, devoted. He lingers, lips brushing the slope of your mound like prayer.

Tara starts to move. She should leave. Any longer, and it won’t be an accident. If you see her, it becomes something else. A breeze shivers through the hallway and she stills, heart pounding, suddenly certain that if Spike turns his head, he’ll know; that if you catch her, it will live between you like a ghost. She tells herself it’s only curiosity, that it’ll vanish from her memory come morning. But she knows it won’t.

She stays. Listens.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” you mumble, throwing an arm over your eyes.

“I like it when you do.” He kisses your hip and climbs up over you, licking his lips. It doesn’t sound cruel. “Means you feel me. Means ’m not just makin’ this up in the dark, yeah?” He pulls you into the crook of his arm, palm cradling your cheek, thumb gentle beneath your eye. You sniffle. His mouth skims along your temple. “There she is. My brave girl.”

The way you melt into him, it’s not just comfort. It’s trust. Tara knows love doesn’t always look gentle. He coils around you like you might vanish, nose grazing your temple, hand stroking your back. You toss your leg over his, and he slides his fingers to touch where you’re still slick, to which you wriggle but say nothing.

“Still with me, kitten?” he asks.

You nod. “You didn’t have to be so—”

“Didn’t have to. Wanted to.” He nuzzles your hair. “Wanted to make you feel good. You always make me feel like I’m still… real.”

You bury your face in his chest. He exhales.

Tara never thought vampires spoke in anything but hunger—but Spike does. He calls you gorgeous. Brave. And the way you twine around each other… it’s not lust. It’s sanctuary.

“Love you,” he whispers. It sounds like confession, like surrender. “So much it hurts. So much I’d burn for it.”

Your fingers curl against his skin. “I know. I love you, too.”

That’s when Tara steps back. She closes the door gently, careful not to make a sound, her hand lingering too long on the knob before letting go.

She should feel horrified. She doesn’t. What she saw wasn’t twisted, wasn’t wrong. It was private, fierce, soft in a way Spike isn’t with anyone else. If Buffy knew, it would break something. If Xander knew, he’d burn it down. But Tara understands the truth of it—the strange, aching, imperfect truth. She saw you: the girl clinging to something fragile and fierce, and the monster who looked like he was terrified to let you go.

That truth belongs to you and Spike. Not the rest of the world. She walks away, silent and thoughtful, and decides she didn’t see anything at all.

Buffy will come home tonight with mascara smudged and shoulders slumped. She’ll shuffle through the door like a ghost who got lost on the way back to her grave, and Tara will hand her tea and ask about the music. Neither of them will mention how long it’s been since anyone laughed.

The house still feels hollow, but not lifeless. Something still beats beneath its ribs, reckless and messy and lit with want. Tara doesn’t know if it’s hope, but it’s something. She doesn’t know what it is she envies more: the hunger, or the way it’s fed.

He wants to tear his eyes out, rip his eardrums from his skull and swallow them all. Anything to escape the full-on assault in front of him.

Well. Not an assault. It’s pretty quiet, all things considered. But still. There’s a special kind of hell in watching whatever the crap this is. Your face is pretty much all Xander can really see of what’s going on―brows furrowed, mouth open, eyes hooded―but the uh. Bouncing. Yeah. That’s painting a pretty graphic picture. And the sounds. Wet, gross, thrusting sounds.

Your hands are clasped against the back of Evil Dead’s neck, fingers twisting and twisting away in the ungelled hairs at his nape as you make those haunting little wounded noises with each―oh god, yuck―drive of his hips against you, pushing you further into the wall of the dusty old crypt you’re hoisted up against. Xander’s eyes flicker down before he can stop himself―bare calves jolting with the rhythm, skirt hiked high—and snaps them back up just in time to see Spike’s mouth dragging along your throat. Hands flex on your hips, steering you squirming into each harsh roll of his body. Thank the Powers That Be that he’s still fully clothed.

Well―

Nope. Not thinking about what’s unclothed right now.

"Spike…” you gasp, high and pitchy, but whatever you were going to say is swallowed by a vicious kiss, Spike’s bleach-blond head blocking your face from view as he devours you. The sight jolts Xander’s heart sideways, but he can’t—can’t—look away.

You used to call him Xan the Man. Used to ask for rides home from school and come to him for help with the printer. Now you’re wrapped around a monster like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“The thing he’s doing with his tongue,” Anya whispers, wide-eyed. “She’s probably having multiple orga―”

He waves a harried hand at her, the universal motion for shut the hell up, Ahn, partly because he so does not want to hear the end of that line of thought and partly because he doesn’t want Spike to know they’re here. Also, to be honest, because he’s still kinda trying to process what he’s seeing. It’s like watching a train wreck: he can’t look away. Are you under a spell?

“Shh, shh,” he can hear Spike murmur then, voice low and coaxing, his nose dipping to glide along the arch of your throat as he hitches your legs higher. “Gotta stay quiet, yeah? Don’t want any beasties coming ’round.”

You yelp, and Xander flinches. The bleached wonder makes his own series of sounds, then, deep and growly, and his lips curve in a wicked smile against your ear. Fingers curl tighter against your hips in a way that should be making that chip of his fire off, make him scream in agony, stumble off and away. But nope, of course Xander’s not that lucky. You writhe closer, gasping.

His pulse pounds. A hundred bad scenarios run wild through his head—Buffy’s face twisting in rage, Dawn crying, you lying cold and broken after Spike gets bored. He feels sick.

“You want that, then, baby?” Spike croons, lips skimming your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Want ’em to see you hanging off the Big Bad’s cock, slack-jawed ’n titties bouncing? Mm, give ’em the treat of their lives. Show off my girl and her tight li’l quim.”

“Oh my god,” Anya mutters. Her expression is fascinated and maybe a little aroused, but she doesn’t seem surprised, which is one to file away for later.

Xander’s stomach revolts. He’s heard Spike talk like this before—sick, lecherous, all swagger and filth—but hearing it directed at you is… it’s wrong. You’re too young, too trusting, too damn human. You’re Buffy’s sister. Dawn’s sister. Hell, you’re practically his kid sister, still fourteen in his mind, still asking him to reach the cereal from the top shelf. And Spike? He’s leering at you like a prize to ruin. But you don’t look ruined. You look… hungry. Yearning, with the bright flush spreading across your face and your arms winding tighter around his neck, ankles locking round his back like a limpet.

You’re shaking your head, but your lower body is curving off the stone to grind back down on him, keening out, “No, no―”

Spike grins, tongue flicking against your earlobe as his hips roll deeper. Xander wants to snap something—an insult, a threat—but he can’t risk it. “Course not. You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Selfish, I am. Plucked you for my own and I’m keepin’ you, all mine. My good girl.”

‘A good girl.’ The phrase slithers down Xander’s spine like ice water. The edge in Spike’s voice freaks him out. Maybe… maybe we should’ve been more wigged out when he started spending time with her instead of sniffing around Buffy.

His gut clenches hard as you cry out, clearly in pain as the vamp staccatos his thrusts like he’s stabbing you through to your core. The chip still doesn’t go off and you’re writhing closer, not away, completely unbothered by the slamming of the hand by your shoulder and the rock that crumbles under superstrong fingers digging into the wall.

Xander keeps hoping the chip’s gone dead.

Because that’s easier than admitting you’re not fighting back.

God, do you even want Spike to stop?

Xander’s stuck, warring with his desire to burst through the thicket concealing him and Ahn and stake Spike for what he’s doing to you, but he can’t figure out if the chip’s malfunctioning or not.

“You gonna cum, kitten?” Spike’s asking, teeth fixated on the skin where your neck and shoulder meet, nipping and sucking like he’s getting ready for a feast. You’re clinging to his hair, crunching the gel all out of it, knees scrabbling but unable to find purchase against the leather coat until he hooks his arms under them. He folds you near in half so you let out a squeal, feet kicking. “Yeah? Feel you gettin’ hot for it, squeezin’ down all desperate … Come on, gimme it, get me all drippin’ with it, yeah―”

You seize up like you’ve been tazed, electrocuted, a sobbing whimper bursting out as he works you up and through it, pace frantic―

“Yeah, baby,” he’s moaning, “came like a dream―know it’s hurtin’, jus’ gotta let me finish, lemme―”

―and you wilt, limbs loosening to jelly so much so that Spike’s all but shoving you through the crypt wall. Your voice is fervent and cracking as you say, “Please, Spike, please—want it inside, want you in me—please, please—”

You whine high and clear while Spike pounds at you, animalistic, though you clutch yourself to him tight as he grunts and blusters his way to his end. Making little encouraging cries, you arch back obligingly as his chin dips and―hoo boy, that’s definitely more of you than Xander ever planned to see, thanks, never mind the tongue and teeth all over you. The movements slow and slow until there’s nothing more than a lazy shuddering roll of Spike’s lower body against yours. You tilt your head back, eyes closed and sighing.

“Wow,” Anya breathes. Yeah, wow’s right.

Xander feels like he’s been gutted. He’s seen plenty of things on patrol, but this… this is something else. Something private and raw and so, so wrong. No, not just wrong. It’s unwatchable. Buffy’s sister, tangled in Spike’s claws, and he can’t do a damn thing about it. The helplessness burns.

Spike kisses you again, touches you like he’s starved for it, his body cradling yours with sickening tenderness.

“Come back with me, sweetheart?” he asks you softly.

Huh, still with the nickname-y thing. Xander’s mind twists back to Drusilla, how she used to cling, how Spike would all but melt into her, feral and indulgent. The comparison knots something ugly inside him.

“Got you all messy,” Spike’s still saying. One of his hands disappears, and you make a noise Xander can’t really place until he sees the vamp stick his fingers in his mouth, lewdly suck them with a pop. “Can’t go off leakin’ all the way home.”

“If I had my panties back,” you say, laughing, “maybe that wouldn’t be a problem.”

Zipper sounds, and Spike lowers you with more care than Xander’s ever seen him use, fiddling with the skirt of your dress. Your knees are pressed tight together.

“Were you wearin’ any?” he asks with false innocence, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and following the plane of your shoulder, your arm, winding his fingers with yours. “Can’t remember.”

You laugh again. You keep doing that. “Spike.”

He tugs you from the wall, arms holding you like a vice against him. The expression on Spike’s face as he looks at you… Awareness feels like nausea.

This isn’t just screwing around, is it?

Of course. The way Dawn hovers. Tara’s looks. Giles leaving—not after Buffy died, but after something else. They all knew. They just didn’t say it. How long has this been happening while everyone’s looked away?

“Feel better when you’re with me,” he says, voice low. His forehead presses down against yours and you sway together, idle, caught in a spell. “Watchin’ you sleep, heart beatin’… Get to hold you, too. S’nice. How ‘bout it, hm?”

Too soft, too soft.

Your eyes are wide, adoring. “I’ll call home. Tell them I’m out for the night.”

Suddenly, Xander’s thinking back to all those times Buffy or Dawnie or Willow or Tara have mentioned you staying over with a friend, going out late and coming back the next afternoon, or the afternoon after that. How many of those times have you actually just been with Spike?

You shriek, nearly cackling as the vamp hoists you up into a carry, spinning in an arc so your hair flies gleaming behind you. “Oh my god, Spike!”

“Yeah, baby, say my name.” He stalks off into the night with you, no doubt to make good on taking you back to his crypt.

Xander just stands there.

He wishes he never agreed to go patrolling tonight; wishes he decided to turn right instead of left; wishes he didn’t hear those noises and decide to stop, to creep up and scope out the source beyond the cover of bushes. Wishes he didn’t have to know that you and Spike are together, and that―worst of all―this isn’t just some fling. You’re in deep. Maybe he is, too.

He lets out a slow, deep breath, searching for his inner calm. “That was… disturbing as hell.”

“Why?” Anya tilts her head, frowning. “Because they’re in love?”

“Wha―No! No, that’s not the issue!” He rubs his face, trying to ignore the heart palpitations at Ahn’s use of the word love.

Her eyes narrow slightly, brow set in an even deeper furrow. “I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“I don’t—” He stops. Don’t lash out. Inner calm. He sighs. Starts again. “This is bad. This is very, very bad.”

Anya nods, clearly not understanding. The great thing about her is that she doesn’t push when she doesn’t get it. “Okay. Should we―should we just go home for now? Maybe you’ll feel better about it there.”

If Buffy finds out and doesn’t stop it—if she looks at this and says it’s fine—then maybe the world’s already broken beyond repair.

Xander shakes his head, already pulling out his phone, scrolling to ‘B’. “Not yet. I gotta make a call.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s gonna say. Just that someone has to know. Someone stronger. Someone who can stop it before it’s too late.

Willow steps through the front door like she’s bracing for a spell to blow back in her face.

The house feels wrong the second she enters. Too still, like the quiet after a slammed door. The air’s brittle with tension, the kind of tension that’s made her call in sick to work and grab the first bus back across town. It’s been a while since this atmosphere settled, long enough for her to head back out, get her copy of Witchcraft from where she’d left it behind the counter at the Magic Box. It was Buffy’s request. She thinks Spike’s put some kind of love spell on you. No one has the heart to tell her that you’re not acting like you’ve been under a spell.

Tara’s waiting in the entryway, pale and subdued.

“She knows they know,” she murmurs, voice soft but heavy. “I called her.”

Willow nods, avoiding her gaze. It’s painful, seeing her so soon after she moved out. “Thanks.”

Dawn’s been sent up to her room. The conversation that’s coming isn’t one for her ears, though Willow assumes she’ll probably just hide herself in the hall upstairs so she can listen in. For once, though, she didn’t put up a fight against her oldest sister’s demand. There was something sad in the set of her mouth, like she knew what was about to happen.

In the living room, it’s a standoff. Buffy’s pacing like a caged animal, arms crossed so tightly they could splinter bone. Xander’s by the fireplace, jaw set and eyes sharp, practically vibrating with righteous fury, while Anya is perched on the arm of the couch, watching everything like she’s about to start taking bets. That leaves her and Tara, awkwardly dancing around each other. Willow doesn’t know what to think. She doesn’t have long to figure it out.

The front door opens again. You come in first, proud and tense, daring anyone to speak. You’re holding Spike’s hand, clutching it with knuckles white. He remains a half-step behind you, his usual leather and arrogance somewhat marred by the tired, guarded expression on his face, like he’s expecting a stake through the ribs at any second but will gladly take it if it means standing with you. You pause in the entry to the living room, hovering, indecisive.

Willow’s stomach flips. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she can’t help it. The way your fingers are laced with his, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world—as though you’re not standing in a room full of people who once would’ve bled to keep you safe from evil like him. It’s shocking.

Buffy’s the first to speak. Of course she is.

“Really?” she spits, voice like a lash. “You thought this was a good idea? Bringing him he―”

“We didn’t come for your permission, or your blessing,” you say flatly, raising your chin. A blaze burns in your eyes, threatening. “We came because I’m tired of hiding.”

Spike raises his eyebrows slightly, clearly amused despite everything. Willow wants to scream.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Xander cuts in, face red. “No one thought you did. But maybe you should have. Or, I don’t know, used the part of your brain that goes ‘hey, maybe I shouldn’t be having freaky sex with the guy who’s tried to kill everyone in this room?’”

Buffy whirls around to glare at him, but you beat her to it.

“Shut up, Xander,” you snap, the hostility so unlike you. Perhaps you’ve finally been pushed to the edge. Or maybe―just maybe―you’ve found something, someone worth the fight. “You don’t know a damn thing about us.”

“Please,” Xander scoffs. “What, you think that because he’s not killing people anymore, it makes this okay? He’s a monster! He’s—”

“He’s not!” you snap, stepping forward unconsciously. “He’s more human than half the people in this room.”

Willow finally speaks. “He’s a vampire with no soul. Do you even hear yourself?”

You look at her like she’s failed a test you thought she’d pass. “Yeah. I do. Better than you do, apparently.”

She flinches. That stings.

“You think this is some epic romance?” Xander scoffs. “This is Spike. He doesn’t love; he obsesses. You’re just the next thing he’s latched onto.”

Shaking your head, you say, “You’re wrong. He cares about me.”

Buffy’s in Spike’s face before Willow can blink. “Stay away from her. Stay away from my family. You touch her again and I swear to god—”

“Buffy.” Willow tries, she really does. But her voice is small, hesitant. She doesn’t know how to fix this. She doesn’t even know what this is.

Anya chimes in, voice low but unflinching. “This isn’t helping. Yelling at her like this. It’s not going to make her stop loving him.”

Everyone freezes for a moment, surprised. Anya shrugs, then folds her hands primly in her lap. “If yelling could fix love, none of us would’ve ever made a single relationship mistake. But here we are.”

The bite in the room is momentarily thrown off.

You’re shaking now, but not from fear. “I’m not some toy you can shove in a box when it makes you uncomfortable! I’m not yours to protect, or judge, or decide for. I’m the only one who gets to decide who I love.”

“Oh, god,” Buffy mutters, eyes wide with something between horror and heartbreak. “You really think this is love?”

“I know it is.”

Buffy’s breathing is sharp now, unsteady. She’s staring at you like she’s seeing someone else, someone she can’t recognize. Her voice, when it comes, is cracked at the edges. “Giles knew, didn’t he?”

The words land with more weight than Willow expects. There’s no venom in them, only something raw and wounded, almost betrayed.

You flinch, just barely. “What?”

“That’s why he left,” Buffy says, eyes narrowing. “He couldn’t watch it. Couldn’t watch you… this.” She gestures to you and Spike like the very sight of you burns.

Willow stiffens, heart sinking. She knows Giles’s departure had nothing to do with you—at least, not directly. But Buffy’s not really asking for answers. She’s lashing out because it’s easier than facing the loneliness that’s been creeping closer every day since he left. Willow can see it in the clench of her jaw, in the brittle shine of her eyes. Buffy’s not stupid. Deep down, she knows the distance between her and Giles is her own doing. But tonight, she needs someone to blame, and it’s fallen on you.

“Don’t put that on her,” Spike says, low and warning.

“Don’t speak,” Buffy snaps, flicking her gaze to him. “You don’t get to talk. You’re the reason she’s like this.”

“I’m not some project he corrupted,” you fire back, shaking now. “I chose him. I wanted him. And he—”

“Stop,” Buffy barks, stepping forward. “Stop talking like… like it means something! Like this is anything but sick.”

The heat radiating off you is palpable. “You don’t get to judge me just because I love someone you couldn’t handle! You want someone to hate? Fine. Hate me. But don’t pretend this is about Spike!”

“Like hell it’s not,” Buffy growls. “You’re dragging him into this house again like he belongs here. Like you do, while you’re—you’re letting him crawl inside you like some… some thing.”

Willow doesn’t even have time to intervene before you go cold, your voice like ice. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare,” Buffy spits. “Because someone has to! Someone has to tell you how disgusting this is—”

“No,” you snap, sharp and clear. “You don’t care about what’s right. You want someone to blame. Someone to scream at, to shove out, so you don’t have to feel the way you feel. Because you’re still mad the world kept turning without you in it.” You gulp, unsteady, readying for the killing blow. “Because my vampire gives me what yours never could. Guess a soul doesn’t count for much after all, does it?”

Buffy raises her hand. Time slows.

The slap cracks across your cheek, the sound sharp and awful. For half a second, everything stills—and then Spike moves, shoving past Willow, fist meeting Buffy’s jaw with a brutal crunch. It sends her stumbling back against the wall.

“Don’t you touch her!” he growls, yellow eyes scorching as his human mask slips, revealing the demon below.

She’s already pulling a stake from her waistband. Tara moves at last.

“Buffy, no!” she gasps, her voice trembling as she reaches out instinctively, but she doesn’t make it far. She halts behind Willow, one hand outstretched like she’s forgotten what she meant to do with it. Her voice cracks. “Don’t do this. This won’t help. None of this will.”

It’s not loud. It’s not enough. But Willow hears it like a bell: clear, desperate, and already too late.

“Buffy, stop—” Willow adds, stepping forward, but you’re already in between them.

“If you kill him,” you warn, “you lose me too.”

Buffy’s hand is frozen mid-air, stake shaking. Like a puppet with its strings cut, her arm falls, stake clattering to the ground. “I can’t even look at you.”

“Then don’t.” You inhale, but it doesn’t steady anything. A strange look passes over your face, your shoulders squaring in some unknown resolution. “Isn’t that what Mom said to you? When you wouldn’t stop being the Slayer long enough to be her daughter?”

Buffy’s face crumples, just for a second. A tear falls. Then she whispers, devastating in its quiet: “Get out.”

No one breathes.

She walks away, slips through the back to the kitchen, and Willow hears the kitchen door slamming shut, the silence that follows unnatural.

You turn to the door.

“Come on,” Xander says, stepping a foot toward you. His hands are raised, his voice placating, like he’s speaking to a little kid. “Don’t… she didn’t mean it. She’s just angry. It doesn’t have to be a―a thing. Cut him loose. That’s all it takes. Let him go, and things can go back to the way they were.”

“That’s all it takes?” you repeat, quiet but deadly. “Toss him aside so Buffy feels better? Like he’s garbage I dragged in and forgot to take out?”

Xander shrugs, defensive. “I’m saying it’ll fix things. Make it right again. So we can… we can all move past this.”

Your eyes lock on him. “So you can all breathe easier. Buffy stops feeling grossed out, you stop feeling threatened. As long as I pay for it—right?”

Willow tries to interject, voice uncertain. “That’s not what he meant—”

You cut her off, sharp.

“It’s exactly what he meant.” You look back to Xander. “You, of all people, Xander. You’ve loved people you weren’t supposed to. What makes me different?”

Xander’s face tightens. Willow has no words.

“I love him,” you say. “He loves me. And there’s nothing any of you can say or do to make me give him up.” It rings with finality, lines drawn once and for all.

A hush descends for a beat. Spike’s voice sounds out, hesitant, uttering your name.

“No,” you tell him firmly, shaking your head. “Don’t even think it.” Your tone gentles, wavers, lower lip trembling. “Let’s… let’s just go, okay? Please?”

He wavers for a moment, searching for something in your expression. Willow sees the subtle slackening of his rigid frame, certainty propelling the nod he directs at you. “Yeah, kitten.”

A wan smile crosses your face. Without so much as glancing back, you let him open the door, hand on the small of your back as you both leave.

Willow casts around the room beseechingly. Xander’s all but shut down, staring at the space you just occupied with an inscrutable look. Anya’s folded in on herself, chin pressed to bent knees and avoiding meeting anyone else’s gaze. Tara clutches the banister, face deathly pale and eyes bright, distraught. A sliver of brown hair at the top of the stairs. Dawn. No one’s moving.

It’s up to her, then.

“Spike,” she calls out, rushing out onto the porch. One final attempt at ending this insanity. “Don’t―don’t let this happen. Don’t… there’s no going back. From this. If she goes now…”

You won’t even look at her. It’s like she’s ceased to exist. Staring up at Spike, you let him lay a hand on your cheek, let him nudge at your temple with the jut of his nose. Your arm’s tucked under his duster, held fast to his waist.

“Wait for me, sweetheart,” he says to you. “I’ll deal with Red for a mo’.”

He pushes you gently in the direction of the tree and you go, sinking to the ground with your back against the trunk. You stare out at the street, something horribly lost and afraid in the shape of your body curled up in a ball. Spike makes his way back up the steps, murder in his eyes. He does nothing―just halts. Stares expectantly.

Willow wavers. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you hurt us enough?”

Spike barks out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“You know, I held back in there. Let my girl handle it.” He snorts, though there’s nothing funny about this. “Bunch of self-absorbed wankers, you are. S’not about you lot.”

“Then what?” She frowns. She wants to understand. “What is it about? Why?”

Just like that, the fight goes out of him. He sighs, sounding every inch a creature that’s spent the last hundred years scrapping for everything he had, everything he needed. It’s strange, coming from him. Resigned. Weary. Sad.

“Got used to takers, didn’t I?” he says at long last, soft and reminiscent. He’s gazing at you. “Dru. Buffy. Needed me, never wanted me. Never saw me.” His voice is low, guttural. “She… she sees me. She gives. It’s simple, with her. No proving myself. No trying to be something I’m not.”

His eyes flicker to Willow, not accusing—just honest.

“Thought I knew love, before her. I didn’t. Not really.” He taps his chest, softly. “She’s in here. Part of me. I’m not giving her up. Can’t.”

She’s speechless. Her throat is tight, her pulse thrumming with guilt and something else she can’t name. She’s seen people walk away before. But this feels different. Final.

He doesn’t add anything else. Just sighs again, presses his lips together like he’s steeling himself, and slinks back down the walkway that leads away from the house. You reach up to him, childlike, his grasp solid and gentle as he helps you up from where you’re sat. Together, your head against his arm, you leave.

This time, she doesn’t stop you.

Willow stands alone on the porch, heart hammering like she’s finally feeling the spell’s backlash, too late to undo and too late to stop. Her hands tremble at her sides. Some part of her, deep and insistent, whispers that there’s a way to fix this. A ritual, or incantation. A simple one: memory, clarity, obedience. Just a few words, and she could make this right again. She could make you see sense. Make Spike let go, make Buffy forgive. Make Tara come back.

Just a few words, the magicks whisper. So simple. So clean.

But she doesn’t move. She just watches you disappear into the night and tells herself it’s not the magicks calling her. It’s grief. It’s fear.

She doesn’t believe it.

You didn’t mean to cry.

You wanted to keep your head held high, secure in the knowledge that it wasn’t you who broke in that messy, vicious confrontation that you’d known for a while was coming. But the second the crypt door shut behind you, Spike looked at you. Just a look: expectant, forlorn, waiting. You didn’t mean to, but one glimpse of that expression and you crumbled—violent, choking sobs, wilting like a flower left too long without water. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just gathered you into his arms and let you bury your face in the curve of his neck, let you shake apart against him as you mourned for what could no longer be. And, afterward, when you’d turned into yourself, hollow and spent, he carried you like a baby to bed, nestled you up tight and wound around you like you’d float away if he didn’t.

Days later, he still treats you like glass.

The Spike who once barked sarcasm and wore his smirks like armor has been replaced by someone quieter, gentler, his fingers featherlight and his gaze fixed on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. When he kisses you, it’s a confessional. He pours out all his sins into the open maw of your mouth like your touch can absolve him of everything he is. When he’s inside you, he moves slow and aching and careful, his words sweet and gasping.

“You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever had," he murmurs on one occasion, voice thick with awe as he stirs against you, body covering yours. He feels hard and real in you, deep, grounding. His thumb strokes your cheek. "Dunno what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.”

Each thrust is a question, each brush of his lips a promise, his hands holding you like you’re made of silk, like he’s never been capable of destruction. When you call his name, he exhales like it’s a prayer. You both shake by the end, your fingers curled against his spine, his mouth against your temple crooning things neither of you will remember clearly later on.

It’s like he thinks one wrong move will make you bolt. You wish you had the words to convince him of your certainty, but he’s the poet. Words can be manipulated, used to lie and misdirect. He doesn’t believe you when you tell him that you’re staying, that this is for good—but you know he wants to. You know it has less to do with you and more to do with his past, with all the many people who’ve screwed him over and hurt him so badly, so you try not to take it to heart. You let him hover, let him treat you as though you’re a porcelain doll, easily breakable. You should resent it, probably, and part of you does. But mostly, you’re just grateful. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to prove anything. He just stays.

That morning, he’s pressed against your side, bare skin against bare skin, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your lower back. Save for school, you haven’t left the crypt in days. The bed below ground is new—plush blankets piled over a surprisingly good-quality mattress that he’s dragged in from who-knows-where. He probably stole it, but that habit of his has never bothered you. Besides, you sleep better here than you ever did at home.

“You gonna go back today?” Spike asks. It’s spoken softly, vibrating low against your shoulder. “Get your stuff?”

“Nah.” You shake your head against the pillow, mussing your hair even further. “Last night, while Willow and—while the others were busy, Tara brought Dawn over. She packed my suitcase. Couple important things. Birth certificate, stuff like that. The rest… some other time, maybe.”

Spike was patrolling then, safe in the assumption that you were asleep. It’s not really that surprising that he hasn’t noticed the bags over in the corner.

Now, he hums, lips trailing across your neck. It’s aimless, casual in its intimacy. So like him, like all the love he has to give. Effortless.

“Dawn hugged me,” you add quietly, trying hard to hold back the tears. “Said she saw us. Before. Said Tara and Anya knew, too. That they’re on our side.”

Spike doesn’t reply—just tightens his hold a little. You don’t have to say what you’re both thinking: that support from a few doesn’t make the silence from the rest hurt any less.

You sit up eventually. The crypt can be cold and damp at times, but Spike’s done a pretty great job at softening it up, making it almost livable. There are little touches of normality now: rugs plastering the dirt floor, a mismatched set of mugs, a bookshelf that wobbles only slightly whenever you walk by.

“Come on,” he says, slipping out of the bed like a panther, naked as the day he was born so long ago. It’s a fantastic sight, one that not even low spirits can stop you from admiring: cut muscles, lean form, perfectly proportionate everywhere. He’s a god among men. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You grin. The makeshift shower he’s rigged up is more affection than function. A pilfered showerhead duct-taped to the end of the pipe, a clunky water heater that hums loudly and makes the whole wall clank. It’s not pretty and it doesn’t hide the fact that this really isn’t a place to be living in, but the water is warm. Mostly. He helps you wash your hair, fingers gentle, nails never scratching. You can tell he’s muttering his usual sweet nothings against your skin—jokes, compliments, promises—but as always, it’s impossible to hear over the heater’s groaning.

When the machine abruptly turns off—another short, probably—you can actually hear him curse under his breath.

“Time’s up, baby,” he says, quickly rinsing the last of the conditioner from his bleached hair. You’d helped him touch up the roots yesterday. “Gotta get dry before the pipes go cold again.”

He wraps you in a towel, glaring at the run-down thing like he can make it work through sheer will alone. If anyone could, it would be him, and the sight makes you laugh. It’s the first real one in a while.

Later on, you’re perched on the bed, your homework splayed around you. Spike’s horribly insistent on you getting a good hour a day on it, at least. It reminds you of how Hank should’ve been: razor-focused on your success. Unbearably proud. Insistent that you’re “gonna go places, just you wait.” Instead, all he did was ship you off to boarding school at the first opportunity. Even though you’re probably going to get valedictorian, that reminder always hurts. Like in all things, Spike eases the pain.

You’re just about to double-check your references when your phone buzzes. Unknown number. Huh.

You answer. “Hello?”

“You’re living with him?” Angel’s voice is unmistakable, if crackly. The reception’s not so great down here. “Buffy told me.”

Hearing her name pinches something in your chest. You ignore it, rolling your eyes. “Hello to you too, Angel. Sorry, but I’m not interested in hearing your self-righteous opinion today, thanks.”

“You don’t know what he’s like—”

“Don’t care.”

Spike appears in the doorway. He takes the phone gently from your hand.

“Go on, kitten,” he coaxes. You catch the flicker of anger in his eyes, but his voice stays calm. “Finish your essay. I’ll deal with the poof.”

You watch him go, surprised by how civil his tone is as he says, “Oi, Peaches. Got nothin’ better to do with your time than bother my lady?”

When you stick your head upstairs after wrapping everything up, he’s still on the phone. Pacing back and forward, his words are too hushed to pick up. Damn vampire senses. It’s weirdly civil for an exchange with his so-called undead enemy, though you wouldn’t call it friendly—he looks as though he’s about ten seconds away from beating the wall in. Still. You wonder what’s making him so… controlled.

Days bleed together. School, home, school, home, the occasional patrol in places you know Buffy isn’t. You see Dawn in the halls at Sunnydale High, or sometimes when she stops by in the late afternoon with Tara or Anya. You watch Passions with Spike, though most of your focus is occupied by his reactions to whatever mess is going on on-screen. You get your schoolwork done, and you try to get used to this new normal, patching up the giant hole in your heart with these small little glimpses into your old life.

Spike keeps bringing things home like a magpie nesting: a tiny gas stove that sputters and clicks but usually works well enough to make dinner. A battered washing machine that walks a few inches every time it’s used. A foldable hanging line with half its wires snapped. He insists they’re all only temporary, but he never says what he’s waiting for. Neither do you.

Graduation looms nearer. Your final scores are out, though the victory is hollow. No one will be there to celebrate, will they? Or only some will. You wonder which option is worse. When school gets out, you begin the trek home in despondent silence. Usually, you’d hum a tune to yourself or maybe even read as you walk, but you just feel drained. Going through the motions, you stop by the bathroom next to the cemetery’s reception building. After, you meander through the grass, letting your feet take you along your customary route while your mind spins in circles, lethargic.

That’s when you see her.

Buffy.

She’s waiting just outside the crypt, sitting on the stoop. Smaller than you remember. Her expression is weary, aged. She looks how you feel. When your feet crunch on dead leaves, her head snaps up and she makes eye contact with you. The corner of her mouth twitches in an almost-smile. That’s how you know she’s not here to duke it out again. Not intentionally.

Steeling yourself, you move toward her, step around her form as you dig through your pocket for the key to the lock Spike’s jerry-rigged to make things safer. The door swings open, too loud in the stillness of this moment. You enter, but don’t shut the door behind you—an unspoken invitation. She takes it.

You turn and watch Buffy look around with something like disbelief. She takes in the kettle, the electronics, the random décor. The laundry line, full as it can be with yours and his clothing. The half-dead pot plant Spike brought home because you mentioned you liked sunflowers. The photographs you’ve tacked to the musty walls of friends, family, of you and him.

“I thought… I thought this was just a phase,” she says finally. No hello, then. Her gaze travels back to you, wide and vulnerable. “I thought you’d leave him.”

You fold your arms, chin high—not combative, just done entertaining this. “I’m not stupid, and I don’t do things for the hell of it. You should know that.”

Something unreadable flickers in her face. A fight, maybe. But no—she sighs, a sound of complete and utter defeat. “I do now.”

Neither of you talk for a moment. Spike chooses this time to appear from the trapdoor, deliberately slow, telegraphing his movements like your sister’s a wounded animal backed into a corner. She just stares at him as he approaches. He lowers himself carefully into the beaten-up armchair. You settle on his knee, in part to shield him from any attempt by her to follow through on her actions from the other week, but mostly because you can. You want to. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t comment on it. It’s awkward. Painful.

Finally, Buffy clears her throat.

“Come home,” she urges you. You blink. You weren’t expecting that. She pushes on, ignoring the snort from Spike beneath you. “I’m not saying I’m okay with—with this. I’m not. But I’ll… I’ll deal. Maybe he’ll grow on me.”

“Thanks ever so,” he mutters. His hand tenses on your thigh when she levels him with a withering sneer.

“No,” you tell her. “I’m not going to let you or anyone else try to trick me into giving him up. We’re a package deal. Where he goes, so do I.”

She frowns. “That’s—I’m not gonna try and break you up. I’m not that petty.”

“Well, then,” you say, “I guess I just don’t trust you anymore. How am I supposed to believe you?”

Buffy flinches, looking away. Her arms fold on themselves as her eyes begin to glisten.

“Ouch.” She takes a breath. “But… I deserve that.”

A pause.

“I meant it, Buff.” The words come out quiet, but firm. “When I said I love him. I know that it—I know you’re upset, but I’m not sorry for what I feel. And I won’t be made to believe it’s wrong. It isn’t.”

She raises her hands, a white flag. “Okay, okay. It’s just…”

Again, she glances around, but this time it’s like she’s looking at something particularly disgusting. You bristle despite yourself.

“What—what kind of life can he give you?” she asks, pleading as she turns once more to you. You notice that she’s not once stepped foot down the steps into the main area. “I mean… are you really going to stay here? What about a future—marriage, kids? How are you gonna support yourself?” At your scoff, she adds, “I’m just being realistic here. Somebody’s gotta be.”

“God, Buffy,” you snap, standing up. “Not everyone wants the same things you do. And who’s to say I’ll even live long enough to seriously consider stuff like that? It’s the Hellmouth.”

“Oi.” Spike taps the outside of your knee—the nearest part of you in reach—in reprimand. “Don’t say things like that. S’not good for my constitution.”

Buffy huffs. “You don’t have a constitution, Spike. You’re a vampire.”

“Do too,” he retorts immaturely. Then, all of a sudden, he coughs awkwardly, scratching his neck. “Dunno about the rest of it. But I—uh—I got a place. Decent, but not much. Has a proper bathroom, bedroom. All the fixings. Near the cemetery, so I can still keep my hunt. Near your bus stop, too, baby.”

This is news to you. “Huh?”

Spike raises an eyebrow at you, gesturing around. “What—think this here was my choice? Dru took all me cards ’n stuff when she ran off with that chaos demon. Order of Aurelius’s got a fair bit of dosh squirrelled away.”

Here, his chin tips up arrogantly, smug as any vampire with a lineage like his would get. Your nostrils flare, a smile tugging at your lips even in the tense atmosphere. Buffy’s not interested in discussing pedigree, though.

“Then why didn’t you just get it back?” she asks skeptically. “Not hard to call a bank.”

“Is when it’s a demon bank, Slayer.” He rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. “‘Sides, gotta get permission for that. Most senior member, all that rot.” He looks down. “Didn’t want to give Peaches the satisfaction. Y’know, of asking for help,” he mutters. “Sodding wanker.”

Oh. Oh. That’s what he was talking about on the phone with Angel. Something warm and impossibly affectionate wells in your chest.

Buffy studies him. “What changed?”

The weight of his stare falls on you, full of significance. It’s an answer all in itself.

I love him, I love him, I love him, you think, heart full to bursting. You’re overcome with the urge to reach down, kiss him, thank him with everything you have for tearing up his pride and throwing it away just to give you a home. A real one—with him.

You see Buffy’s face change as she begins to understand. To see what you see. It’s dawning on her, that maybe she’s got the wrong idea about him. You’re sure the shattering of her worldview is as painful to her as her slap was to you. A strange sort of peace follows this realization.

No one says anything for a while. It’s strained, but not hostile. Not anymore.

“I’m—I’m gonna go now,” she says at long last. There’s no dejection in her voice now. Just a quiet sort of acceptance. To Spike, she adds, “Take care of her. I’m… I’m trusting you.”

You know what it means to him to hear that—not just for your sake, but for everything he once felt for her. When he nods, it’s full of unspoken confidence. “Of course.”

She turns to you, and you’re heading toward her before you even realize it. Coming face-to-face, eye-to-eye—for the first time in a long time, it feels—a stone in the pit of your stomach starts to finally work its way free.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice breaking.

You step into her arms, hug her, feel the iron band of her arms squeezing you too tight, too much for your bird-bones. You feel them grind below your skin. It hurts, not only physically, but you do it anyway. You breathe her in—shampoo, sweat, and that familiar weight of the world she always seems to carry. She’s trying. You can feel it, the way you’re trying too. When she pulls away, there are tears in her eyes. You don’t wipe them away.

What’s broken isn’t fixed. Not nearly. But maybe, one day, it could be.

Spike waits until she’s gone to speak. “You alright?”

You glance toward the door, then back at him—this strange, stubborn vampire who’s built you a home out of scraps and love.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for his hand. And this time, you mean it.

Spike loves his unlife.

He hasn’t always. There’d been a decade or two of repletion—rage and rot and revelry, blood from the veins of whores in Paris and cowards in Prague, nothing lasting, nothing real. The rest? Just endless nights and meaningless hunger, and the thrill of fear cracking open in a scream. Thought he had something, with Dru, ’til she pissed off and left him. Then Buffy came along, all fire and fury, and he thought, Yes. This. This is meaning. Purpose.

He doesn’t know. Not until you. Not until now.

Not until this: you on your knees, bent forward across the mattress, spine a taut bow beneath his palms, back arched as he thrusts into you with filthy, measured force. You’re folded down over the bed, your cheek pressed to the pillow and drooling, hands fisted in the sheets, body trembling beneath the relentless pace he sets. Your thighs are already drenched with both of you, his cock disappearing into your perfect, aching cunt over and over, the sound of it obscene, wet and sharp and constant.

The room is dim and hot, the air choked with sex and the smell of skin and sweat. Tangy, piquant. Gorgeous. The sheets are kicked down to your calves, twisted up under your knees. Your moans are high and bitten off, teeth buried in the pillow as you try to quiet yourself. Habit, that—leftover fear. For so long, you’ve both lived in the silence, in the shadows, sneaking and muffling and hushing every cry.

But not anymore.

“Go on, baby,” he rasps, bent over your back, his mouth dragging slow kisses over your spine. “Let ’em hear you. Nobody left to catch us now.”

You whimper, hips pushing back instinctively, greedy for more. He grins, sharp and delighted, bringing his palm down on your arse in a light slap, the sound echoing. Your whole body jolts. You keen around the pillow, voice breaking into something raw and helpless.

“Uh—Spike!”

“That’s it,” he says, all gritting teeth as you squeeze down hard, dizzying enough to choke the veins in his prick. The demon peeks out for a moment, control slipping. “That’s my girl.”

It still astonishes him sometimes—how much you like this. How much you crave being split open, filled full, stretched past your limit until you’re crying and shaking and still begging for more. Turns out the chip doesn’t fire when the victim likes the pain, and bloody hell, do you ever. You like it when he’s reverent, whispering soft, desperate poetry into your cunt, but you love it when he’s like this: filthy, possessive, shagging you like he owns every inch of your body.

And he does.

He watches the way your shoulders shake, the flushed skin of your back shivering each time he slams into you. Watches your fingers clutch the pillow like a lifeline. Watches your body bloom under him, red and marked, so alive.

“Bloody goddess, you are,” he growls into the crook of your neck, panting against the salt of your sweat. “Tightest little snatch I’ve ever had. Made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod frantically, breath catching on a sob as you try to speak. Can’t. The words never make it past the pillow, and you give up trying. Instead, you just feel, bucking back against him, desperate and loud now, your cries slipping free without shame.

“Say it,” he hisses, slamming into you harder, deeper. He feels the twinge of your answering wail in the back of his head, threatening, splitting his lips apart in a vicious smile. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, nearly sobbing. “Yours, Spike, ’m yours—”

Your orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. You yowl into the pillow, cunt knotting around him so fiercely it makes him snarl, hips stuttering for only a moment before he keeps going. You’re whimpering now, all breathy and high and wrecked from the overstimulation, your voice cracking every time his cock punches deep into your oversensitive walls.

“S’too much,” you whine, but your body never stops moving, still pressing back against him, still so greedy for it.

“Oh, you can take it,” he pants, mouth at your ear, voice low and hungry. “You’re so good like this—fallin’ apart for me, still lettin’ me fuck you through it.”

He’s obsessed. Obsessed with how you quake under him, how your cunt keeps fluttering and squeezing like it doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, driving into you harder, chasing his release with a fervour that borders on worship. You sob again, and he can’t stop himself. He wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you back, chest flush to your spine, shoving up into you at a brutal, punishing pace.

When he comes, it’s with a guttural shout, hips grinding deep, prick pulsing as he fills you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try to pull out. Knows you like it messy and trickling afterward, how it makes him mad with wanting.

You collapse to the mattress, winded and utterly stunning. He stays braced over you, breathing hard even though he doesn’t need to, pressing kisses to your spine and shoulder and hair. You’re trembling, still twitching beneath him. You don’t let him go. Instead, you reach back, grab his hand, pull him down to lie with you, still buried deep in the slick patch you’ve both made.

He rolls the both of you onto your sides, panting, trembling, your sweet little quim keeping him locked inside like it means something. Like it always has.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked, fingers clutching his arm like a tether. Your face is rosy, flushed with exertion, and so bloody beautiful it twists something violent inside him.

“Not planning on it,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

The bed is new. Big. Expensive. Mattress so plush it makes him want to roll around like a pampered tabby. The apartment is still shite in a lot of ways—rickety fridge, a coffee table with one short leg—but it’s his. Yours. And Glinda’s out for the night, enjoying her life instead of staying on the pull-out sofa in the living room as she has since realisin’ she’d got too used to the peace of rooming off-campus. There’s all the time in the world to lay here, linger, or at least it feels that way.

You’re still wet around him. Still clenching, pulsing every few minutes with aftershocks, like your body hasn’t quite gotten the message that he’s finished. Greedy. Filthy, greedy girl. His baby. His sunshine princess, all aglow with love and lust.

Spike’s cock twitches in response, and you both feel it. You tilt your head, meet his eyes. He kisses your collarbone before raising a brow, smirking.

“Fancy round two?” he asks, sick with the feeling racing in his veins. The need. A constant, thrumming thing, near breaking him into pieces.

You laugh, breathless and delighted and gorgeous.

Things have settled into something approaching normal; or, well, a new normal. Spike’s never had a normal quite like this before. Little Bit’s over all the buggering time, mostly to steal your clothes and pilfer through his things and fill the place with her junk food and loud music, but she likes the apartment. Likes the big window in the living room when the blackout curtain’s pushed to the side. Likes the sitting area, big telly showing MTV in crystal clear graphics, and the way his stuff looks less ramshackle and stolen and more deliberately incongruous. She really likes the bathroom, with its big tub and generous vanity. It’s why he got the place, to be fair: something nice for his girl, forced to walk into the chill of night just to use the loo for all those months. None of that here.

The rest of the lot trickle in too, one by one. Always awkward, always uncertain. Like they’re not sure if this is a visit or reconnaissance. Red’s come by twice, once with baked goods she barely managed to make eye contact while offering. No one else wants to put up with her right now, so he entertains it best he can. Demon girl stops in randomly with opinions about the wallpaper and detailed suggestions about spicing up your sex life. You laugh, Spike doesn’t. Bint’s awful presumptuous, thinking he needs help getting you off. The Slayer shows up, digging into every nook and cranny like she’s trying to find a reason this won’t work. She offers a strained smile at the end of her visit, unsatisfied. Bitch. Even the boy shows up once, a six-pack in hand and his mouth pressed in a tight line, nearly disappearing off his ugly mug. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. He looks at you—glowing, happy, curled up against Spike’s side in that ratty old blanket—and just nods. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t start fights. For now, that’s enough.

And then there’s Peaches.

He arrives like a thundercloud, tall and grim, taking up too much space and too much air. He walks the apartment like he’s cataloguing faults, eyes landing on the ghosts of water rings on the coffee table, the mismatched pillows, the scuff on the wall from when you’d tripped and knocked over the lamp. He doesn’t say anything outright, but the judgment radiates off him like heat.

Spike doesn’t bother pretending. Your legs are slung over his lap, and he strokes lazy circles into your calf with his thumb, teases his fingers under the hem of your skirt. Loves your dresses. How wicked it makes him, copping a feel of all that innocence. You shift closer to him, head resting against his shoulder, fingers tracing patterns over his collarbone, casual and affectionate and utterly his. Spike feels like a king. Tall, dark and forehead scowls the entire time you make harmless small talk. It’s glorious.

Later, after you disappear down the hall to dig through the pantry or put away some other sundry item—Spike’s not even sure—Angel finally makes his move. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the apartment quiets. Spike doesn’t look at him at first. Just listens to the silence. Then, slowly, his gaze returns to his grandsire.

Angel’s arms are crossed, his brow a storm cloud. He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. Wanker. “You really think this is going to last?”

Spike leans back into the couch, cool as sin, folding one ankle over his knee. “Dunno. Been plenty long already. She’s still here, yeah? Still laughs at my jokes. Still screams my name. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Angel winces like someone’s sprayed holy water up his arse. Spike savours it.

“You’re reckless,” the big, strapping hero mutters. “You always have been. This—her—she’s not just a fling you can—”

“Watch your bloody mouth,” Spike snaps. The amusement’s gone in a blink, replaced with something cold and lethal. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not after the way you dangled the Slayer on a chain like she was the only thing between you and damnation.”

Peaches opens his mouth, then shuts it again. There’s no defense.

Spike leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low. “She’s not some passing fancy, mate. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And if you can’t see that, maybe it’s not her you should be worried about.”

Angel looks away. “She’s not like us,” he says finally. Quietly.

Spike’s smile softens. “No,” he agrees. “She’s better.”

The silence hangs for a long beat. Angel doesn’t have anything left. Nothing worth saying. He looks like he wants to argue, wants to do something, but there’s nothing left to fight. Spike’s not giving him anything to push against. Then you come back in, grocery list in hand, all nonchalant in your ease.

“Honey,” you say, “I’m heading out. You want more Weetabix?”

Spike beams. “Yeah. And maybe those little marshmallows?”

Your grin is blinding, waving the list about like he’s guessed correctly. He knows you’ve already written it down. “I know what you like.”

It hits him like a sledgehammer, then. How you see him―not just the vampire, not the body, not the snarl, but all of it. And you love it anyway.

He reaches into his wallet, pulls out his brand-new credit card—the one Captain Forehead set him up with, the only thing he’s ever been good for—and hands it to you. “Take this, yeah?”

“I’ve got money,” you say, stubborn as ever, but smiling.

“I’ll spank you if you don’t let me pay,” he teases, voice low and fond. “And don’t pout. Gonna get that lip if you ain’t careful.”

You giggle, step in close, lean down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Pervert,” you whisper, your lips lingering just a second longer on his skin.

“Only for you.”

And then he watches, all dumbstruck and dopey, as you take the card, tuck it into your purse, and head out the door.

The silence that follows is thick. He doesn’t look at Angel. Doesn’t need to, because—for the first time in a long time—he doesn’t care what the poof thinks. He’s got everything he wants, and the poor sod knows it. The satisfaction in shutting the door on his slack, stupid face makes Spike want to laugh and laugh until his dead lungs crumble to dust.

His days pass in a blur of disgusting bliss. Truly, it makes him think sometimes that he should hang up his post as Big Bad. He’s got to be testing some cosmic force, being so unbelievably happy with his lot, but he doesn’t get struck down by a flying spell, or staked, or zapped into some other dimension. Nah, he keeps kicking. He gets to be with you.

Attending your graduation day is hell: sunlight everywhere, too many people, a mish-mash of scents that, if he were living, would make him gag. But he does it anyway. Sneaks in through the sewers, creeps up through the sub-basement of Sunnydale High, taking his awkward place by Little Bit and the others in the bleachers.

It’s all worth it when he sees you. Radiant, cap tilted, gown a little too big.

You cross the stage with that bright smile he loves, all cheeks and squinted eyes, shaking hands and collecting your little rolled-up paper. And, when you step up to the podium to give your big first-place speech, it’s like you were born to it—clever, kind, full of biting humour and practiced to perfection. The whole damn place hangs on your every word, and he feels pride well up like it’s his own achievement, seeing you up there.

His clever girl. His light.

Afterward, he lingers with your sisters, with the odd assortment of people you’ve chosen as family. He sticks out like a sore thumb, so clearly not part of the group, but that’s never bothered him before. You rush to them, beaming, diploma in hand and cute little cap askew as they take their turns congratulating you, voices overlapping in their relief and pride.

Spike doesn’t bother with platitudes. When you turn to him, he does what he does best and shows you how proud he is by tugging you into his body, mouth pressing down against yours. Long. Hungry. A little too much tongue. He overhears someone nearby make a fuss about it, but he doesn’t give a fig, and neither do you. The world is your oyster now, and he’s too excited to see what you make of it now that you’re free.

That night, he takes you dancing.

The Bronze is a hole, always has been—one day soon, he’ll take you to the real spots he’s seen on his jaunts through unlife—but it’s what passes for a good time in this sorry town. He lets you spend a few paltry minutes with your friends, decent bloke that he is. Besides, it means he gets to relish in the look on their faces when they realise for the thousandth time that your presence is only temporary, that soon enough, you’ll head back to where you truly belong. To him. So he nurses his beer as you laugh with them, dance with Dawn and the Slayer, bounce around like a stoned rabbit with Lackbrain and demon girl and Glinda, and he waits.

Eventually, you come to him as you always do.

He doesn’t need to be asked. Taking you in his arms, he presses close and sways you about to some pathetically sappy slow song that you probably don’t even like. But you’re warm, and happy, and he can feel the eyes on you both.

Spike’s always felt them.

They’ve all seen you together at some point. By accident, by circumstance, through open doorways and down dark hallways. They’ve seen the truth of it: the way you cling, the way you gasp, the way you let him worship you with teeth and tongue and desperate hands. He doesn’t give a single rat’s arse. He’s evil.

And god, Christ and all the saints he’s ever remembered the names of, he loves you.

He never expected this. Never expected you. You were cute. Smart. Sharp. He thought you’d be a momentary distraction, a splash of intrigue while he waited for Buffy to make her mind up about him. Buffy: a splash of color in his grey, dismal world. But then—you. Accepted him, listened like the stuff he said was important, like he mattered. Defended him, never shied away, never called him a thing or a demon or a monster, even though that’s what he is, what he’ll always be. You crept up on him, quiet and subtle-like until he caught sight of you across the room, laughing at something Xapper was saying to you, and it hit him over the head like your mum with that axe all those years ago. You happened, and he realised the truth. You have his dead, unbeating, black heart in your hand, and it fits there like it was always meant to.

He knows now. You’re the Gem of Amara in bitty, beautiful human form. Not just colour, but a supernova, blazing and teeming with vitality. Being with you is like feeling the sun on his face every goddamned day. Spike’s whole world is brighter with you in it.

Still, even now, there’s a flicker of doubt in his chest. A shadow. The part of him that’s been broken too many times. This can’t last, it whispers. This is too good, too soft. Things like this—things like her—don’t stay.

Then you look up at him, eyes sparkling under the Bronze’s lights. Your arms loop around his neck, your forehead presses against his. You breathe him in like you mean to keep him, and you say, “I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and just like that, the shadow’s gone. Everything’s still.

“I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and for once, the world is quiet. There’s only you.

It’s always been only you.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64333024/chapters/165146395

[cupcakeslushie]

Now that 2024 is coming to a close:

1) Of everything you've made this year, which ones are you the most proud of?

2) What are a few of your favorite things (art, comics, fics, etc) that someone else has made this past year?

1. Probably these two? (I’m leaving out EW comic pages, because I’m so happy to have finished another arc! So that whole thing counts as one lol). Also a pic of my big crawfish piece that sold after six months of putting it out at every market!! I’m very proud of it and happy it went to a good home!

2. This is much harder because there’s an insane amount that had me like 🤩 this year….

This piece of my angry boy, by @kathaynesart! It’s still my iPhone wallpaper!! She nailed the pose and the atmosphere!! He looks so badass!

This piece by @matchstique has also been my laptop screen for so long! (I also loved every single submission for this dtiys! It was my first time doing one, and I’ll definitely be doing another at some point. All the submission were so sweet, and amazing!

@tizeline drew me this for our secret Santa discord exchange and I love it!!!! It’s been my iPad screen! There’s so much whimsy and silliness 😂!!

As for fanfics I’ve been screaming about @qoldenskies’s Canary Continuity so much, it’s probably no secret that it’s my top fic of the year!! It’s just amazing.

A Bird in Your Teeth by stillateenageabomination for my Feral Leo AU absolutely destroyed me. I cried for forever 🥰

Also Service Manual by @fluffydice for my Kendratello AU was great! I loved the way they wrote Donnie’s healing

Neon Void by @sugarpasteltmnt was finished this year and it had me by the throat from start to finish!

Firefight by @remedyturtles was the perfect, equal (okay maaaybe not—more like 70/30) parts angst and comfort!! Amazing disaster twins fic!

@dandylovesturtles Emotional Support Water Bottles series has been great. Dandy is one of the best Rise authors that just absolutely NAILS every single brother’s voice and personality in their writing. I’d list everything else they’ve done this year, just because the second Dandy puts something new out, I am THERE.

And I just started re-reading Lemonade Leak by @turtleinsoup literally last night and read 21 chapters in one sitting, and can’t wait to fully finish catching up.

There’s about a thousand more links I wanna think of, but my brain is like a smooth piece of sea glass, and I can’t remember much more. But this fandom is so talented, I always wanna just go on and on and on for these things!

[dcandmarvelimagines]

sweeter than you ever knew. (pt. 1)

Series: pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 pt 4 pt 5 Pairing: Wade Wilson x Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6.8k Warnings: AFAB reader (uses she/her pronouns), 1st person POV, non-mutant Reader, some blood, Wade being too flirty for his own good, vaginal fingering, bathroom sex, dirty talking, the relationship with Logan is a "slow" burn in comparison. More smut to come, I swear. Author's note: Damn...it's been a while huh? My last comic related fic was in 2018, funny enough also because of a Deadpool movie. I was already sappy in a post before so I wont subject y'all to it. But this was intended to be a short little oneshot and has absolutely ballooned out of control. I'm thinking this will end up being five chapters. I will upload the second chapter concurrently with my ao3 upload, so if you prefer to read there, feel free! Also as a little aside: I am so unbelievably sorry that the reader's job working in outreach to help Al is barely described and is probably highly inaccurate. I was desperate not to get lost in the weeds of research on the subject. I needed something that would keep the reader out of the apartment most of the time and let the relationship grow differently, so neighbors was out of the question. If you work in community outreach (absolute angel), please just avert your eyes.

I used to think my life was boring. It was the same day in, day out. I never met anyone interesting or experienced new things. That changed when I knocked on an unassuming apartment door in a dingy building.

I worked in government outreach, providing assistance to elderly blind clients. I had been assigned to work with Althea Sanderson. Her file had listed her as combative and she didn’t disappoint. She absolutely hated my guts at first, grumbling about how she just needed her “disco dust” to keep going. She assured me that she had roommates and didn’t need me “thundering” around her small apartment. 

For nearly two weeks, I thought her mind had to have been slipping, because no one else would come from that apartment besides me. Imagine my shock when I walked into the place and found a hulking mass of a man, only in his boxers, in the kitchen. His brown hair, streaked with white, was wet after a shower and he was half heartedly rubbing at his shoulder with a towel covered in sparkly unicorns. “Who the hell are you?” He snapped, voice gruff. He glared at me like I had personally insulted him by my mere presence. My eyes darted all over him, the thick ropes of muscles in his arms, the harsh planes of abs, the thin sheen of dark hair on his chest, the trail disappearing into his boxers. The man yanked the fridge door open and snapped me from my drooling. 

I had barely stumbled my name out before Al, as she insisted I call her when she realized I wasn’t going anywhere, came around the corner, her hands guiding her along the wall. “Leave her alone Logan. She’s like herpes and I can’t get rid of her.” My lips pursed at the comparison. The man, Logan, huffed with either annoyance or laughter before padding away, beer clutched in his hand. For how big he was, I was shocked at how light on his feet he was. In comparison, I really did thunder around. 

“Oh! Do we have a new roomie!?” The voice trembled in excitement. Its owner bounded around the corner, clad only in low slung sweatpants, nearly tripping over the scraggly dog at his feet. I drew back, sucking in a sharp breath. The new man was no less tall than the other, but lean in comparison, with a wide chest and firm arms. But I was far more distracted by his skin. It was a mixture of mottled pink and white, looking more like swirled bacon fat than anything else. He was completely hairless but I saw the skin of his forehead rise. “Al, you didn’t say you had a hot granddaughter!” 

“Oh I’m not,” I said. While I was scheduled to be here for four hours, I was already contemplating how to escape the suddenly cramped apartment. 

“Does she look like she’s related to me dick for brains?” Al growled at him. The man shrugged, a megawatt smile plastered on his face as he picked up the dog and let it lick at his face. 

“She has the same wild sexual energy you do, my sweet black Betty White.” He walked closer, carelessly dropping the dog into Al’s lap just as she lowered herself into a creaky chair. The man theatrically bowed, snagging my hand to press a too wet kiss to my knuckles. His skin was unbelievably soft as it held mine, the grip light enough that I could pull away at any moment. “Wade Winston Wilson.” 

He was so close to me that I took a half step back. I gave him my name, just my first, and wriggled my hand free. “Um, I'm assuming your Al’s roommates?”

“Roommates is such a safe for work word, I prefer to be her personal pommel horse.” A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. Wade grinned at the sound and shit, his face softened in such a charming way that I felt my defenses come down just a little. 

“I don’t think you understand what a pommel horse is.” 

“Isn’t it something you ride? Get all flexable on?” 

After that first awkward day, all four of us fell into an easy routine. Al seemed to warm to me more, though her sharp tongue never faltered. Wade was a vibrating ball of energy whenever I came over. He bounced around the kitchen as I made Al her coffee or insisted I sit with them to watch Golden Girls . I came to realize that only his right hand was so soft, the left was scratchy and blistered, which was something I refused to think about any deeper. Logan remained standoffish and reserved but he was there when I needed a break from Wade’s constant talking. I would occasionally find him sitting on the fire escape, smoking the cigar that seemed permanently stuck to his fingers. We often just sat in silence while Wade and Al argued about Ikea furniture. 

I had always found their schedule strange. They would disappear for days, sometimes weeks, at a time with no rhyme or reason. I had originally thought they might be businessmen but Logan’s quick temper and Wade’s obnoxious energy clashed with the idea. Wade often talked about going to exotic places and had brought me back a diamond that he swears up and down is not only real, but is also the tip of a woman’s finger. 

The day I found out their real profession had started horribly. The train line to Al’s apartment had broken, so I had to take a cab there. I was flustered, hungry, and in desperate need of caffeine when I trudged up the five flights of stairs to Al’s apartment, because, of course , her elevator had broken. It was customary for me to knock twice, allowing Al to respond before I used my key to come in. Today, my knocks were much shorter. “Good morning Al,” I called, slipping into the door before turning to close and lock it. I spun and nearly screamed. 

“Oh hey,” Wade said, leaning against the wall of the kitchen, a mug clutched in his hand. I was far more distracted by three massive claw marks across his chest, blood oozing down his stomach, staining his plaid underwear. 

“Oh my god! Wade!” My keys and purse clattered to the floor as I rushed to him, bracing my hands against his chest. “What happened?! Holy shit, oh fuck.” I was babbling now, distracted by how sticky and hot the blood was. But his chest rumbled under my shaking hands. I glanced up and saw a smile on his face as he failed to contain his laughter. “What are you fucking laughing at?! You’re dying here and you're laughing?!” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear. Miss good samaritan knows such nasty words.” I tried never to swear around patients but this was a worst fucking case scenario. 

“Oh fuck off! You’re dying and you're laughing ‘cause I said a bad word?!” That only seemed to make him laugh harder. 

“Calm down sweetheart,” came a rough voice behind me. Logan had started to call me that more often, but it always felt like he was insulting me with the word. It usually had a stinge of annoyance laced around it, now was no different. “He’s fine.” I peaked over my shoulder, hands still pressed against Wade’s firm chest, about to argue with the other man about how un fine Wade was. I nearly screamed again. A knife was embedded into Logan’s shoulder. There was blood everywhere . On his bare chest, his face, his hands and arms. 

“Logan!” I wanted to reach for him but couldn’t without leaving Wade to bleed out. 

“Now peanut,” Wade cooed and slid out from under my touch. “I told you, baby knife is just for the bedroom.” With that, Wade yanked the knife from Logan’s shoulder. The spurt of blood made my head woozy and I gripped the counter to hold myself steady. Logan barely reacted to the five inch blade being ripped from his skin, just a small grunt. 

“What’s going on?” My voice was thick with confusion. They had clearly been mauled and attacked in their own home, yet they walked around like nothing traumatizing had just happened.

“Target practice,” Wade said, using a kitchen towel to clean baby knife. Logan turned and dropped on the worn couch, the springs screeching in protest. 

“What?” I grabbed at his wrist before he could walk away. “Wade, please, I hope you understand how jarring that was. Now, please explain and cut all the punny bullshit out.” Wade pressed a dramatic hand to his chest like I had insulted him. 

“We’re mutants.” My eyebrows knitted together as I stalked toward the living room. Logan sat there, whiskey already in hand. He seemingly hid a bottle everywhere. Wade followed behind before collapsing on top of Logan. The older man snapped his jaws like an animal and a little snarl escaped his throat. Wade grinned, tugged at his hair, before going to the other end of the couch. 

“Mutants? Like the X-Men?” The scowl Logan shot me turned my blood to ice. Some of that shock must have shown on my face because Logan glanced away, taking a hefty swig of whiskey, and Wade tugged at my bloody pinky. 

“Ignore him, the X-men are a touchy subject for him, and never touchy in the fun way.” He scratched at his chest, some of the blood smudging. The skin was…

“You’re healed?” I knelt before the couch, hands feeling his chest. “Holy shit I thought you were going to bleed out.” It was impossible. The wounds were deep , I could have sworn I saw bone before. 

“God I’ve thought about you kneeling there for so long.” Logan’s fist cracked into Wade’s arm. My hands flinched away and I quickly stood. “Hurtful peanut. You know my arms always take too long to heal.” 

“Stop being a fucking creep,” Logan hissed. I turned to him and saw that the wound in his shoulder was also gone. Without thinking, I bent to touch the smooth skin, as if I couldn’t believe it without feeling it as well. Logan went still under my touch. I knew Wade didn’t mind the physical contact, he practically threw himself at me whenever I was around, but Logan was always just out of reach. I was too frazzled to think correctly anymore. 

“So you can heal,” I mumbled. 

“Very fast,” Wade said. He grabbed the remote and clicked on the tv. 

“You can stop touching me now sweetheart.” Once again, I snatched my hands back with a mumbled sorry , a faint flush burning my cheeks. 

“Comes in real handy with our line of work.” Wade was bouncing his leg, the couch squeaking under him. Logan’s hand shot out to still him, knuckles showing white for a moment. Wade winced and I heard another snap.

“Which is…?”

Logan answered for me, “mercenaries.” 

“Oh,” I plopped down on the rickety coffee table. The information settled like a lead weight in my stomach. My first instinct was fear. They killed people for money. Would they then turn on me now? Curiosity tugged at me as well. I couldn’t explain it but there was something so magnetic about them. The edge of danger had always been there, especially with Logan. I would have never guessed it was this. Ever since I first met them, I knew I would be fascinated. I guess I had my answer as to why they were as fit as models. “How come I’ve never seen anything? Do you guys not have…guns or whatever?” 

“He didn’t want to scare you.” Logan jabbed his thumb Wade’s way. I cocked my head at Wade, a tiny smile pulling at my lips. He actually looked a little bashful. 

“I’ve found that women don’t always respond very positively to my intestines hanging out.” My stomach flipped and I sat a little straighter. 

“Has that happened?” 

“No, but a fortune teller told me it will happen when I least expect it.” He stood with an excited jump, moving to stand in front of a small closet. There was only a faint limp in his movement. As he walked, I became incredibly aware that both men were nearly naked, only clad in thin boxers. With every step, Wade’s well defined back flexed and his legs tensed. I only allowed myself a moment to take him in before I drew my gaze away. He turned and flung the door open with flourish. “Behold! My batcave!” I glanced inside, and found a tall gun case, massive stacks of ammo, and two katanas balanced against a red suit. There was a yellow one tucked next to it as well. “Mine is the red one, a very flattering color I assure you.” 

“The yellow one is yours?” Logan just gives me a curt nod. His face is stone again, clearly done with this conversation. “Do you use any of that?” I ask, motioning to the “batcave”, whatever the hell that means. 

Snikt.  

“Woah,” I whispered. The three blades protruding from between his knuckles were shiny and looked wicked sharp. I leaned forward and pressed the pad of my thumb against the middle blade. It immediately split the skin and a drop of blood oozed down my skin. Logan watched my warily, like I was liable to jump on the claws at any moment. “Do they hurt?” There were small beads of blood around where they had pierced through his skin. With a flex of his veiny forearm, the claws disappeared. The blades slid smoothly between the bones on the back of his hand.

“Yeah, everytime.” I watch his skin knit itself together again with rapt attention. Once it finished, I ran my injured thumb over the regrown skin, our blood smearing a thick stripe across his knuckles. Logan’s hand was relaxed as I held it. Wade flopped back onto the couch, his head in Logan’s lap, baby knife clutched in his hands. Logan seemed resigned, face relaxing just a bit, and allowed Wade to rest. He withdrew his hand from mine before resting his arm across Wade’s neck. The motion was surprisingly domestic and it made my heart warm. Behind me, the Golden Girls theme played. 

“Isn’t Al in danger with you two here? Don��t you have enemies that could find her?” The briefest sad expression flashed across Wade’s face. I stood suddenly, “oh my god where is she? Did someone already grab her and that’s why you were fucked up?” 

“She’s fine, probably wandering the streets or whatever women of her age do,” Wade made a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“Wade!” I stepped on his foot in my mad dash to my fallen purse. I needed my phone to do…something. Call someone? The phone call would sound ridiculous. Hi, I help a blind woman and her two mutant roommates are mercenaries and got her kidnapped. Yeah, totally believable. I had just snatched my bag up when the door opened and Al herself appeared. 

“Fucking Jesus,” she snapped as she ran into me. My body sagged in relief at seeing her. I gripped her shoulders, just to make sure she was actually there. 

“Oh my god Al, don’t fucking scare my like that.” Her hands flew up and shook out from my touch. 

“Well you were late!” I wasn’t. “Are those two done fucking yet?” I twisted to look at the men on the couch. Logan was half way out the window to smoke. I could have sworn I saw him lick at his bloody knuckles. Wade was studying me, the hint of a challenge in his eyes, daring me to say something about their relationship. I smiled, hoping it let him know I didn’t care. But that easy look might have been ruined when pieces fell together. The knife. The three slashes to Wade’s chest. Their near nakedness. 

Huh.

“Uh yeah Al, I think I ruined the mood for them.” She scoffed and shoved a grocery bag into my hands. I dutifully turned to the kitchen and began to store away the random assortment of items. She guided herself over to the coffee maker and began to load the grounds into a filter. 

“I think you are one of the biggest things that puts them in the mood honey.” I heard a growl float in from the window. 

Wade and Logan stopped avoiding me after finding out their true occupation. It never got any easier seeing their bloody bodies strew around the apartment. I slipped on enough stray bullets that I learned to watch my feet. Wade was always cleaning his guns with a concentration I didn’t think he was capable of. One night he forced me to sit down, offering his lap first and whimpered pitifully when I took the chair, and made me hold the gun, showing me how to cock it and flick the safety on and off. The name Chekhov was stamped across the side in shiny gold letters. “Do I really need to know this?” He leaned closer, cheek pressed to mine. His warm hands slid over my own, guiding me to a button that would pop the magazine out and helped me click it back into place. He had grown much bolder in his touching and I couldn’t bring myself to stop him anymore.

“Never know when you’ll need to flip the badass switch.” His bubbly finger tapped the glittering name for emphasis. I shifted in my seat to face him, my lips ghosting over his cheek. He followed my lead and our noses brushed. 

“I didn’t think I would need that with you around.” A beat passed as we looked at each other. There was something soft in his eyes that made my heart clench. “You’re going to protect me, right?” It wouldn’t take much to lean closer, to finally kiss him. I knew he was thinking the same thing and my eyelids fluttered closed in anticipation. 

The alarm for my Al’s meds broke the moment. 

I knew I was sliding into a sticky situation. I found myself staying later and later, well past my shift with Al had ended. It was absolutely forbidden for me to become involved with clients. The excuse that they weren’t technically my clients wouldn’t work on my boss. I needed to make a decision. Either stop working with Al or end any attachment to Wade, and Logan by extension. 

***

I’m not sure how Wade and I ended up on that date. He and Logan had been away on a job for a week. It was finally peaceful in the apartment but I couldn’t lie to myself, I had missed them. So I didn’t fight Wade too much when he asked “nicely”, aka demanded , he tag along while I ran errands for Al. She was the last person I had to visit for the day so I allowed him to drag me to a bar after I dropped her meds off. Logan had a dark look in his eyes when he saw Wade clutch my hand. “The old man is just jealous. He wishes someone would take him out, but he doesn’t do well in crowds, very bitey.” I smirked and let Wade choose our destination. His hand was steady around mine, giving it occasional squeezes as we rushed across busy streets. The bar he picked was properly seedy, full to the brim with haggard men with face tattoos. Normally, I would have run screaming from a place like this. But Wade was clearly well liked. He moved through the room, smiling and waving at everyone. He tried introducing me to some people but it was hard to keep their names straight. We found an empty booth tucked behind the row of pool tables. I eased onto the sticky laminate bench as Wade headed to the bar to get our drinks. I listen to the men next to my seat argue over who was supposed to break for their next game of pool while I waited. 

Wade returned with my drink, a neon green one for him, and two small shot glasses. I eyed them suspiciously as he passed me one of the whipped cream topped shots. “I thought it was only right to start our date with a blowjob.” I coughed on my laugh, examining the glass. He tapped his against mine before downing it and I followed his lead. It was pure sugar, nearly masking the burn of the alcohol. 

“Whoever made this has clearly never given a blow job. Way too sweet.” Wade grinned in that mischievous way he always seemed to when he was going to be especially gross. I had no idea why I was being so forward. But I felt light, happy. All my worries from work had melted away as Wade held my hand on our way here.

“Oh yeah? I’ve been told my cum is rather delicious. It’s all the pineapple I eat.” I rolled my eyes and matched his grin, propping my elbows on the table, head cradled between my hands. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a single fruit. Or a vegetable honestly.” Wade copied my pose, fluttering his nonexistent eyelashes. 

“How about you taste mine and I taste yours?” I pretended to contemplate, eyes scrunching, head tilting from side to side. My hand inched across the table before I plucked the cherry from Wade’s drink. He saw me, I could tell by the minute flick of his gaze, but he let me take it regardless. I yanked it from the stem with my teeth and chewed thoughtfully. 

“Hm, I’m not sure. Don’t you think Al would talk if you were moaning my name so much?” He grabbed my wrist and dragged my hand closer. My breath caught as his lips enveloped my index finger and thumb. His tongue lazed over them before he drew back, the cherry stem between his teeth. 

“Sweetie pie, I moan it enough as is.” I blushed and my stomach grew warm. The stem disappeared, his jaw moving. “I haven’t been able to convince the old bastard to dress like you yet. But he lets me pretend.” I took a big gulp of my drink and glanced away. The patrons were starting to get more boisterous. Their shouts echoed off the peeling wallpapered walls as they called for more rounds or catcalled some of the working girls. I watched as a pretty blonde walked off with two men. Would Wade and Logan take turns? Or would they pin me between them, spreading me open on both of their- “Jealous?” My head whorled back to him but only found a knowing glint in his eyes. 

“Shut up,” I growled and took another deep drink. Wade’s tongue lolled out, in the center was a perfectly knotted stem. I shifted in my seat. This was not how I had intended the night to go. I wanted just a drink, conversation, and then home for a long awaited rest. But here I was, squirming at the mere sight of Wade’s tongue. “Impressive,” I mumbled. I reached across the table and plucked the stem from him. It looked like he was going for another kiss but my hand drew back too fast.

“I know it’s impressive. Just spelling out my name gets it all twisted like that.” I rolled my eyes with a smirk. 

“You didn't strike me as a guy who would spell his name out. I thought you might be a little more creative.” He leaned closer, eyes just a bit too wide. 

“Oh? What were you imagining I would do? I have a lot of skills and I’ll use them all on you.” Damn it . I finished off my drink and the booze buzzed down my body as it settled inside me. A small voice in my head reminded me that I needed to pick. That if I went down this road with Wade, I needed to stop visiting Al. But fuck, I craved the feeling of his hands on me. I dreamt of him and Logan anytime I saw them. My brain became more and more depraved as the weeks went on. I could barely look at them sometimes without blushing. 

“Wade,” I sighed, twirling my straw in the slowly melting ice. “If we do anything, I have to stop working with Al. It’s a conflict of-“ he held a scarred hand up and my voice died away. 

“No work talk. It’s Friday, let me show you a good time.” I sighed again but nodded. 

The night passed blissfully. Wade was a strangely great date, much better than any guy I’ve been with recently. He asked me a million questions, ranging from my childhood, food allergies, to my favorite Mexican food. He gave me half joke responses about his own childhood, but gave me enthusiastic answers to everything else . He bought me another drink after he finished his but I was careful to sip mine slowly. The last thing I needed was a hangover. He also brought some greasy fries and I dove into them gratefully. We played one round of pool, which he won by only a few points. Then he promptly annihilated me in darts. “So unfair,” I groaned. “You do this for a living, I would have never won.” 

“I thought you being sexy would distract me enough. Strip, then you’ll win.” I had that pleasant buzz running through me so his words just made me giggle. 

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that.” I held up my hand to cut off his next words. “Not now you horny bastard.” He pouted, lip stuck a full inch off his face. I playfully plucked at it. “Pout all you want. You gotta put more effort in to get me naked.” 

That was perhaps the wrong choice of words because he bent down, his lips colliding with mine. I gasped but grabbed at his sweatshirt, clinging to him. He kissed like he wanted to eat me, all tongue and spit. He tasted as sweet as candy from the bright cocktails he had. It made my head swirl, skin heat. His hands moved to my hips and traced the sliver of exposed skin before they dove into my back pockets, and jerked me closer. I moaned into him as I felt the hard ridge in his pants pressed against my hip. The few whoops from our onlookers made me pause. “Probably not the best place.” Wade’s voice was a little husky, lips still close enough to mine that they moved with his words. 

“No,” I mumbled. But neither of us disentangled from each other. “I should probably go home.” Wade sighed and straightened. He nodded, tucking a loose lock of hair behind my ear. 

“Fuck you look gorgeous.” His voice was barely audible under the conversations and the music. I opened my mouth to say something but he cut me off. “I gotta hit the head then I’ll take you home.” He removed my hands from his sweatshirt, but still held one as he guided me to where the bathrooms were, situated at the end of a long hallway. “Wait here, don’t get too many men drooling over you.” Once he disappeared into the men’s room, I let out a breath. He was overwhelming, equal parts sweet, filthy, and ridiculous. The last thing I wanted to do was be responsible. To go home and ignore all the things he made me feel. I had already gone too far, what were a couple more steps? I bit at my thumb nail and watched the bathrooms intently. I didn’t see any women come or go into theirs. I scanned the bar and only found a handful of them. I knew I would have it mostly to myself. 

Cautiously, as if I was somehow breaking a law, I walked down and into the women’s bathroom. It was empty, mostly clean, and smelled fine. Which I’m sure is more than I could say about the men’s. I propped myself against the wall in the hallway, waiting for Wade to emerge again. Two men passed before I saw him. “Aw, I don’t need an escort out of this creepy hallway.” I roughly grabbed his shirt, and backed into the still empty bathroom. “Oh wow, the promised land.” 

I slammed him against the door, far too rough from nerves, but his face lit up nevertheless, a little excited laugh escaping him. “How about you show me those skills you talked about, yeah? Consider this a trial period before I let you fuck my brains out.” He didn’t need to be told twice. He hauled my body tight against his, lips crashing against mine again. This time, I gave into his kisses completely, his teeth tugging at my lips. There was a pinch of pain each time but it only made me claw at his neck harder. Judging by the groan he let out, I think I broke through skin. His tongue prodded its way into my mouth and I moaned loudly against him. His hands slid all over my body before they hooked behind my knees and he carried me to the counter. He lifted me like I weighed nothing. My head was beginning to grow fuzzy from our kiss but I refused to part, greedily sucking air from him instead. 

Wade was the first to rear back, gulping down lungfuls of air. I wanted to drag him back and kiss him till I was lightheaded again. “Goddamn woman,” he mumbled. I just hummed, moving my desperate kisses to his jaw. My hands crawled up his shirt and littered his torso with scratches. He leaned closer, my head hitting the mirror behind me, as he gripped my hips and dragged me flush against him. My legs curled around his waist, craving the feeling of his hard cock against me. 

“Wade,” I whined while I ground my hips against his. I found a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear that made him rasp my name. He cupped the back of my neck, leading me back to his greedy mouth. His thumb brushed along my jaw before his fingers delicately laid across my throat. I arched my neck to give his hand better access to the column of muscle. But his hands slipped from me entirely so he could shove my shirt over my breasts. He buried his face between them, peppering the skin with long, sucking kisses. “ Wade,” I moaned, hips bucking desperately against him, “I need you to fuck me.” His hand went to my jeans, pulling the button free and easing the zipper down. I yelped when his teeth captured a bit of flesh and bit down, hard . But the sting of pain only made me crave him more. Finally his hand plunged under my jeans and into my underwear. 

“So wet all ready,” he hummed, biting at more of my skin. He drifted over my clit in loose, but firm circles. With his free hand, he worked the cup of my bra down and captured my nipple in his mouth. I thursted against his hand in an attempt to get him to do more, to bend me over this sink and fuck me like I knew he wanted to. Instead, he traced the tip of his finger over my entrance and had the nerve to chuckle when I tried to force it inside. 

“ Jesus, Wade , stop teasing me.” My voice was airy, tinged with desire. His teeth glanced across my nipple and I nearly wailed. “Wade!” My nails went to his head and dug into his scalp, heels digging into his ass in annoyance. 

“I love the way you say my name, pretty girl.” His finger drove into me, pumping in and out quickly. He sucked one last bruise onto the top of my breast before he was kissing and licking back up my neck. 

“ More , Wade,” I panted, “you aren’t going to break me.” He laughed, the sound sending goosebumps across my feverish skin. Another finger worked its way into me and my eyes rolled back at the stretch, a sigh catching in my throat.  His thumb moved into more controlled figure eights. My legs trembled around him as he crooked his fingers inside, hunting for that spongy spot inside me. “Wade, oh fuck.” 

“God you moan so nice for daddy Wade.” Something between a laugh and a sob of pleasure bubbled up from my chest. Heat oozed through my body, settled deep in my stomach. 

“I’m not gonna call you that. Ah, keeping doing that, so good.” 

“Are you going to call Logan daddy when he makes you wiggle like this?” He found his mark and stroked the spot deep inside me with complete focus. My hips bore down on his hand, chasing for the orgasm I sensed. “ Aww seems like you like the idea. You’re sucking me in so much.” He bit more bruises on my neck, tongue lapping at the skin after to soothe the ache. “I can’t wait to see you stretched on his big dick.” 

I whimper, the tension inside me near breaking point. “Yours first.” The coil finally snapped. My eyes squeezed shut as a stream of his name and half gasps fell from my chapped lips. His free hand pinned my hip to the counter to stop its wild jerks. He scattered soft kisses across my face and cheeks as he worked me through my orgasm. It seemed to last an eternity and the waves of bliss made my body tingly. 

Eventually, my body relaxed and slumped against the mirror, chest heaving. Wade’s fingers remained in me, lazily plunging inside. Now that the haze had passed, I could hear just how wet I was. The lewd noises echo off the cramped bathroom’s tiles. “Wade,” I mumbled, tugging weakly at his wrist. “You should get to fucking me now.” 

“ Ew , how about you guys don’t. Do you know how dirty it is in here?” I jumped at the voice, scrambling to cover myself. Wade shifted himself to block me from view as I did. His fingers withdrew with a pop that made my face heat even more. The woman idly scrolled on her phone to give us privacy. My bra was fixed, shirt back over my chest, in record time. 

Wade was fine to let us wait it seemed. His sticky fingers lingered on my stomach, running over the curves and stretch marks, before he buttoned up my pants. “Okay sugar bean, let’s get you home.” He helped me off the counter, my weak legs wobbling just a bit. He kept his firm arm around me for support anyways. I had half a mind to think it was just to keep touching me. I didn’t mind and leaned into his side, head against his chest. 

The night was cool, the slight bite of oncoming autumn in the crisp air, and I breathed it in. My head felt clearer with each one. I went to pull away first, to tell him that I would see him on Monday, but he kept walking. “Where are we going?” 

“Gonna take you home.” I blinked. 

“How do you know this is the way to my place?” He made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. 

“Is some light stalking a turn off?” I knew I was crazy, absolutely insane, because all I did was beam up at him and cling closer. We made our way to my apartment in long winding segments. First the train where he pulled my legs over his and kissed at my wind whipped cheeks. Then a stop at a late night burger chain where Wade promptly drowned his in ketchup. We walked slowly to my apartment, hand in hand. Exhaustion had finally reached me and my feet dragged behind me. The night had only grown colder, breath misting in front of our faces. I was wearing a light jacket as I anticipated being home before the drop in temperature. I drew Wade’s arm closer, pressing it against my chest, clinging to the bit of heat. “You know, if we were both naked you would be warmer.” I rolled my eyes. 

“That’s absolutely not how that works. Also, my place is just around the corner.” We only had to walk a few more steps before I saw the familiar entrance to my apartment. Wade followed me to my door, leaning against the rail, waiting for me to fish my keys out of my purse. Once I had them in hand, I also tugged my phone from my pocket. “I don’t have your number.” I oddly felt shy, like this was too much of a leap. It felt more official like this. When I held it out for him, he took it eagerly, fingers tapping quickly. Then he kept typing. I peered down at my phone and saw him adding information for Asshole GILF, surrounded by an assortment of hearts. Quite frankly, I didn’t even know Logan had a phone, I had never seen him with it. 

My stomach dropped when I saw Wade open a conversation with Logan and began typing. I was only able to read the words horny and get it up before I snatched my phone back. “Oh my god Wade!” I rapidly deleted the text, refusing to read anymore of his nonsense sexting. “I would prefer Logan to not think I’m trying to jump his bones.” 

“Aw come on! Live a little. Logan loves people who come on too strong, especially on his face.”  

“I think you are probably the exception, Wade. Logan doesn’t seem to want much to do with me.” His cold palms cupped my cheeks and drew me closer. 

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, just you and me, yeah?” I nod, arms encircling his waist. The warmth of his chest spread into mine. “Logan dreams about you. He growls your name. He humps me in his sleep like a teenage boy. Then he wakes up and fucks me for hours.” My face heated at his words. I could feel him getting hard against my hip. “He wants you so bad it makes him crazy.” He pushed against me, just the slightest bit. “ I want you so bad it makes me crazy.” I realized that I never repaid the favor at the bar before being interrupted. 

“Do you want to come upstairs?” Wade smirked, kissing the apples of each cheek then my nose. 

“No, I’m gonna surprise Logan. He’ll go nuts when he smells you on me.” I blinked in confusion. I didn’t smell that bad, did it? “He has enhanced senses,” he explained. “He’ll be able to smell your cum on my fingers from outside the apartment.” 

“Oh god,” I mumbled, stuck between embarrassment and arousal. “Okay, well, don’t keep Al up.” 

“She has ear muffs.” I shook my head, chuckling at the absurdity. Wade pecked at my lips but didn’t allow me more. “Goodnight baby girl. Make sure you text me so I know who you are. So many crazy fangirls, you wouldn’t believe it.” 

“Uh huh,” I teased, finding the key fob for my building. Wade left one lingering kiss on my forehead before giving me a nudge toward my door. The scanner beeped, door releasing with a click. I wedged the door open before it could lock again. “Goodnight, see you Monday.” I blew him a kiss before the door clicked behind me as I went to the elevator. I reached for my phone and searched for Wade in my contact list. Of course I found him listed as Bootycall . Instead of solely hearts, his name was circled by eggplants and hearts. 

Me: you have to send me a picture for your profile. I could have missed you 

The elevator dinged and the door slid open. I traced my usual route to my apartment, jiggling the lock open with my key. My phone buzzed on the counter as I set it down to toe off my shoes and hang my coat up. 

Bootycall: once I’m done with Logan, I’ll send pictures for the both of us. 

Bootycall: Do you have other fuckbuddies? How could you? We should be the only ones for you

I woke up late the next day to two pictures. One was blurry, but the brown hair and a pointy white tooth told me it was Logan. It seemed Wade had tried to sneak it and was caught. The picture of Wade nearly made me faint. Pearly white beads of cum were splattered across his face and dripped off his exposed tongue. 

Me: I can’t possibly make that your contact picture

Bootycall: you’re right! Make it your background!

[ckneal]

Has anyone written a fic where Luo Binghe finds out that Shang Qinghua wrote his entire world into existence and about Shen Yuan's history obsessing over it online, and just. . .doesn't tell his husband about it? I kind of want to read a story where Shang Qinghua is trying to establish a more peaceful work/life balance, maybe in the aftermath of his reconciliation with Mobei Jun at the end of the SQH extras, only to have Luo Binghe constantly breaking into his room to ask what storylines his Shizun liked the most and how to trigger them.

Bonus points if Shang Qinghua can't really remember what chapters Peerless Cucumber actually left positive feedback on (after all, it's been 50 years or so, and praise wasn't really what Shen Yuan was serving) and starts feeding Luo Binghe inaccurate information just to get rid of him, leading to Shen Yuan internally screaming as he's dragged through a series of highly avoidable situations that are not only life threatening, but also re-ignite the fire behind some of his wildest rants as well.

Has anyone written that yet? Can someone send a link?

(Bonus bonus points if Mobei Jun's jealously lurking in the background because Luo Binghe keeps showing up in the middle of the night to demand intel from SQH and Mobei gets the wrong idea watching his boss skipping out of SQH's room.)

[milkmily]

Invitation [Zayne]

Zayne x non mc! reader

Sum. You and Zayne got an invitation to a wedding, but it was to attend the wedding of the people you two love, both heartbroken. (Angst(?), a bit of Sylus x reader, nothing romantic happens in this chapters yet, There is comfort in a way ig idk guys I suck at this lol enjoy)

Layla is MC (my oc) to clear things up :) Also sorry if there are typos I did re read but at times I sometimes miss some even if I do re read it lol. Also me posting this after we got a new 5 star card released!? Craazzyyy lol I am definitely getting Zayne and Caleb on everyone's soul.

Here | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 ->

Zayne is in love with Layla, his soulmate. The one who he is distant To be, the one who he loves and cherishes. She was his destiny. But when he had gotten the letter to her wedding, he was just devastated. This wasn't supposed to go like this. This was one of the universes that he'd get to change the fate of it all, to finally be with her.

And here he stands at the wedding, both Sylus and Layla dancing together slowly. She married a man named Sylus. He's heard of him from times that Layla would go to his office to spend time with him. He didn't think much of it really. He thought that they were just friends. She always meets someone new with how kind she is. But never did he think that this would happen. He was happy, well, not truly happy.

He looks down at the glass of champagne he had at his hand. He sighs and sits down, no longer standing the sight of seeing the love of his life dance with someone else. He should be happy for God's sake! If he loves her he should. But…he just simply couldn't. The soft slow music still played as there was a small crowd watching them dance. “You came here for the bride Or the groom?” He heard someone say. He turned to his right and saw you. He's seen you before. You are one of Layla's friends. He just never knew your name or talked to you. “The bride…” he said as he fixed his glasses. You hummed and sat next to him. “You don't seem to enjoy the celebration.” Was it that obvious?

“No, I am. I've been told I just look cold.” He says back to you as his eyes move to look at Layla and Sylus. Your eyes moved too to look at the two newlyweds. “I'm here for the groom.” You say. “He's my boss.” You chuckled. “Layla has told me about you. She says you're her doctor.” So she does talk about him. He looked at you and nodded. But Your eyes were still glued to the happy couple that danced. Your eyes, they showed pain and hurt, maybe even betrayal? The same exact feelings he himself feels. They also were a bit puffy, had you cried for them because you were happy for them? “You also look like you aren't enjoying the celebration.” He says. You snapped and looked at him. “It's that obvious? Jeez…” you sighed. “Not really a big fan of crowds.” He wasn't sure but it seemed like a lie to him.

“I am Zayne.” He says. You smiled at him and said your name. Ah, that's your name. It suits you.

It was 4 am when you woke up. You took a shower, got ready, made breakfast and got ready for work. You sat down on your desk and saw A small white envelope. You smiled, already knowing who it was.

You flipped it and it had his name on it. Sylus. You hummed, wondering what it might have been and opened it. You take out the letter and read it. Your eyes went wide as you saw the two names next to each other and the big words that said, You're invited to our wedding.

You see the names again and your stomach starts to hurt. Married? Sylus and Layla?

You re Read it to be right and even check the date to see if it was some stupid prank that Layla had pulled. But no, it wasn't April 1 and it definitely was real as it had below Sylus signature you knew so well.

This hurt, seeing the letter at hand. “So, will you be coming, dear?” You looked up to see Sylus leaning on the desk. You looked down at the letter. Seeing him hurt even more now. “Yes, of course. How could I miss it?” You say yet, your tone cracked a bit. you Were trying so hard to hold in your tears. You start to cough In hopes that Sylus thought you'd simply gotten a cold. “That's good to know.” He Smiled. “You don't need to worry about the dress or anything, I'll have it ready. They just need to measure you and that's all.” You looked up at him, his red eyes Looking right back at you. Of course he'd do that, he always does. And that's what you loved about him, one of the many things you loved about him.

“Okay…thank you.” You smiled. “Um, I'll be right back.” You say and excuse yourself. You go into the restroom, lock the door and sit down on the floor as you hold on to the letter. You just start to sob uncontrollably as you hold the letter and reread it every single time. It waa true. It was real. And it hurt so much.

You have loved Sylus for so long. His gestures, the way he talked, walks, the way he is is what made you fall in love. His touch is so soft that you'd Wish for more from just his single shoulder squeeze Or the hold he had on you as you two had danced together that one night having to pretend to be a couple on a mission. The night you two stared into each other's eyes, your heart beating quick and fast as he had that smile On his face that made you melt. Or the times he'd invite you out to eat dinner, showed you his vinyl collections and heard his horrible singing That made you laugh and made him chuckle. Everything of him you loved and had wished it would have been your name on the card.

The dress was beautiful, it truly was. Sylus knew what would look good on you, always. The wedding was beautiful and welcoming. Everything was beautiful. Even Layla. Her gorgeous wedding dress and the huge Smile in her face as she walked down the aisle. The tears she shed as she heard Sylus vows was even beautiful. And how Sylus looked at her with such loving eyes as she read her vows. But it hurt. You don't know how many times you had to excuse yourself just to cry alone in the bathroom.

You had just gotten done crying, walking back to the party to see the groom and bride dancing together To a slow and soft song. You watched them and just smiled at them. No matter how much you wished and vision it was you, the reality never changes and it will stay like this. You saw someone sitting alone and approached them. Might as well make new friends, no? As you got closer you noticed, this was Dr. Zayne. The Doctor that Layla talked About a lot, her childhood friend and primary doctor. You sat down next to him and ask, “You came here for the bride Or the groom?” You already knew the answer but it's the best way to start a conversation no? You saw he wasn't enjoying the celebration much but maybe that's just how he Looks? So you ask and he explains that it's just how he looks. But to you, it felt like a lie.

You looked back at the dancing married couple, but more at Sylus. His arm wrapped around her waist, exactly how he had held you that night as you two danced, his other Hand holding her hand, fingers intertwined, exactly How you gwo held hands as well and-

“You also look like you aren't enjoying the celebration.” You snapped out of your thoughts and looked at him, smiling nervously. You were caught so off guard. “It's that obvious? Jeez…” you sighed. You Just came up with some stupid excuse. “Not really a big fan of crowds.

“I am Zayne.” He says. You smiled at him and said your name back to him. Zayne nods. And You two just talk, as if the crowd was never there, as if you two were never at a wedding. As if you were never heart broken.

You two ended up talking the whole wedding party. You'd laugh at his stupid and horrible jokes because come on, they were actually funny. And he'd Laugh at your horrible jokes as well. You told him about Sylus and how he was as a boss and he told you about Layla and how it was growing up with her.

“You two are here to talk or for the celebration?” You two looked at who talked and it was Layla. She was smiling at you two and you awkwardly looked away. “Both…?” You say and she laughed. “Come on! You two have to dance or something! You two are boring.”

“Now Kitten, you already know how [Name] is, she doesn't like dancing.” He says as he had two glasses of champagne at hand. You embarrassingly looked away as he said that. Well, now Zayne knows too. “Zayne here is the same.” Layla says and now Zayne looks away as well. You two looked at each other and chuckled. Layla holds her hand out towards Zayne and he takes it. Suddenly he's pulled away and you laugh at how wide His eyes got. Suddenly a big hand is Held at front of you. “Care for a dance?” He asks and you look up at him. Your heart beats fast And place your hand on top of his.

The song was slow like last Time. Some guests were dancing as well. Sylus wrapped his arms around your waist and you placed your hands on his shoulders to keep a distance. You two slowly dance and you just stare at his chest. “You're hiding something from me.” He says. You say nothing because It's true. You're hiding so much from him right now. “You Can tell me.” He says. You close your eyes as you hold back the tears. “Look up at me.” He says and you do, you open your eyes and they slowly adjust Themselves. You saw Sylus Smiling down at you as he slowly moves along with you.

“Tell me.” He whispers. He truly does care about you.

“I can't right now.” You say. It would be horrible To confess your feelings on his wedding day. What type of person does that? “When will you?” he asks. “When it's the right Time.” You say and continue to dance with him. He brought you closer, your head in his chest now, hearing the soft heart beats and you closed your eyes. You simply let the moment happen.

Zayne looked over at you and Sylus and as Sylus Slowly turns, he saw a tear slide down your cheek as your ear was pressed against his ches. He looked away and looks down at Layla as she danced along with him.

She was gorgeous, really. She looked so beautiful with the white dress she had on, how she had her hair up in a big bun with some curls out and her bands To the side. She is So gorgeous. Is this how she Would of looked if They got married? Would she hold him exactly how she held Sylus when they danced? Kissed him the same way? This was wrong, truly wrong. But he cannot stop how he feels, he's human after all. Layla looked up at him and smiled, “You're thinking right now Zayne, what is it?”

“Nothing.” He says as he smiles softly down at her. “Hmmm, it better not be work related. At my wedding, work is not welcomed.” She said and giggled. Zayne Chuckles and shakes his head. “No, it's not work. Don't worry.” He says. “I'll try to visit you as much as I can, Dr. Zayne. And I won't miss any appointments either.” She says, reassuring him. He nods and says, “Good to hear.”

“Thank you for coming.” She says as she looks at him. “Really, it means a lot that you're here.” But if only she knew that he felt like a damn storm right now. He nodded at her and they continued to dance. That's when Sylus Tapped his shoulder and said, “I'll have to steal her from you now.” Layla let's go of Zayne and he watched her leave with Sylus so they'd dance together. That's when he saw you standing as well. You looked hurt too. The same pain as his. And right then and there, he knew you were Also in love.

He walks up To you and asks, “you really don't like to dance?” You looked at him and shrugged. “It really depends..” He held his hand out and asked, “do you want to dance?” you looked at his hand and held it. He slowly brings you closer to him and holds you. You closed your eyes as you Pressed your ear against his chest and danced with him. He looked down at you and saw you shaking. “It's okay.” He whispers. And it breaks you. You let out soft and quiet Sobs as you danced with him. He holds you a bit more tighter, reassuring you. You held on to him as you two danced and felt him let out a shaky sigh.

Well, now he knows it wasn't because you didn't like big crowds. And you now knew that it wasn't because of his expression.

You two were truly broken.

There will be a part two :)

[thewritingfairy]

I'm back and God that chapter you just posted!

Lovely. *Chef kiss*

I was thinking of some things. One of them is how the Batfam sees the reader and her pain so unseriously Because of "oh she doesn't know real danger". but she does.

They are used to danger. Numb to it and trained to face it. Reader is not.

They have their safe spaces. Reader does not anymore.

They have each for support if they are in danger. Reader doesn't have that.

They can choose to go out to face the danger. She lives with the danger and the other comes and goes as he please, completely out of control.

If i was in reader situation with all these facts I'd be scared for my life. I'll probably have a woupen with me at all times because I can never know where the danger may come from. (Especially if Jason is close).

If I was in her place and found out that they are vigilants I'll be too disappointed and probably be more likely to keep woupens close. Outside or inside. I mean Gotham is not safe to begin with but I'll probably feel that if they saw me in danger in their vigilant suits they will not care.

I remember a TikTok that said that Bruce is the Villein and the biggest winner in Gotham. That person said that Bruce owns Arkema yet didn't upgrade it enough to keep the criminals in or even protect the workers more.

He build and by hospitals. He buys a lot of small businesses after they almost fall because of the crime rate and keeps the workers in them. These things seem like just good stuff but remember that they get more money to his pockets and boost his reputation.

All so he keeps going out at night to beat villains. He sees what they do.

This person also said that there's a comic where Bruce use his money and social power to help more then Batman and it make better and more positive changes.

If I was in Reader's place and found out his batman. Just a little surch on the internet and I'll connect these dots and start to see him as the worst man alive. Especially with how he treats me.

Also. Sorry for anything wrong. English is not my first language and I'm typing fast right now.

😶‍🌫️

Mention chapter: 05 - Tim doesn't understand you

Right??? They are so apathatic to their own trauma that they see (Name)'s trauma as something small. But I've read the comments on that chapter en responded to some, and I was genuinely like; wow people find this enraging, wow people feel sympathy for the Reader and wow people think this is angst. It has been making me re-think some family dynamics (I've not been neglected or anything, we just don't communicate that well in my family) and also my ability to recognize angst. I do hope its a bit lighter than chapter 04.1, because it was supposed to be a light-hearted chapter--

But that Tiktok, they are kinda right.

But I think that Bruce's privilege makes him unable to see how much harm his public persona does. If his public persona was someone that was up to changing Gotham, up to changing Gotham's legacy besides being a playboy or a smug prick.

(Name) has that same privilege but they are desperate to not be like Bruce, so they make sure to be socially aware.