#but he didn’t. and he feels horrible for not fully knowing the story behind hollow. but how could he?

[thehappiestgolucky]

Someone in the tags of my last Xero post (you know who you are) talked about the similarities between a doodle and Hollow so naturally I couldn’t stop thinking about Xero and Hollow.

I love the idea that Xero was a loved and respected knight. The idea he saw Hollow as a child and knew, knew, this was a child. And Hollow so, so young, feeling guilt about even letting this knight show kindness and love to them - when they were meant to be hollow (oh but they couldn’t be)

Do you think they felt guilty? When they overheard Xero raise his voice at the King, quickly hushed, because he dared suggest Hollow was a child? When they started seeing this knight less and less, scared that their father was furious at him? When suddenly this knight was executed, for betraying the king? Was it their fault? Should they have never allowed him to be himself, ran to avoid indulging in the tiny moments of someone looking at them as a person? Did they even know Xero was falling to the infection? Would that make it feel worse?

They were both victims of an infection, bound by gods with their own desires. No one wins in a gods game.

[ashleyh713fanfics]

Dazai X Odasaku!Sister Ch10

Chapter 10: "Maybe With You, This Could Be Home"

Summary: A power struggle between the fifteen year old boy and the demon that lays within him. Which is the truth, and which is a fabrication?

Warning: pm! fifteen year old dazai, dazai self destructing, Odasaku death mentions, dazai torturing himself and everyone around him, manipulative behavior from both sides, mori mentions and grooming themes, underage drinking, talks of suicide. I gave Oda's sister a name but you can imagine it as y/n.

(This is chapter ten of my fanfic "Timeless" which is now on A03. It carries on from the three part intro I posted a couple days ago. I'll link it below to fully understand the story. Oda's death has been moved up to when Dazai is fifteen for plot purposes. Asagao's ability is to stop time for up to six seconds.)

Three Part Intro Here: (just cause the first chapter is so long)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

A03 Version Here:

Word count: 8k total

One Year Ago

Sitting across their usual spots at Bar Lupin, Ango and Oda waited patiently for their other friend to join them only for the glasses-wearing informant to break the silence first. “I still don’t know what to make of that boy..” 

Odasaku only raised an eye though, his fingers reaching around the golden colored alcohol in front of him without a care in the world.  “Who, Dazai?” 

Nodding once, Ango frowned. “Yeah, that kid is like an enigma. I can’t ever understand what he’s thinking. What about you, Odasaku? Do you understand him?”

The red haired man paused then, his head lifting up the ceiling in order to think about his question. He had known Dazai for a couple years now, ever since he had shown up in front of his doorstep covered in blood. 

He could still picture it like it was yesterday, the events that brought him here. “Well, I don’t think anyone could ever truly understand him, but I have a couple ideas..”

Leaning forward in interest, Ango coaxed. “Please share..”

And for a moment, Odasaku’s mind traveled back to a certain red haired girl that he had known maybe just as well as the boy. Perhaps that is how he could come to these conclusions, because he was drawing experience from somewhere else. 

Pushing his head down to stare back at his liquor, Oda spoke honestly. “He's sharp witted with a mind like a steel trap..”

Stopping himself then, the man pushed his lips in silent thought. Yes, that was common knowledge, something even he was sure Dazai knew already. He was a port mafia executive after all, the youngest in the history of the organization. 

But there was something else, something that not even the boy probably realized. Something that he tried to hide, and yet would always be buried deep underneath. 

 “And he's just a child━a sobbing child abandoned in the darkness of a world far emptier than the one we're seeing.”

------

Present

Hours. 

Dazai spent hours with his victims, his fingers sticky with blood as he finally threw the descared knife on the ground of the unmoving and unrecognizable man. He had done what Mori had requested, what he was designed to do with his own horrible monstrous hands. 

He had slashed his knife through every single pathetic whining baby that Mori had brought in front of him and made them talk one by one until there was no more.

All the information was received, and now there was nothing left but to stare blankly at the dead body in order for the heart crushing disappointment and guilt to quietly suffocate him with each breath. 

He didn’t feel like a man or boy. He didn’t feel any sense of humanity anymore, that fleeting feeling back in Mori’s office now completely and utterly dissipated. Now there was only the demon, the monster that laid beneath it all. 

Numb, empty, a hollow shell that’s all he was. 

He vaguely heard the sound of footsteps only to feel his boss’ hands grace his shoulders from behind, eyeing the work with satisfaction. “I knew you could do it. Good job, Dazai.” 

The boy didn’t respond though, his body unmoving at Mori’s fingers clawed deepered into his jacket with ease. “Oda was a fool to treat you like a child. In fact, it was wrong to assume you could ever be one. You have been and will always be so much more than that.” 

His tone was cruel and mocking, like he was proving some kind of sick point and Dazai knew that’s why he did this. The boss was proving to the executive that he was right all along, that he didn’t deserve the term “child” not when it held the connotation of innocence and naivety. 

That he could pretend, he could wish for himself to be a fifteen year old boy but in reality that would never be the case. Odasaku’s gentle manner towards him was a lie, that's what Mori wanted to get across. 

And he had, he really did, because looking down at the mutilated body and bloodied clothes stuck to his skin, Dazai didn’t feel like anything else but a monster, a demon prodigy and an inhuman machine. 

He had desecrated his best friend's final wish, he had mocked Odasaku’s sister’s kind words, he had disappointed and betrayed both of them in the worst way possible. What was wrong with him? Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he change? 

Death was the only thing that he deserved now. He deserved to be wiped from this earth completely without a single trace. But even a sweet release seemed unworthy from his grasp now. 

Feeling the hands fall from his shoulders, Mori then took a step back before allowing his puppet to be swallowed by the darkness completely. “Now, have a wonderful night. Dazai. You’ve earned it.” 

The next few minutes were a blur, the brown haired mafioso robotically moving to the nearby sink in order to run the scalding hot water on his skin to rid of the blood before slowly undoing his bandages around his arms in order to clutch the metal sides with silent despair. 

He couldn't even bring himself to look into the mirror, already knowing what he was going to find. A disappointment, a traitor and a lifeless corpse staring back at him. No, he didn’t want to see, he didn’t want to come to terms with such a sight. 

Silently re-wrapping the hideous sight with a new batch of gauze, Dazai then stepped back with a sigh. And though the blood was physically gone, he could still feel it. Coating his skin, corrupting his mind like some sort of punishment. 

He couldn’t just simply erase what he had done here today. 

The world wasn’t ever that kind. 

Muscle memory then seemed to bring him back to the familiar apartment buildings he seemed to always slump back to, the demon’s steps slow and silent as he passed by hoards of faces he couldn’t care enough to recognize or acknowledge. 

And as the elevator sounded, Dazai knew what he’d find when he stepped into his sad, pathetic and suffocating apartment. 

It was the same as always. He knew that he would probably drink himself to sleep, or some sort of equivalent of that while sitting inside his dark isolated space without a single sound. 

Always wallowing, always drowning. Nothing more and nothing less. 

Pushing open the door to the entryway, Dazai’s blank and clouded body then reached for the black jacket on his body in order to throw the object onto the floor without a single care and fully step inside the place. 

And then he was alone, standing in solitude like he always was. 

Yet that’s when his foot couldn’t help but tap against something on the floor in front of him, the mafioso stopping for the first time since arriving only to register a small sleeping body curled up into herself. 

The move caused her to stir though, groaning before her drunken and sleepy coated expression lazily gazed up at the boy in order for her to yawn through her words. “Oh, you’re back. Sorry, I don’t know how I got here. Guess I got a little sleepy while waiting for you. But look, I’m here as promised!” 

Dazai then watched as the red haired girl then scrambled to her knees in order for her lips to curve upwards in adoration for his very presence. “Welcome home, Osamu.” 

At the sound of her voice, the boy felt the numb constraint on his body dissipate.

Oh. 

That’s right. He wasn’t alone. Oda’s sister was here. He had left her here and she had promised to welcome him back. What a foolish and stupid little thing, and yet she had honored it even so. She had even gone as far as to sleep in front of his door like this so she wouldn’t miss him. What an idiot. 

He then watched as she pushed herself back to her feet, stumbling a bit in the process in shaky unreliably before beaming happily. “Oh! Now that you’re here, I gotta show you my surprise! Come on, take a look!” 

Reaching forward in order to grab onto his hand, Asa then felt herself freeze before she made contact in order to reel back with an apologetic smile, almost like she had forgotten about his fear of touch in her excitement. 

 She recovered quickly though, simply skipping away from him in order for the boy to look down at his hand and close it in response. She was always so considerate of him, even while drunk. 

Yet, the second Dazai stepped closer into his apartment, the boy couldn’t help but freeze at the sight before him. Gone were the blank and empty walls, replaced by the warm glow of string lights, the sight almost like tiny little fireflies as he couldn’t help but move even closer. 

The tables in front of him were filled with various candies and unhealthy junk food, covering the entire surface along with a giant blanket fort in the center of the room, the sheets revealing dozens of pillows and cute stuffed animals inside. 

Pushing herself back in front of his vision, Asa then clapped her hands together. “Ta da! It’s a sleepover! I’ve heard about these things from people at my school and I’ve always wanted to try it! Look, there are snacks and pillows and we can even watch movies or tell scary stories!” 

Dazai couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief at what she was suggesting though. “You’re inviting a port mafia executive to a sleepover?” 

She only laughed at his negative response though, already hurrying over to the small opening just a couple feet away. “Yeah! I mean, why not? We are still kids, you know. Gotta enjoy this stuff before we become boring old grown ups. Now, come on! There is plenty of room in here!”

Kids.

 There was that word again. It was like the universe was mocking him with it, taunting him with a term he could never attach himself to. Tonight had proved that. 

How dare she, didn’t she know what he did? Didn’t she know about the phantom blood that was coating his hands even now? What a ridiculous statement she had just uttered. 

And looking at this display, the warm and welcoming aura was literally the exact opposite of the cold and dark port mafia basement that he had drowned in for the last mind-numbing hours. He didn’t know how to take it, this sudden whiplash and change. 

So much so, Dazai felt his unstable mind start to falter, his fingers twitching in response before falling back into the old habits that were familiar and safe. He needed to, he needed to show Asagao that he couldn’t have what she was suggesting. 

He didn’t need it. He was far too tainted for it. 

Reaching his hands forward, Dazai’s fingers then roughly wrapped against Asa’s wrist before purposely swiping her drunken feet underneath her, the girl falling back onto the waiting pillows only for the boy to appear above her just like with any other whore that wandered into his place. 

Asagao’s eyes couldn’t help but widen at the gesture, now finding the bandaged captive holding her down by her wrists, the distance barely breathable between the two. 

The executive then smirked deviously in order to twist the tips of his fingers around the longest strand of hair he could find. Anything to corrupt this seemingly innocent construct she had built.  “Oh sweetheart, I’d much rather continue where we left off in that elevator.” 

Leaning forward, Dazai’s cruel gaze then locked with her confused little eyes before forcing his knee into the space between her legs, pulling them just slightly apart in a tease as he pressed himself deeper into her. 

And though he had no plans to actually go through with anything, he needed to get it through her thick head how wrong she was for saying that stupid little phrase. “I mean, you didn’t seriously think that this is what I meant by you spending the night? Oh how innocent you are, darling. So defenseless against a man like me. I guess I have to show you what I mean firsthand. Hmm?” 

Then to prove his point, Dazai shifted his head to the left in order to teasingly blow a breath of hot air into her ear before his tongue just barely grazed the side as he felt her chest constrict in surprise at the motion. “Calling the demon prodigy a kid, how wrong you are. Well, tell me. Does this feel like something a kid would do?” 

That was it, now she would see that he couldn’t fit in that innocent box she had foolishly built. Just a little more to get his point across, then she would learn her mistake. 

As if on cue, he then heard the girl in question whisper, the sound just barely audible, like she was desperate for something. “Osu..” 

And because of their position, Dazai assumed it was because of his touch, the boy’s head pulling away cockily in order to look back at her with a small tease. “What is it, love?” 

Yet that’s when the two locked eyes as Asagao’s anxious hands moved against his handmade chains, almost like she wanted to touch him. “Did something happen?” 

Then all at once, Dazai felt his carefully crafted exterior start to crack ever so slightly. She sensed his distress? No, it couldn’t be. He had hid it so well in his womanizing ways. There was no way she knew about the disgusting thoughts of self hatred inside his head. 

Forcing himself to remain calm, the boy then gave her a signature smirk before purposely pushing his hands even tighter around her wrists in order to slam her back into the floor. “Whatever do you mean? I’m just excited to play with my favorite girl.” 

And yet, Asagao didn't take the bait, her lips twisting together in conflict before sadly replying.  “It’s just...it seems like you're forcing something..” 

Forcing something? No, of course not. What could he be forcing? This is who he was. He was just trying to prove to her that he wasn’t a child. He was trying to show her how much of an adult he actually was by seducing her. That’s what he did for everyone else. 

For a kid, growing up in the mafia meant no restrictions. It meant killing and drinking and sex and following the lead of everyone else in the organization.

It didn’t matter if he wasn’t old enough for any of it. That didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except forcing himself into the adult box that everyone else around him conformed to easily. 

And Dazai did it all. He brought woman back and fucked them just because it was what he thought he had to do. He learned how to seduce and flirt in order to get information for the mafia. He did everything like it was a textbook list in order to seem more grown up and mature and fit into the mold. 

It wasn’t about what or desire. 

It was a necessity, a skill to use in order to pretend to be a man. 

No, he was a man .

He had to be. Since he couldn’t be a child that was the only option. 

Feeding her another one of his rehearsed lines, Dazai tried to brush off the accusation. “Well, I can be quite forceful…”

Asa only frowned though, her voice just as sharp as before. “You know that’s not what I mean. How am I wrong? I thought we were both the same age..”

Laughing back at her ridiculously naive statement, he shook his head. Just because they were both fifteen didn’t mean they had the same luxuries and freedoms. “We may be the same age but we are worlds apart, love.” 

Asa raised an eye in reply. “How so?” 

And at that, Dazai felt his eyes close in that same suffocating shame that he had felt back in the port mafia’s basement. She was so stupid, if only she knew the things he did tonight, if only she saw the way he utterly disregarded Odasaku’s plea for change. 

Then she would know why he had to force this right now, why he had to hold onto the routine that he had always fallen back on. Because if he broke out of that now, the boy knew he would break down completely. 

Because of that, Dazai decided to be cruel, to unveil his entire evil heart to her in hopes that it would finally get her to understand why he needed to keep that mask on. “Would a kid skin something alive tonight? Would they watch the life leave their eyes, break all their bones and dismember each of their limbs until they were hardly recognizable? I don’t think so.” 

He could still feel it, the blood on his fingers, the screaming shouts of his victims to stop and the sound of them choking on their own death over and over again. Whatever imagine she had conjured up in her mind about him was not reality. 

And for a moment, he watched that happen, Asa’s eyes widening in shock at his gruesome and horrifying explanation before Dazai forcibly let up on her wrists so that she could run away or slap him for the betrayal. 

But even so, it seemed the girl was frozen to the spot, her body and arms unmoving as Dazai cruelly finished above her. “Perhaps you should think twice before you call the demon prodigy something so innocent like a child..” 

It was just as Mori had said. Anyone would be foolish to correlate those words together about him. He didn’t deserve that kind of title. He never did. 

Yet, that's when Asagao spoke, her voice small and curious. “Why can’t it be both?” 

And for the first time at night, Dazai was clueless by her words, his head turning in pure intrigue. That’s not at all what he thought she’d say. “Huh?” 

Pausing for a moment, Asagao then thought about her words before blinking her eyes in pure unruly innocence for the situation before her. “You say it like it can only be one or the other, but why can’t you be both the demon prodigy and a kid?” 

At that, Dazai felt himself scoff in absurdity 

Both? What an idiotic way of thinking. Someone couldn't be a devil and yet an angel, they couldn’t be black and then white. That was impossible. Didn’t she know that those two terms were polar opposites, like fire and water? 

Shaking his head, Dazai then leaned back into her body, his fingers latching onto her cheeks in order to pull her closer with a glare. “Don’t be stupid. There is no way those two things can exist in the same universe. They contradict themselves, they are..”

Asagao only smiled though, her words far too honest for him to handle. “You. Both of them. I’ve seen it firsthand. Your goofy/teasing smirks, your carefully thought out scripts, the way your face lights up when you see a letter from my brother, the way you manipulate and take control of every single situation. They are a contradiction yet they are all you, Osamu, and I’ve never seen anything wrong with that.” 

And that was something Asa believed wholeheartedly. She had read about this boy for years after all, she knew everything about him and now that she had actually spent time with him, Asagao knew that Dazai wasn’t a simple man. 

Yes, he was cruel and controlling with little to no boundaries but there were moments, brief cracks in his exterior that showed another side to him, a softer one. And whether he realized it or not those tiny fractures had shown her glimpses of who he really was. 

It was hard to pinpoint exactly with all the masks he wore but pretty quickly Asagao had realized that her claim about Dazai when they first met was no longer valid. She had read him wrong this entire time. 

She called him open and real but that wasn’t true at all. No, from the three weeks they had spent together she had learned that the boy was fabrication, a professional shapeshifter in the most impressive form. 

He could be so many things at the flip of a hat, going into so many roles that fit his desire. He could be a brutal port mafia executive, a cruel controlling conman and yet a gentle and sensual lover. 

But none of those were actually the real Dazai Osamu, not really.

They were just fragments, pieces of him sure, but he had never allowed himself to paint an entire picture.

Perhaps he didn’t know how to, perhaps he had acted and pretended so much that he didn’t know his true self anymore. 

But as selfish as it was, Asagao wanted to find him. She wanted to uncover the mystery that was Dazai Osamu and admire him for who he actually was. 

Even if it turned out to be a sad, scared little boy that had built up walls to keep himself safe. 

It didn’t matter, she would cherish him even so. She wanted to, simply because her big brother had done the same. Brother, did you know the real him? Did you figure out who he was underneath it all? I’ll never know, but if you did..I want the same..

Feeling his hold loosen on her jaw, Asa then continued her explanation, her gaze catching on the self made blanket roof above the two of them before softening. “Just because you grew up in the mafia doesn’t mean you still can’t be a kid. You can still allow that part of yourself to come out, you know. I mean, I get not wanting to show it at work cause you gotta put up a front but don’t think it’s all bad..”

She then turned back at him with admiration, recalling the goofy and child-ish reactions he had given her throughout these past few weeks. 

And although she knew that wasn't completely genuine, she wanted him to know how much happiness the fragment had brought her. “Because when I get to see it, I love it every time...” 

Dazai couldn’t believe what he was hearing though.

Love? She loved his pathetic weak side? She loved that he was a contradiction of fire and water? What was she saying, of course being a kid was bad. He couldn’t allow such a thing. 

Seriously, why couldn’t she just be normal, why couldn’t she just hate him and be stupid like everyone else. Why did she have to read him to his very soul every single time? He hated it, he hated how he could never hide with her. 

Of course there was something wrong with it. He was an amalgamation of broken parts, forced to be shoved together with the flimsiest glue in the universe.

But the way she was speaking, the way she looked at him with so much admiration and passion, he couldn’t help but feel his stomach twist and turn with mixed emotions. 

Whatever he did, it really didn’t bother her, did it? He could really just murder, torture and explain the darkest parts of himself and still she wouldn’t ever bat a single eye. He knew she wouldn’t. 

Now did that make her insane or just way to accepting? That was still up for debate. 

But either way, Dazai felt his lips twist upwards into a disbelieving chuckle, his arms growing numb in order to turn and collapse next to the stupid girl with a sigh.

He gave up. Her thinking had stumped him again. “Idiot...you’re a real idiot, Asagao.” 

She didn’t seem to mind though, the sound causing her to smile as well, in order for the tense atmosphere to disappear. “Believe it or not I’ve been told that before.”

Dazai only nodded though, not surprised at all. “Oh, I believe it.” 

The air was quiet then, coating the two with silence only for Asa to speak first, happy to change the subject.“So, what else did you do tonight? You know, besides the torture.”

She said it so comfortably, like she was talking about the weather and Dazai wondered if she had seen and/or done the same kind of thing when she was a hellhound. That would explain her unbothered air to everything.  

Pushing his bandaged arm up in the air, Dazai sighed. “Not much, had a boring talk with Mori and then played around with my dog a bit..” 

At his sentence, Asagao felt herself perk up, her eyes practically giddy at the memory of the ginger haired boy that she had encountered just hours ago. “I met him tonight, your dog.” 

Then all at once, Dazai felt his entire body turn on his side in disbelief. Hold on, did she just hear that right? She had met Chuuya? 

Well, that was unexpected. “What, really?” 

Nodding, he then saw as the girl beamed back, pointing an excited finger towards her nose with a goofy smile that filled up her entire face. “Yeah, it was great! He hit me in the face!” 

Although that’s when she watched Dazai’s eyes lower into a more dangerous expression, as he felt his throat tick with anger. What did she mean he hit her in the face ? 

Just what was that stupid dog doing? Hurting his precious little darling, that guy had a death wish for sure, and not the fun kind. 

Reaching his hands up, the boy then placed them on either side of her cheeks before inspecting every inch of her skin. “He hit you..?” 

Although that’s when Asa quickly perked up and finished the sentence. Ah, that sounded bad, didn’t it? Sorry, Chuuya. “Oh I mean, accidentally of course! And then he helped me stop my nosebleed.” 

The explanation was better, but not by much, the boy softening just slightly when he realized that there were no marks on her face. Chuuya was lucky there wasn’t any too, or else he knew he’d have to have a word with him about it. A very violent word.

Allowing her skin freedom, Dazai’s hand then reeled back before shaking his head with a scoff, still not okay with how things played out. “That idiot, he never looks where he’s going..” 

Asagao couldn’t disagree with that though, knowing that Chuuya was distracted when his hand accidentally connected with her face. It was both their faults really, but she was sure Dazai didn’t want to hear that. 

So instead, the girl allowed another quiet to overtake them in order for her to recall the kind ginger haired boy that had taken care of her. He was so sweet, cleaning up that blood for her. She kinda wanted to meet him again, to talk to him some more like Dazai did all the time. 

Taking in an anxious breath, Asa then began to play with the ends of her skirt in order to turn towards the bandaged boy with a hopeful whisper. “Hey Osu, do you think he’d wanna be friends with me?”

Dazai only twisted his lips in disgust for the idea though, his opinion very known. “Why would you ever want to be friends with that slug?” 

Asa only shrugged her shoulders though, recalling the conversation the two had shared in the bathroom's waiting area. “I don’t know, I just figured that if he could handle you then maybe he could handle me.”

It was something that crossed her mind ever since Chuuya had mentioned Dazai’s name. And it was no secret that her and Osu’s mindsets were rather similar in style. Perhaps in some way, she hoped that she had finally found someone that wouldn’t run away for once. 

Wishful thinking, she knew, but it was worth a shot to ask. 

The mafioso only scoffed though, his feelings not mutual on the subject. “You don’t need to befriend that idiot. His stupid will rub off on you, and you already have enough of that as it is.” 

And yes, a part of his answer was because Chuuya was in the mafia which meant another dangerous tie to Mori but that wasn’t completely the reason why Dazai had shut the idea down. 

It was insecurity, it was anxiety that the ginger was a much better man than him, and if Asa knew that then she would abandon him for Chuuya without a second thought. Anyone with a brain would do that. He was normal, and Dazai was not. 

Sighing heavily, Asa then frowned at the disapproval. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just know I’m a lot to handle and most people can’t really understand it. I just thought that maybe since he already knows what you’re like then there was a chance that..” 

The rest of her sentence disappeared due to nerves, and yet her mind finished it even so. Maybe there was a chance I could finally have a friend, that someone could tolerate me enough to finally stick around. 

Dazai’s lips couldn’t help but pout at that though, his fears of being abandoned and left behind showing in a jealous and bitter whine. “And what am I, Asa-chan? I understand your twisted little mind better than anyone, especially better than that stupid yapping dog. Trust me, you don’t need him.” 

At that, Asagao felt herself smile under her breath. Did he really think she would forget about him? Osamu was and would always be the most important person to her. Even more than a friend, he was her lifeline. 

Not wanting him to feel left out, Asa then turned on her side to meet him, her soft gentle gaze meeting his anxious one. “That’s true, you’re plenty enough for me.” 

And with that, Dazai’s shoulders began to relax ever so slowly, his breathing retreating back to normal before looking up at the blanketed sky above them. This looked like a lot of work, it seemed to take hours at least. 

He could even picture her drunken little stumbles as she carefully crafted each aspected of her little surprise. What a silly little thing she was, doing all of this. He didn’t deserve it. 

Feeling his voice come out far more uncertain than he had planned, the bandaged boy whispered apprehensively. “Did you really put all of this together..?”

The rest of the phrase was lost in the air but it was obvious even so. 

..for me?

Did she seriously put all of this planning and hard work together just for a pathetic little boy like him? He had never had that before, he had never been surprised with good intentions. He had never had anyone think about him or care about him in this kind of way. 

Asa only nodded her head though, like the answer was obvious. “Of course, I wanted to make you happy, like you do for me. So, did it work? Are you happy? Did I make your home a little more fun?” 

Happy? 

What did that feel like, to be happy? And was that what he was feeling now? He wasn’t sure, but Dazai did feel a strange tumble inside his chest, the feeling so warm that it was almost too nauseating to process. 

It was a foreign sensation, one that the boy couldn’t understand in the slightest. How was one supposed to react to that question? He didn’t know. 

But what he did know was how utterly wrong she was with that little sentence of hers. She kept calling this place a home, and he knew that wasn’t accurate at all. 

Forcing the warmth from his chest, Dazai then narrowed his eyes in order to focus on correcting her absurd sentence. “This place has never been my home. It’s just a building with rooms, that’s all.”

Asagao wasn’t surprised by that though. She had gotten that much from her very first inspection. A home wasn’t supposed to be that sad and lonely after all. That’s why she did all of this in the first place, so he would feel better about coming back here. 

And because he had shown her a bit of vulnerability, she wanted to do the same, even if it was hard to talk about. “I get that. Oda’s place doesn’t really feel like home either. So I can understand how you feel, coming back to somewhere that doesn’t feel right, like you're a stranger in your own house..”

Someone else’s place, someone else’s bed, it never did feel right for her to be there, especially since she never knew the previous owner. Maybe if she knew Oda then the walls wouldn’t be as mocking but that wasn’t a luxury she was given. 

Dazai remained silent at that, almost like he had wordlessly agreed with her as Asagao closed her eyes in simple thought. Tomorrow their little “freebie” would be done and they would go back to the strangers they were before. 

And although it was far past what they had decided, Asagao didn’t want that. 

She didn’t want them to go back to being strangers, not after she had gotten a taste of who he was. That lonely, sad and suffocating feeling, she never wanted to go back to that again now that she had found someone that had understood her.

Just a little bit more, that’s all she needed. That’s all she wanted from him. Perhaps it was impossible, but she would never know unless she tried. 

And using her drunk confidence, the girl did just that. “Osamu..I..uhh..”

Stopping her failing tongue, Asagao then took a heavy breath before pouring out her feelings. “I know the specifics of our deal are already made and everything but these last two days have been really nice. I’ve never had this before, and I wanted to thank you for it. For giving me Bar Lupin, for showing me that photo, for bringing my brother back to life, and for allowing me to be myself without judgment. It means a lot to me..really..”

It was something she would never forget, the kindness he had shown her tonight. She somehow felt closer than she had ever been before to her big brother and it was all because of him. 

Pausing for a moment, Asa then squeezed her eyes shut with anxiety before shoving the words out before she could change her mind. “And I just...I want you to know that if there is a day that you don’t want to come back here, then you can come to me..” 

Oh god, she said it. She really said it. Hold on, that sounded creepy, didn’t it? She didn’t want him to think she was creepy. Quickly Asagao, explain yourself before he laughs at you. 

Pushing her hands up, Asa then stuttered through her embarrassed pink cheeks, the room suddenly feeling way too warm “I-I don’t mean that in a weird way or anything. I know you’re still gonna come over for the letters but that doesn’t have to be the only reason we have to see each other if you want to. You could always just stay the night and leave right after or hang around the place, or even sit in complete silence if you just need to be near someone. I don’t mind, really.” 

Finally taking a much needed breath, she then forced her mouth closed before a small smile crossed her lips. She did it, she had taken a step forward and pushed herself out of her comfort zone. 

Speaking mostly to herself, the girl then finished wistfully imagining a perfect world where her dreams could be. “In fact, I’d actually really like it if you did that. Because then, maybe with you, that place could be home.”

And maybe it could, maybe with Osamu there, Oda’s apartment could feel like home, like she could belong there. She had seen small glimpses of it when he came over for her brother’s letters. Perhaps the house could be that lively all the time. She hoped it could. 

A heavy silence then appeared between the two, causing Asagao’s head to turn towards Osu only for her eyes to widen at the sight before her. 

Because for some reason, the scary port mafia executive, the demon prodigy, looked like the embodiment of a ghost, his skin sickly pale and unmoving as his eyes stared into what seemed like absolutely nothing at all. It was almost like the boy had ceased to function completely, his mind unable to process the offer that Asa had given him. 

All at once, Asagao leaned forward in concern, her voice laced with anxiety and fear in order to try and snap him back out of whatever state she had put him in. 

Oh no, what had she done? Did she offend him? “...Osamu?”

Yet, before she could process it, Dazai’s fingers had quickly found the edges of the blanket she was laying on and lifted them up in order for her entire body to flop around like fish as the boy beamed happily. “Alright, time for bed!” 

Gasping out a squeak in surprise, she then felt her entire body start to get constricted by the blankets in order for Osu to comically roll her up until just her head and wiggling feet were showing. “Whaaa, wait Samu, what are you doing?!” 

He only laughed though, picking up the poor wrapped girl before throwing her over his shoulder in order to move over to his bedroom with an over the top air. “I’m making an Asa-chan burrito so that way you can’t escape!” 

Asagao then felt her entire body plop onto his bed in order for her to whine in disappointment. “But what about our sleepover? I worked so hard.”

Dazai only placed a finger to her nose though, stopping her self pity party with a teasing smirk. “But isn’t sleeping also a part of a sleepover?” 

Nodding apprehensively, Asa frowned. “I guess..” 

Reeling back in finality, the boy then clapped his hands goofily before already walking away, almost like he needed to leave this conversation sooner rather than later. “That settles it! Now come on, my drunk princess needs her beauty sleep or else she’s gonna regret it in the morning.” 

But as she watched him go, Asa couldn’t help but call back in concern. “What about you, where are you going to sleep?” 

She had taken up the entire bed after all, and Asagao didn’t want Dazai to have to sleep on the sofa or something uncomfortable like that. Hell, if she wasn’t tied up like the giant sushi then she would’ve offered to move. 

Although that’s when Dazai paused, his overconfidence dropping for a millisecond in order to glance back at the girl with a more genuine, less happy smile. “Aww, don’t you worry, darling. I’m naturally beautiful. It would be impossible to lose my good looks.” 

Then before she could argue, he was gone, leaving Asagao to slump against the pillows with a heavy sigh of defeat. He didn't answer her question, now and back under the fort. But what did that mean? 

And why did he look so sad when he turned back to her?

------

Carefully closing the door to his bedroom, Dazai waited until he heard the soft click of confirmation before his happy go lucky and cheery exterior dropped away into nothing, leaving only a placid and sunken expression. 

He had run away. 

One push from Asagao and he had retreated into himself so quickly, it was almost like second nature. Her request to get closer to him, to have him rely on her past their original agreement, just what was she thinking? 

Of course, he wanted that. 

He wanted to have somewhere he could call a home, he so desperately wanted something to stop the crippling loneliness that he felt whenever he returned back to these sad and hollow walls and floors. He wanted it so badly that it physically hurt him to even think about it.

To have a family, to have a friend, to have something to hold onto when life abused him and kicked him down over and over again. He so desperately wanted someone to hear his cries and reach out their hand so that he could collapse safely and never leave again. 

But, Dazai knew that he couldn’t, because he had already done so before. 

And it had ruined him. 

He had let his walls down around Odasaku, and for a split second, the boy thought that he could have those things too, but then they were taken from him. Just like that, in a blink of an eye, they were gone, leaving him in the dark once more. 

What was the point of it all, why did he even do that? Why did he try? It’s not like it mattered in the end, if anything it made everything worse. Because now that he had gotten a taste of companionship, it was like a drug, never leaving him alone.  

And Asagao was the worst kind of drug of all. 

One that he couldn’t allow himself to indulge in, to addict himself so heavily like before. No, he had learned his lesson, he wouldn’t get his hopes up and destroy himself a second time. 

Because it never changed anything, and Dazai knew in his sick little twisted brain that the moment he crumbled and closed their distance, she would be taken away from him as well. 

No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t lose someone like that again. 

That’s why it was better to never know what that warmth was, what that path felt like. Yes, it was better to never know then to find out and have it ripped away in the end. 

Moving over to the large window by his living room, Dazai then leaned against the cool glass, allowing it to chill his entire soul.

 It would be easier to just let her go completely, to cut ties with Oda’s sister before he was tempted with more. 

But just the very thought caused his entire body to tense in response for even thinking about such a thing. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her go, not when she was close to his dear friend, not when she had brought him so many wonderful things. 

Even Dazai knew he wasn't that kind. He was far too selfish to give her that kind of mercy, to completely lose her in his life.

 And though it was dangerous, though he realized he was walking an extremely thin line over a cavern-like pit, he couldn’t help still balance on it. 

Standing still from the distance they had but never taking a step forward, that was the fate the boy that resisted himself to, and he was determined to keep it. 

It didn’t matter if that result left him alone, it didn’t matter if twisted his heart and shoved his invisible needs down, it didn’t matter if that result left him screaming in the dark like he had always been, this was the only path for him now. 

And he would walk it, simply because he had to. 

Taking out his phone from his pocket, Dazai then pushed a very familiar button before he heard the singular ring inside his ear.

 And then, after two little sounds, Ango’s voice picked up, just as panicked and anxious as he expected it to be. “Dazai? What is it?” 

The mafioso only hummed though, his fingers trailing the glass in front of him. “Oh nothing, I just thought you’d be interested to know that I found our little lost princess.” 

Almost immediately, the voice jumped up, the tone growing louder. “Wait, you did? Where is she? Tell me the address and I’ll come over right now..” 

Although that’s when Dazai cut him off completely, a suppressed laugh inside his throat. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. You see, Ango. I’ve taken quite a liking to her. I think I’m gonna keep her.”

And from the other side of the phone, Ango felt his face drop. No, this was the worst result he couldn’t ever have imagined. “K-Keep? Dazai, you know you can’t do that. It’s too dangerous. What if Mori..” 

Yet that’s when Dazai responded, his voice serious. “He won’t.” 

Catching the agent completely off guard, Ango couldn’t help but twist his eyes in confusion. Where was that cruel teasing air he had been using? It had disappeared completely. “What?” 

The bandaged boy only narrowed his eyes though, clutching the phone between his fingers before allowing his voice to ring with soft honesty. “Mori won’t find out about her. Odasaku wouldn’t have wanted that, so he won’t.” 

And for a moment, Ango felt himself freeze. Was he saying that he was going to protect Asagao, that he was going to keep her safe from Mori and the port mafia? No, it couldn’t be. Dazai wasn’t that kind of man, well at least that’s what he thought. 

It was surprising to say the least, suggesting such an out of character thing for him. Was it because of Odasaku, was that why he was going out of his comfort zone? Ango wasn’t completely sure but from his tone of voice it didn't seem like he was lying. 

But with Dazai, he could never really tell. 

Because of that, the man was still apprehensive. This was such a precious thing they were talking about, this was their friend's dear little sister. He couldn’t let up on such a thing. “I don’t know, I just don’t think that she should..” 

Yet that’s when the boy cut him off again, a sharp threatening edge to his voice. “Ango, if you continue then you’ll be my enemy. You know what that means, right?” 

And for the first time since their conversation, Ango felt his eyes widen. 

Because he knew exactly what that meant, he knew the death sentence that was implied by being labeled the misfortune of the enemy of port mafia executive Dazai Osamu. 

But could it really be true? Dazai was threatening war with the government just to keep her? He wanted to risk that much? Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Asa did mean more to the boy than just a simple plaything. 

Could it really be, had the brutal mafia executive finally grown a heart? 

He couldn’t really tell for sure but the lethal threat was enough to make Ango close his eyes in unsaid defeat. If Dazai was really that serious about defending her then he knew he couldn’t argue. 

But that didn’t mean he was going to let up if that changed. “You better keep  your word, Dazai. If anything happens to her, just know Odasaku would never forgive you, and neither will I…” 

And just like that, the line went dead, causing Dazai to drop the phone to his side in silent confirmation. 

Ango didn’t need to worry about that. He would protect her, from Mori, from the world, but mostly from the most dangerous threat of all. 

Himself. 

---

(It's been a month since I've started this fic! Thank you so much for all your support and love on my first bsd story!)

I call this chapter "let Dazai be a kid" because in most fanfics I've read a lot of authors focus on either the "fifteen year old boy" aspect of Dazai or a "brutal executive" side of him and although none of them are wrong, in my mind I think he's really a mix of both. The line that Odasaku uses to describe him in the novels really inspired this chapter in order to show both sides of the complex boy. We see this in the expectations and the box that he tries to put himself into to seem more adult (the drinking, the pressure of seduction) but in reality it comes across from of a child playing dress up than the truth.

[eyesaremosaics]

This air of desperation in the city, is thick as teeming fog. Everything feels disjointed. Misplaced. All this incessant rain, washing away the grime and the glow.

Lately I am feeling frightened. Strange how little I valued my life… even just a few years ago. Now I cling to it savagely. Finding oneself wanting to live, has been a strange and frightening concept for me these last couple of years. I forget that I have a lot of trauma until something triggers it. Today, some guy was stalking the kids and I.

At first I thought I was imagining it. A man walked in and stared me straight in the eyes for a long moment. The expression on his face—gave me chills, and set me instantly on edge. It was not a friendly glance. This was an intense, unblinking stare. A sort of “I’m watching you” kind of stare. I turned away from his gaze, and tried to focus on playing mini golf with the kids. He kept following us, going out and coming back in again. Each time staring directly at me. Even the children I was with noticed this and pointed it out to me. “He’s definitely looking at you.” She said.

For over an hour this guy was staring at us, and they eventually told him to leave, but then he just stood right outside the door and stared directly at us. I became so uncomfortable, I had to tell one of the cashiers to please call security. I didn’t feel comfortable walking back to the car alone with the kids, in the dark.

When security got there, they said they had noticed him hanging around by himself. And when we walked out, he was standing right there waiting for the kids and I to leave. It was an awkward moment where we all stared. First he stared directly at me, then his eyes moved to the security guard. They made eye contact, after which he gave the security guard a little nod. After that he walked away, and left the area entirely.

I know in my gut he was waiting for me to come out with the kids, and he was going to try something. I don’t know what, but the stare…didn’t feel good. It was an eerie feeling. My spidey senses were set off almost immediately. He was all by himself, drinking and smoking constantly. He ordered 4 beers in an hour.

Is this just trauma from the assault bleeding through? Was I imagining it? But… no…The kids pointed it out too…and so did the security guards. Why does this stuff always happen to me? I feel like I’m a magnet for the criminally insane or at least severely disturbed men.

After all my horribly unhealthy relationships with men over the years…plus the childhood trauma…matched with the assault in Hawaii—I think my brain is legitimately fried, and my nerves are shot.

Nobody talks about this. Survivors are silenced by the shame they feel in sharing their stories with others. They feel that their vulnerability is a weakness. The horror of their experience… makes others uncomfortable. So they refute it. They can’t hold space for it. They repress, and deny.

Today I spoke with the prosecutor in Hawaii, looks like 20 years is what he will get for attempting to murder me. He will be very old by the time he gets out. It’s a hollow victory. Part of me wants to wash my hands of this. Part of me wants to go to trial. Sadly, this is the best guarantee I have of him going away for most of his life. With trial, he may get a lesser sentence. I know he would hurt other women if he was back on the street. No question. I couldn’t live with myself if I did nothing to ensure he was behind bars as long as possible. However.. the justice system is so broken in this country. Justice is never fully served in all the cases I’ve studied. No one really wins. It’s a dark matter. With dark, coagulated details.

I know I didn’t imagine what happened today. It was confirmed by everyone around me. Something wasn’t right. Better to be safe than sorry.

I just keep reflecting on all the scary instances I’ve had in my life….All the stalkers I’ve had… always weirded me out. Like—why? I felt like a nobody most of my life. Perhaps it was because I was unapologetically weird. Not caring what people think—is a great power. Weird attracts weird, but there is good kind of weird—and scary kind of weird. I tend to attract the latter.

How many women have this shared experience? So many I imagine. It would comfort me to hear some of your stories. How did you deal with these situations?

[merakiui]

hello!!<3 can i request an angst scenario (it can have a happy ending it's up to you!!) childe x fem!reader where they are together for some time and she didn't know he's fatui (she hates them bc her parents were in debt and overall they ruined her life and he's too scared to tell her) but she finds out and wants to broke up?? THANK YOU

In which you discover Childe’s ties to the Fatui.

cw: angst, debt, small mention of depression as a result of debt, female reader note - I woke up and chose pain with this one. >:) it also got long;;; oops!

You hate the Fatui. And although that’s such a strong, hurtful word it's your true feelings. You’ve never experienced their wrath firsthand, but you have witnessed what it can do to people. Your sweet, loving parents, who took loans out of the bank in order to pay for repairs to their shop, were reduced to frightful messes at the mere mention of that harrowing F-word.

It’s horrible to see them in such a state, especially since a few agents had come by once and practically demanded the money. As a result of such a distasteful discussion, you refuse to go into any sort of monetary career: trader, merchant, and even a wandering saleswoman. You’ll find a way to make things right by getting a job that will bring in lots of riches for your poor parents. Then the Fatui will have no choice but to leave your family alone.

Your own funds have dried up, having gone into another Fatui agent’s gloved hands. You can’t even argue because you have an inkling as to what will happen when you finally run out of money to give. Ever since this entire debt charade, your parents have become hollow shells of their former selves: paranoid, depressed, and starved of the happiness that comes with being in a regular, debt-free family.

Childe tunes into your rant as if someone had just turned on the switch that designates his listening skills. The two of you are sitting on a lovely hilltop, watching the stars twinkle in and out of focus. Liyue Harbor can be seen from afar, glittering in warm colors of gold and red. If Childe remembers correctly, another festival should be right around the corner. He’ll have to take you when he finds time to slink away from his work.

Speaking of his work, he’s never actually told you about it. When you asked, he simply said it was a job that allowed him to travel. It sounded like a traveling merchant to you—perhaps even a fishmonger specializing in exotic types—considering he was seemingly loaded with Mora. It made you jealous that he was so well-off with his finances, but you couldn’t complain when he so readily emptied his pockets for your sake.

“And then that stupid agent shows up at our door right when I get home! It’s the worst timing ever. My parents were pretending to be out of the house and I showed up and ruined their plan.” A heavy sigh tumbles from your lips as you flop back onto the grass, where Childe fixes you with a lopsided, sympathetic grin. “I hate it. They’re not even themselves anymore. It’s like they lost all sense of life. I’m picking up as many commissions as I can, but it doesn’t even help. The Fatui just take it all faster than I can save it.”

“They’re the worst, aren’t they?”

“And the sky isn’t blue. Of course they’re the worst!” You inhale softly. “No use getting mad about something that already happened, though.”

“You’ll just give yourself more stress and you don’t need that.” He joins you on the plush grass, turning his head to look at you rather than up at the inky night sky. “I can help with your commissions, you know. I’ve been itching to smash some hilichurl camps.”

“I can handle it myself. It’s fine.” Only it’s not and you’ve started realizing that. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Funny. I was going to ask you something, too!”

“Oh. Uh...”

He chuckles, staring at you with blue eyes that don’t sparkle. “There’s this festival coming up and I wanted to take you. It’ll be just the two of us for one night. You can forget all about work and money—”

“What about you? You said your job has you traveling all over the place. That’s why we’ll rarely see each other in the future. Once you’re done here in Liyue, that is.” You move onto your side, holding yourself up on your elbow. “I don’t think it’ll work.”

“Well, my boss doesn’t have to know. It’ll be our tiny secret!”

You roll your eyes, smiling a little. Deep inside you’ve always felt like something was off about his story. For the past few months, he’s remained in Liyue and once you even caught him slipping into Northland Bank when you were running some errands. You hope he isn’t in a similar situation concerning debt and poverty. No, he wouldn’t need to be. He’s shown you just how many lavish things his funds can afford. Why would he be in debt if he has a stable job?

“Are you...doing something bad?”

You could’ve phrased that better, but it’s already out in the open now. Sheepishly, you avoid his befuddled stare, opting to watch the moon as its light becomes obscured behind a dark cloud. An airy chuckle escapes him, but he doesn’t say anything. His silence confirms your fears and it dawns upon you that he hasn’t been truthful this entire time.

“This mask.” It’s in your hands before he can stop you. You’re tapping at it with a finger, equal parts curious and apprehensive. You refuse to beat around the bush; your doubtful gaze catches his and it hardens at once. “You’re Fatui, aren’t you?”

He sits up calmly, holding out his hand. “That’s quite the accusation, my dear. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“I’m not jumping to any conclusion. I’m right, aren’t I?” Now you’re sitting up, staggering to your feet to find some sort of leverage over him. He’s taller than you and far more powerful than he once let on. “Childe, why would—“

He sighs, lowering his hand out of defeat. “I suppose there’s no point avoiding it now. You were bound to find out one of these days.”

“One of these days? What? Like, when my family’s on the streets because the Fatui took our house?”

It hurts that he wasn’t honest and it hurts even more knowing that he has the power to help. He could’ve spent his time working out ways to get you out of debt, yet he decided to shower you in affection and useless trinkets! Trinkets that are only good for selling and receiving money to pay off the debt. You could cry; that’s how much it hurts. And when he makes no solid effort to comfort you, the tears begin to form.

“Of course not. I’d never let that happen!”

“Then why would you lie about it? Why not help me? Why can’t you just be honest? You always avoid questions you don’t want to answer and I hate it! I’ve been with you long enough to know that that mask is bad news. I was just waiting for you to confirm it, but you didn’t.”

You think it’s selfish for wanting his help—for wanting help from a Fatui agent, no less—but you’re too upset to care.

“(Name), you know that’s—“

“What else haven’t you told me? What else have you lied about? I don’t care if you’re trying to protect me. I’m already on a list. The Fatui still show up to my house and you just...let them. Why?”

“If I interfered, it would look bad in front of Her Majesty. You know I can’t go against her orders. I want to help you—I do. But...”

You’re fumbling for new words, at a complete loss with yourself. No matter how many questions you spout, he’ll evade them like they’re optional. And even if you want answers and honesty more than anything right now, you know he’ll fail to provide it. You shove the mask into his hands, shaking your head in disbelief. A swell of emotions overcome you: sadness, anger, and regret. You feel utterly betrayed. The sweet Childe, whom you once thought was your perfect match, is working for the Fatui—the people who have turned your life into misery.

And that’s probably not even the half of it.

“Let’s break up,” you say before he can spin another false tale. Another easy excuse to avoid this downfall. Childe stops short to stare at you in surprise and it’s weird to see that emotion scrawled across his face. He’s usually smooth and collected; he always knows what to say and how to act. Not this time, though. “It’s not going to work if we’re together while the Fatui are hounding my parents. And they wouldn’t approve of our relationship either.”

“Now, (Name), wait a moment. You’re not thinking straight. You’re just—” He struggles to find the correct words and in that small moment between foggy clarity and paralyzing uncertainty he plasters another plastic smile on. “Look. I know you’re upset, but I didn’t mean to lie to you. I was going to tell you eventually. Just had to find the right time to do it, you know?"

“I know. And that’s why we should go our separate ways.” Like Childe, you also put on a faux show, building up your walls as high and strong as his are. You don’t think you’ll last another minute in his presence, as you’re far too close to tears. “Thank you again for tonight. I’ll take my leave now.”

Rather than pain, it’s bitter when your lips fall upon his soft cheek. And the gesture stings harder than a slap on the wrist. 

The searing pain returns when you pull away and begin the descent from the hill as fast as your trembling legs will allow. You refuse to look back and fall into his arms in hopes that he’ll reassure you. The fact that he doesn’t chase after you—doesn’t even call out—stabs your conflicted heart and it’s more than enough confirmation. Childe isn’t exactly boyfriend material. He’s callous when it comes to a battle and he’s driven by his own ulterior motives. Surely this relationship was just a means of spending his extra time when he found himself bored and lacking a fight. Maybe he thought of his work when the two of you were on secretive dates. Maybe his heart was empty when the two of you were intimate. Maybe you were just the glue holding this crumbling bond together.

Childe remains on that hilltop, watching you disappear into the distance. And it’s then when realizes he’s lost you. The feeling is different from the battlefield and it’s far more real than when he’s snooping around as a Harbinger. You’re just a normal, good-natured citizen and he...ruined that part of you. With his ties to an enemy that has crushed your family. He’s partly, if not fully, responsible for what transpired just now and for the first time in a while real guilt gnaws at him. He’s left wondering why he did all of that—why he couldn’t just face your questions head-on.

It’s his fault, isn’t it?

On that windy hilltop, under the silent, disapproving darkness of the sky, he’s left to pick up the pieces of a fractured relationship. And it’s all because he couldn’t admit the truth to his precious girlfriend.

In a way, the Fatui have taken something from him, too, and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to patch it up with honeyed promises. 

Looks like we won’t be going to that festival anytime soon...

[murderousginger]

Secrets

Tommy Shelby x reader

Word count: 1,406

Warnings: Mentions of forced abortions. Pregnancy. Angst. Hurt/Comfort? They're criminals guys, they do bad things.

Note: This was to fulfill the last two Tommy requests in my inbox, but also a bit of my own comforting and an announcement. Why do one thing when you can do three? I've been gone because I'm 11 weeks pregnant. The exhaustion and nausea has been a huge reason. I, the person who never naps, naps constantly now. 😂 BUT the second trimester is supposedly less exhausting, so I'm hoping that kicks in soon. Onto the story!

Your stomach churned as you sat on the other side of Tommy Shelby's desk. His glacier stare was foreign on your skin, but you steeled yourself against it as you fought to keep your eyes on his. This was not your Tommy, but honestly, was Tommy ever yours?

"You've been cutting hours," he said evenly as his hands deftly searched his pockets for a cigarette. "You've refused all overtime that was offered the past few weeks."

Overtime. You fought a laugh. A flash of his rough hands up your dress, his wild murmurs in your hair, your hips hitting his desk as the passion overtook you both. It flickered across your mind and disappeared like the flame that lit his cigarette in front of you. Extinguished after it's purpose.

His jaw set in annoyance as his cheeks hallowed with his inhale of smoke. You sat in silence, calming your beating heart by counting your breaths. His eyebrow ticked upward as he let out a long line of smoke directly into your face.

"Well?" He growled. "Anything to say?"

Your stomach flipped again as the smoke dissipated around you. Nausea washed over you in waves.

"Didn't sound like a question so I felt no need to respond," you said through gritted teeth. "You sign the checks. You know."

His eyes softened for a moment, a glimpse of the broken widow you had spent many an evening with, but the glimpse was shadowed by the icy demeanor that he built to steel himself against the world.

"Have you found another?" His tone was even but held the slightest bit of anger seeping from it's edges. "We're adults, (Y/N), you could have just broken it off clean."

You barked a short laugh, unable to keep the harsh noise in your chest.

"When has Thomas Shelby, OBE, ever accepted something he didn't like?" You asked, letting the words topple out one over the other, before your hand shot to your mouth and worried across your dry lips.

You push the madness creeping around your edges back into its place deep down in your chest. Best not to feel around the ice king himself. If you didn't emote, he couldn't read you like the open book you were. He couldn't see the vulnerable truth you had hidden.

"There is no other," you sigh, reserved. "I merely thought to return to my work before you grew tired of me and sent me back."

There it was again. A flicker across his face. What it was, you weren't sure, but it was there. And so was his smoke, filling the room and making you sick.

"(Y/N), I--"

Youou couldn't keep the nausea at bay any longer. You heaved forward as you gagged, doubling over before scrambling to his waste bin at the side of his desk. Your knees sank to the hard wooden floor as you wretched out your lunch, heaving until your stomach was sore and your head was fully in the bin, eyes closed as you hugged it to you.

When your body stopped revolting against you, you stayed with your eyes closed a few more moments for fear of meeting Tommy's eyes and explaining yourself.

"Love, are you okay?"

His voice was soft. Caring. You opened your eyes and leaned back, wiping the spit from your bottom lip as you sat back on your heels to look at the man on the floor in front of you.

His arms were hanging in the air just out of reach of you, frozen as his eyes searched your face and worry creased his brow.

"M'fine," you mumble as you push yourself back to your feet, taking the waste bin to the door before looking back at Tommy.

He was still kneeling on the floor, looking lost as the gears of his mind worked things out.

"When did you know?" He asked in an even tone, threatening anger behind his sharp jaw.

"I stopped coming 'round soon as I found out," you whispered before you found your voice. "I'll not be like Arthur's women before Linda, baby cut out and sterilized to prevent more. It's mine. I'm keeping it."

Tommy's eyes flashed.

"It's a Shelby."

"Not if I say it isn't."

"I'll not be a stranger in my child's life," he growled. "And I'll not have the mother of my child working while carrying my child. You'll quit immediately. I'll pay for your housing. You'll be cared for."

"I am not a breeding mare for you to stable," you bit back as you scoffed at his presumption. "I'm not using this child for your money."

You hugged yourself as you shook with anger. The nerve of this man. Any soft moment was gone; the man in front of you was all business and it made your blood boil.

"Then what do you want?" Tommy pressed his palms into his desk, hands splayed over so many piles of papers. "Were you even going to tell me?"

"I wasn't," you sniffed, stepping toward him. "I was going to visit my family in the country on vacation in a few months and just… not return."

Tommy looked at you, eyes widening.

"You think that little of me, don't you?" He exhaled as his hands found his face and pressed up into his hair.

The man who looked back at you looked tired, haunted, as if the mask had finally fallen as he searched your face. Whatever he found, he nodded slowly and let out a short breath.

"I didn't know what you would do," you said, voice small. "I was afraid. For me and the child. I'm not a wife. I'm a worker. The child's a bastard."

"It's a Shelby," Tommy bit back. "We take care of our own."

"Tell that to Arthur's women," you laughed bitterly. "Or John's first love. I'm not going on a table."

"I never asked you to," Tommy sighed as he stood up straight and eyed you. "We haven't really bothered to get to know one another, have we?"

You sniffed, tears welling in your eyes as you fought to keep composure. You tried to laugh but it only sounded hollow.

"You aren't really the type to chat," you said as you felt your emotions bubble.

"One of my many charms," he said as he rounded the desk. "You're keeping a Shelby, and I'll not be kept from my child. Quite a predicament."

You forced yourself to look him in the eye as he walked to you. He stood before you, a slight smile breaking his face as his hands came up slowly in surrender.

"Let's talk over dinner, yeah?" Tommy's voice was velvet, soothing.

He always knew what tone to use to get his way. You opened your mouth to argue when he chuckled.

"I'm not forcing you into marriage or into my stables," he said. "Just a dinner. Just to talk. If there's going to be such a" he stepped forward and rested a soft hand on the curve of your belly before he made a pointed look, "big secret between us, we should probably get to know each other."

"Just a dinner?" You breathed him in, horribly aware of the vomit on your breath as he stood beside you as if to hold you up. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he said as his hand raised from your belly to your chin and he softly kissed your forehead. The nausea turned to a different set of butterflies. "I'm not your enemy, nor are you mine. I'll not force you to quit if you don't want to."

"Good," you said relieved. "I'm not good at being useless. Sitting around is torture."

Tommy fought the slight upturn of his lip that threatened a grin.

"I understand that notion all too well," he said as he reluctantly left your side and returned to his desk. "Dinner at six. I'll have someone take you home and I'll be by to pick you up."

"Walking won't hurt me," you scoffed. "I've done it for years."

Tommy looked up from his desk, his mouth slack as his hand found his pen.

"You're carrying precious cargo, now," he said, his eyes softening as he looked you over before he cleared his throat and looked back down to his papers. "Isaiah will come round and take you home while I finish this work. You're a Peaky Princess, now, love. We care for our own."

[asweetprologue]

window to the soul

Octoberfest 3: ghost (from geraskier hollow) + stare

“It’s drawn to strong emotions,” Geralt said, and Jaskier knew that he was about to become bait.

The monster of the week was a wraith, but of an unusual type. Over the years of traveling together, Jaskier had seen plenty of wraiths - noonwraiths, nightwraiths, even a plague maiden once. He probably could take one on himself, knowing what he did about the process of destroying them, though it would be difficult without the use of yrden holding them in the physical realm. Luckily it was Geralt’s job to dispatch them. Jaskier usually didn’t even go along to watch anymore, unless the story behind the haunting was particularly ballad worthy. 

This time, the wraith was different. Geralt had quickly identified the lost soul, a young woman who had recently died. She’d been deeply in love with a merchant that had regularly come and gone from the town, and had tried to cast a spell to trap his heart. Jaskier knew, after everything with Geralt and the djinn, that there was no curse or potion that could truly emulate love. Her spell had made the merchant obsessed with her, the man driven slowly mad by a fixation that he did not want and could not escape. In the end he had killed the girl and then himself, to escape from the madness that she had struck into his mind. The strength of her grief and the magic of the binding spell had changed the spirit of the woman into something else entirely, something extremely dangerous. 

“It’s a sort of hybrid between a vampire and a wraith,” he explained. They were in the field beyond the village, and Geralt was meticulously checking over his potions. His blades were laid off to the side, the slick oil that he used to slay spectres shining across his silver blade. It was nearing sunset, the twilight hour that made it easier for apparitions to make themselves seen in the material world. Jaskier was sitting across from him, nervously stripping leaves from a small twig. Geralt continued. “The emotion she felt and her unrequited love turned her into a heartwraith. Sometimes people call them ‘hungry ghosts.’ They’re never satisfied, and they feed off of people’s emotions to try and fill the void in them.”

“Sounds like a truly awful existence,” Jaskier mused, watching Geralt. The evening light played across his broad shoulders, turning his hair from silver to gold. Jaskier thought he might be able to understand where she was coming from, even if he’d never have tried to bind Geralt to him unwillingly. It was a terrible thing, to be so deeply and unfortunately in love with someone who didn’t want you. 

“I need to draw her out,” Geralt said gruffly. “She’s seeking out powerful emotions, like the couple that were attacked and the man who was beating his wife. I’ll need your help.” Jaskier sighed. Of course, it didn’t make much sense for Geralt to try to draw her out. Though Jaskier didn’t subscribe to the notion that witchers felt less than regular humans, Geralt was what Jaskier would dub repressed. The man couldn’t look an honest emotional conversation in the face without getting flustered and running away. 

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier said, like he always did. He didn’t love playing bait, but he knew Geralt would never let anything bad happen to him. 

Geralt nodded and picked up his silver sword, his steel one still securely in its sheath on his back. “Come on. We need to build a fire to destroy her locket.” The girl had kept a locket with a small lock of the merchant’s hair inside, which Geralt had guessed helped tie her to this plane. Over the next few minutes, the two men built a small pyre. Geralt pressed the locket into Jaskier’s palm, his fingers brushing over Jaskier’s skin. He tried not to blush at the contact. 

“When she’s distracted, throw this into the fire. It’ll weaken her,” Geralt said. Jaskier nodded mutely, clutching the warm metal close. The fire crackled merrily beside them, painting the landscape around them in swatches of ocher and dark blue. It was truly approaching night now, only the barest hint of sunlight still left on the far horizon. 

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked. “To get her attention, I mean.”

Geralt gave him an odd look. “Nothing. I’m going to draw her in.” Geralt’s face was pinched in a way that Jaskier had come to realize meant he was experiencing some kind of emotion, though it was always hard to tell which one. Anger, frustration, sadness and pain all translated into relatively the same expression - tight jaw, drawn eyebrows, thinned lips. Jaskier wanted to reach out and sooth the tension from his friend’s features, but luckily the locket demanded his hands’ wandering attention. Geralt gestured to the soft earth beside the fire, clearly bidding Jaskier to sit. He did so, flopping gracelessly into a crossed legged position, back straight from tension. It was hard to forget that a wraith could appear any moment to wreck the quiet evening. 

Geralt settled next to him, dropping into the kneeling position that he favored for meditation. His eyes were grave as he looked over Jaskier’s face. “Just… sit still,” he said softly. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do with that tone, so he just tried to do as Geralt asked. He settled in, waiting for something to happen, but Geralt just stared at him. 

For a moment it was awkward. Jaskier felt a blush spread across his cheeks as those golden eyes regarded him, sweeping over his face and following the line of his neck. Geralt was a man who always split his attention half a dozen ways at once, one eye always on the door and an ear out for trouble. Jaskier had accepted long ago that Geralt never fully listened to him, and that was alright. It wasn’t in his nature, and Jaskier didn’t need participation to hold a conversation. Now, though, he felt the full force of Geralt’s focus on him, looking back at him as if trying to see beyond a mask. Geralt’s own face was impassive, that slight frown still marring his features. 

What could he hope to accomplish through this? If he wanted to elicit strong emotions, there were certainly easier ways to do it than a staring contest. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever elicited strong emotions in anyone that he wasn’t actively singing to. It was he who was often overtaken by the whims of his own heart, prone to fits of temper and weeks of lovesickness by turn. Geralt never seemed to feel anything other than mild annoyance. Gods, what if Jaskier annoyed him so much that just looking at him made the witcher angry enough to summon a spectre? Jaskier knew he could be infuriating, but surely if Geralt detested him that much he would just leave Jaskier behind. Right?

Anxiety filled his chest, but he’d been instructed specifically not to move. Forcing himself to relax, Jaskier found himself taking the opportunity to just look back for once, something he so rarely had a chance to do. He absorbed all the details of Geralt’s face that he never allowed himself to - the way Geralt’s left eyebrow was ever so slightly interrupted by a tiny scar, the slight wrinkles on his forehead from years of frowning and the even fainter ones around his eyes, the ever so slight part of his lips. The dramatic light of the fire and the moon overhead made his face into a patchwork landscape of color, the valley of purple shadow in the hollow of his cheek highlighted by soft gold. Jaskier committed every feature to memory, thinking of the notebooks he could fill with songs dedicated to Geralt’s eyes and lips and brilliant white hair. He loved him so much it felt like it was going to drown him, leaving no room in his chest for his lungs. 

After he’d finally taken in all the abstract elements of Geralt’s face that he could in the low light, Jaskier’s eyes dragged back to meet Geralt’s. The gold of his irises were nearly consumed by dark pupil, his eyes expanding to take in as much light as possible in the darkness. In this lighting he looked both more and less human, and it made Jaskier feel helplessly fond. Their eyes met, and suddenly the situation struck Jaskier as a bit funny. Two men sitting in a field, silently staring at each other, one pining away like nothing else while the other tried to summon a ghost. It was ridiculous. He quirked a playful eyebrow at Geralt, as if to say, Aren’t we just a couple of fools?

Jaskier watched Geralt’s face shift, a second of surprise flitting across his face. And then, without warning, there was something new there, something Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen before. A softening in Geralt’s eyes, in his brow, as he looked at Jaskier, open and affectionate. The expression hit Jaskier like a punch, or a kiss, demanding and devastating. Geralt’s mouth opened on a low exhale, and Jaskier leaned forward, wondering if he dared, if Geralt might - 

There was a screech, and the wraith was upon them. 

Geralt was up in an instant, silver sword flashing as he blocked a clawed hand from coming down on Jaskier’s head. Jaskier yelped as he scurried out of the way, clutching the locket he’d almost forgotten. There was a sudden burst of purple light in the field, making the shadows around them dance and twist eerily. The wraith made a horrible noise, like flint scraping across metal, endless and clearly annoyed. Geralt pushed her against the wall of the magical trap, cutting off bits of wispy energy with his sword. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure when the exact right time was, but the wraith was certainly distracted. Jumping forward, he tossed the locket down into the fire, watching as the clasp popped open and the little lock of hair fell into the embers. It caught quickly, and Jaskier heard the wraith shriek again, this time a haunting and mournful sound. When he turned back it was just in time to see Geralt shove his sword in her chest. The strange, cottony fabric of her ragged dress seemed to dissipate in the wind, her dry flesh cracking and falling away like old paint. After a moment there was nothing left but a pile of ash. 

“Go in peace,” Geralt said, and turned to Jaskier. Dropping to one knee, he said, “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier pushed himself into a better sitting position. They were close, too close. He hoped the warmth of the fire would mask his blush. “I’m fine, thanks to you. Is she really gone?”

Geralt nodded. “Should be. She has no tether to this world anymore without the locket.”

“Right,” Jaskier said. He paused. “So. Um. What you did there seemed to work, at least.”

Geralt leaned back away, out of Jaskier’s space. He missed the proximity immediately. “I wouldn’t have exposed you if I could think of another way.”

“Well, it’s not easy to find someone as irritating as me on such short notice,” Jaskier said nervously. “Hardly efficient.”

Geralt gave an almost comical shake of his head, surprise slapped across his features. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Jaskier shifted, uncomfortable. Giving a forced laugh, he said, “Well, I can only imagine that you were conjuring up strong emotions of the, ah, annoyance you so often display when I do something like, I don’t know, sing or eat or breathe. I know you’re not so easily swayed by my charms.” He tried to pass it off like a joke, but he knew it fell flat even as he was saying it. There was too much hurt in his throat to make it come out anything less than bitter. He stared into the fire, watching the locket turn a liquid red from the heat. 

A warm hand suddenly came up to cradle his jaw, and Jaskier blinked in surprise as Geralt’s fingers urged him to look up. “It’s not that,” Geralt said forcefully. “You must know, Jaskier, you have to - When I look at you, it’s so...” He cut himself off with a frustrated sound. Words had never been his strength. “I feel many things for you, bard.”

Jaskier swallowed. “You do?”

Geralt’s eyes were hot on him, and Jaskier wondered if one could be branded by a glance. It certainly felt like it. “Yes,” Geralt said. “Intensely.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier stammered. “Um. I’m not sure if I’m reading all this right, but assuming that you’re saying you don’t hate me, then, ah -”

Geralt gave an annoyed huff, and Jaskier was just about to comment, say something like, see, I am irritating, but then Geralt was kissing him, and he decided to let it go. He leaned into the press of lips, gasping softly. It was brief, nearly over before it began, but Jaskier could feel the warmth of it after Geralt pulled away, breath ghosting over his skin. Jaskier shivered.

“Quite the opposite,” Geralt said softly. His eyes were molten gold, hotter than the locket still melting in the fire at Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier never wanted to look away. 

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” he said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

~~

this fic was heavily inspired by Somedrunkpirate’s piece A Lover’s Lament, which is one of my favorite stories of all time. If you read it you’ll be able to see exactly what scene I borrowed from, and I need you to know that it lives in my head rent free. 

edit: for some reason tumblr ate everything but the heading for this fic and I didn’t realize until this morning, so thanks to the ten people who liked it with no content LMAO. yall the real

[amiedala]

SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 3: Without Armor

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, violence

SUMMARY: “You’re an excellent leader. Tell me what to do.”

“Nova—”

“Prove it,” she whispers, her voice barely air. Her blood is pumping so heavily in her ears that her own words sound distorted, like they’re under a waterfall. “Show me you’re a good leader. Because I believe you are, but I know you have to prove it to believe it.”

“This isn’t what this place was made for.”

Nova stops, her forehead pressed against his. Everything in this strange arena is quiet except for their breathing, an urgent pulsing in the cold, dark night. “So fighting is sacred to Mandalorians,” she breathes, feeling the airlocks that keep Din’s helmet secure around his face hiss. He doesn’t move, letting her lift off his helmet, to have him without his armor. “You’re sacred to me. Every inch of you.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello hello my friends!!! this is where i offer a deep, massive apology for Chapter 3 coming out a week later than it was supposed to. i was traveling to visit my best friend who lives states away, then my family had a slew of emergencies and crises, then i was too drained with a flareup of pain to write a single word. writing SD is literally my happy place, and being forced to take an unplanned break was painful and hard. this chapter isn't as long as i wanted it to be (i'm so sorry for that as well!!!) but i think it's as fleshed out as i can get it, because, as usual, Big Things Are Coming. thank you so so much for being patient with me in my hasty, largely unexplained absence, and i hope you LOVE this week's chapter!! <3

*

Hoth really shouldn’t feel warm and welcoming. The climate is horrible, temperatures that drop to dangerous lows, the ice that breaks and shifts and opens into the gaping maw of the planet’s icy interior. It’s a wasteland, white-blind and horrible, but the small Rebel base located in the heart of the planet is enough to keep Nova’s heart anchored here, even when she’s parsecs away.

Landing Kicker isn’t an issue. The second they descend onto the landing pad, a small crew of the mechanics Nova spent most of her brief stint here with racing towards the underbelly. Nova waves at them, pointing over the noise at the makeshift patch on the mainline of fuel, and they nod, enclosing on the issue in a matter of seconds.

Din’s tense. Nova’s eyes roam over the silhouette of his impressive, taut body, knowing that most of what’s underneath the beskar is in fighting mode, ready to expel energy like a hurricane whenever he faces the opposition. He tilts the visor over at her, and Nova offers a tiny smile, her heart kicking an arrhythmic beat against her chest. She’s trying her best to not look relieved that she’s here and not on Mandalore, but she knows she’s a horrible liar and that her body is full of betrayal. When the airlock doors hiss open and the two of them are beckoned into the insulated hollow of the Rebel base, Wedge is there waiting. Behind him, like a silent sentinel, stands Bo-Katan, her owl-painted blue helmet obscuring the expression on her face.

“Rebel girl,” Wedge calls, and something cold in Nova’s heart thaws. His arms are strong and purposeful, and he envelops Din’s hand with that same warmth and vigor, nodding at him. Bo-Katan doesn’t move an inch, her pristine hands folded behind her back, every muscle in her body the same kind of tight and purposeful as Din’s are, Mandalorian strong. “Welcome back.”

“It’s—” Nova inhales, eyes flicking, uncertain, over at Bo-Katan, “good…to be back. I wish it was under better circumstances, but—”

“You’re Andromeda Maluev,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and the mention of her old name sends a spike straight through Nova’s chest, puncturing on scar tissue that’s never fully healed. “Aren’t you?”

Nova swallows, running her tongue over her bottom lip. “I was,” she answers, finally, voice far away and small. “Why do you ask?”

Bo-Katan gestures with her head, a tiny movement, and then she’s turning on her beskar heel to move towards the war room. Silently, Nova and Din follow behind her and Wedge, Nova’s heart still hammering, erratic. The space is smaller than the giant one on Mandalore, but because it’s empty except for the four of them, it seems massive. Dangerous. Lonely.

Nova steps up to the holotable, twisting her tongue behind her teeth, trying to remain calm. The mention of her old name, twice in less than a week, feels like shrapnel. It reminds her of everything she’s been running from for a decade—her parents’ deaths, Jacterr Calican, the Empire, the resurrected evil in the First Order—and it sits sourly in her stomach as Bo-Katan presses buttons on the holotable. When the image of Nova comes up—so much younger than she feels now, dark hair long against her back, her features glitched and glittering in the hologram projected towards the ceiling—she winces at it. Beneath her portrait, her name is written in Basic: ANDROMEDA MALUEV. AGE: 26. CRIMES: EVADING CAPTURE, MURDER, AIDING AND ABETTING CRIMINALS. It’s bold and terrifying and Nova can’t look away. The word MURDER, screaming at her in capital letters, is too much to bear. She swallows, throat dry, blood rushing in her ears. It’s such a dangerous, horrible thing that it takes Nova a minute to read anything beneath the portrait of a girl she hasn’t been in years, but when she finally gets past the roadblock—MURDER, MURDER, MURDER—she sees a price on her head.

“Five million credits?” she asks, her voice rocketing through three octaves in her disbelief. The word credits cracks down the middle, incredulous. She presses a hand to her mouth, flattening her fingers flush against her face, trying to steady herself. “Why—why is the bounty so high?”

“That’s not from the First Order,” Wedge starts, gently, but he’s interrupted by Bo-Katan’s knife of an arm, cutting up between him and Nova. She jabs a long, gloved finger at the script underneath Nova’s image and her bounty, and Nova blinks hard, trying to get her brain to focus on what the words say.

“Novalise,” Bo-Katan says, her voice clipped, “you’re wanted alive or dead. Do you see that?” She enunciates her point with her finger again, stabbing it on the shimmering blue words reflected in front of them. “This is from the fucking Guild.”

“Easy,” Din cuts in, the word hard in the air. He steps forward, knocking Bo-Katan’s angry hand out of where it’s shaking in Nova’s face. “Take it the fuck down, Bo-Katan, or I will do it for you.”

“The—Guild?” Nova asks, trying to make all of the moving parts fit right in her brain. “I—I don’t understand. The Bounty Hunters’ Guild? The one that Greef Karga runs? I—I’m wanted? Why?”

“You’re not,” Din interrupts, his voice clipped and intense. Nova shuffles to the side as Din steps towards the holotable, magnifying the strange text. “It’s not Karga’s Guild. And you,” he adds, shoulders tossed back, facing Bo-Katan, “had no right to yell at her with those theatrics. Save that for the enemy.”

Nova can’t see Bo-Katan’s face, hidden under the blue beskar of her helmet, but she knows that Bo-Katan is glaring daggers at the both of them. Nova swallows again, trying to keep her heart rate steady, her racing mind calm, but she just keeps seeing the word MURDER flash before her eyes. Din’s saying something else, and she can’t concentrate, turning her body away from the three of them, staring off at the ice that makes up every corner of this room, clear and dangerous. She closes her eyes—MURDER, MURDER, MURDER—and opens them again, just as rapidly.

Inhaling shakily, Nova starts counting the deaths she’s been responsible for on her long, shaking fingers. Her skin, usually so warm and radiant, is fallow and pallid in the low light. Her thumb sticks up first, wearing Jacterr’s name. It wasn’t intentional, she tries to console herself, but her hands are still quivering. It was an accident. She didn’t mean for the lightsaber to ignite. She didn’t even know she had the power to do that, let alone use it as a weapon. It was self-defense, killing him before he had the chance to kill her. And then there were all of the faceless troopers in the TIE fighters she shot at when trying to get out alive. For years, hordes of them, shooting back at them before they had the chance to blow her to smithereens or capture her for something worse. You’ve never shot first, Nova tries to reason with herself, eyes focused on the outline of her boots, old and worn, warm against the icy floor of the room she’s standing in. It was all self-defense.

Except, that tiny little voice in the back of her mind whispers, insidious and awful, you killed Xi’an all on your own. Nova’s heart hangs heavy in her chest, like it’s on trial. She tries to inhale, but there’s no air in this ridiculous ice block of a room, and everything is purple and wounded, the imprint of Xi’an’s cold, dead body embedded on the back of her eyelids. That could be argued as self-defense, too, Nova tries to rationalize, but the reminder of the bullet that hit her wicked body head-on is still so horrible in her head. Logically, Nova knows that the only reason that she shot and killed Xi’an was because Din would have died if it weren’t for that bullet, and that Xi’an hurt her husband in ways she’d never felt fully comfortable asking about, but it’s still a dead body on her hands. Her gorgeous, terrible, radiant, shaking hands.

“I g—I gotta go,” Nova mumbles, and then her feet are carrying her out of the war room, into the hallway. They’ve put up more insulation since the time she lived here for a few weeks, when Din and Grogu left her and the world stopped turning, but the recognition of it barely registers in Nova’s mind as she sprints through the empty hallways, picking up her feet so that they don’t tangle in the loose generator wires curled across the floor. It only takes a few more turns, and then she’s through the airlock, back out into the frozen climate of Hoth’s exterior, her heart hammering something horrible, her pulse erratic, her blood pressure high and dangerous. Slowly, she sinks onto the frozen ground, right outside of the door, pressing her bare hands into the snow, trying to calm anything back to its usual resting place.

It’s freezing out here. Nova’s still in her outfit from Ahch-To, and even though her pants are lightweight and the cold cuts straight through, she’s not getting wet from the snow. Her upper body is slightly warmer, fabric of her shirt protective, the shawl wound tightly over her shoulders, flapping slightly in the wind.

“Nova,” a voice behind her cuts through the silence, and Nova turns at the sound of her name, breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her mouth. Din’s standing there, tall and stately. “Are you okay?” he asks, and the timbre of his voice makes it very clear that he knows full well that she’s not okay.

“Why?” she manages, and then she’s being hauled to her feet, Din’s gloved hands warm and steady around her waist. “Why is there a bounty on my head—alive or dead?” She blinks against a loose lock of hair blowing in her face, and before she can react to it, Din’s already tucking it gently behind her ear. “I thought the Order wanted me—”

“I don’t know,” Din interrupts gently. “I don’t know why you have any of these charges on your head, or why there’s a bounty at all. Gideon and everyone we’ve interacted with associated with the First Order always insisted that you would work for them, not that you were to be eliminated. I don’t know who put the charges out there, but we’re going to fix it. I’m never going to let anyone touch you.”

Nova looks straight up at the visor, swaying slightly in the frosty breeze. Her head hurts. Her scar aches. The pressure that’s constantly blossoming on her shoulder blades feels incredibly heavy, and even though the wind is frozen through, it makes her heart burn for Ahch-To—its gorgeous greenness, its holy ground—and Nova just stares at her own, unhinged reflection in Din’s helmet.

Her teeth press down onto her bottom lip before she can muster up the strength to speak. One of Din’s gloved hands is pressed protectively against the small of her back, and the other is holding her right cheek, a fortification, a promise. Nova looks desperately into the visor, trying to see straight through to Din’s brown eyes. Her voice is barely there when she’s able to talk. “How?”

Bo-Katan’s helmet is off by the time Nova feels stable enough to walk back inside. The airlock door hisses shut behind them, and Wedge is the one that Nova catches first. He’s outfitted in his regular orange jumpsuit, but the spark that usually burns behind his eyes is replaced by a sadness that Nova’s never seen before. He offers her a small smile, beckoning into the room, but she knows his mind is racing just as quickly as hers is, and when she looks at the holotable, the horrible image of her isn’t projected anymore. She inhales once, exhales, and tries to coax her heart back to a normal rhythm.

“Novalise—”

“It’s okay,” Nova whispers, nodding in Bo-Katan’s direction without looking at her. “You—you were right to call us here. I’m just…” she trails off, a small glint of light catching the stone on her ring finger, and she sighs. “I was taken by surprise. That was—I wasn’t expecting it. I know the First Order wants me. I know that my…powers, however mysterious as they are, make me valuable, and that makes me dangerous. But I don’t understand who wants me dead if it’s not the people we’ve been running from for the last year.”

Bo-Katan steps forward, uncrossing her lean, muscled arms. Silently, she pulls up the shimmering holograms again, but this time, Nova’s bounty doesn’t come up. It’s not anything recognizable until Bo-Katan points to a blue, rotating sphere. “I think,” she finally says, her tone unreadable, “that whoever put this bounty up on you wants your face out there in a bigger capacity than what it already is. You’re known in the Alliance, obviously, and now you’re known on Mandalore.” She stabs her finger at the hologram of the planet, rotating in silence. “And you’re wanted by the First Order, for whatever horrible plans they have next. But whoever this other force is—”

Nova holds up a hand, and, miraculously, Bo-Katan stops talking. “They want me to be a martyr,” she whispers, and all three of them look over at her with various expressions of disbelief. Din’s face is still hidden underneath his helmet, but Nova knows exactly what the contours of his features look like right now. Wedge’s worry lines deepen, dark and troubled. Bo-Katan raises one sculpted eyebrow, but her eyes focus on Nova’s like she knows it’s the truth.

“What did Luke say?” Wedge asks, finally.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant right now,” Bo-Katan interjects, but Wedge holds up a hand. It’s so sharp in contrast to his usual easygoing demeanor that her mouth snaps back shut.

“Nova’s a Jedi,” Wedge continues, eyes drifting to the lightsaber hanging off her belt. “Or at least she’s going to be,” he amends, “so she’s rare. One of three still existing that I know of, so that makes her incredibly important. Luke has been off on his own the last few years, trying to piece back the history of the Jedi that got lost or erased in the war. And that’s the Skywalker family lightsaber she has right there,” Wedge continues, nodding again at Nova’s belt loop, “so I know she went to go see him. What did he say, rebel girl?” he asks again, and Nova exhales lowly through the tiny gap of her open mouth.

“He knows something is coming,” Nova manages, finally. “He wanted—he wanted me to stay and train. He’s trying to locate all of the remaining Jedi in the galaxy, to try and rebuild what got destroyed. And,” she continues, exhaling, “he told me that what died may not stay dead.”

“Well,” Bo-Katan interjects, huffing, “that’s incredibly cryptic and entirely unhelpful.”

“Don’t start,” Wedge snaps, an edge to his voice. “Did he mean Gideon?”

Nova slowly shakes her head. It’s the truth, even though, to Bo-Katan’s point, Luke was being cryptic when he gave her that particularly sage warning. It’s not Gideon. Luke was talking about something deeper. “No,” she whispers, finally. “He meant someone—or something—much worse.”

Bo-Katan raises another eyebrow, a scorn so distasteful it makes waves on her face. “Yet another cryptic and unhelpful point, Novalise.”

Din steps forward before the expression on Nova’s face even changes. Bo-Katan Kryze doesn’t cower much, but she sure as hell shrinks underneath Din’s stance. He’s all anger, electric wires running currents throughout his entire tense body. Even the beskar pales in comparison to his rage. His hand slips to his own waistline, and Bo-Katan’s startled eyes glaze over the Darksaber before she backs down.

Nova has no idea how to diffuse this situation. Maybe Din’s right, maybe she is an expert at getting out of things, but the mountain crushing down on top of her shoulders just keeps growing bigger and bigger. Soon, it’ll be the size of Mandalore, and then she’ll have two planets to try and keep balanced on her already aching back. Nova rubs at the sore spot between her eyebrows, trying to worry out the knot that’s been growing in intensity there.

Bo-Katan’s talking again. Nova registers it, faintly, in the back of her mind. She’s long since grown tired of running, but right now, all her legs want to do is make a break for it. She’s exhausted and frozen in place and so unsteady on her feet. All Nova craves right now, this very second, is to lay back down in the piles of frigid snow outside and let it cool down her body right to the core. Din’s voice is angry, direct, curling in waves through the modulator, and when Nova whips back around to face the three of them, somehow, miraculously, they all grow silent.

“They want me to be a martyr,” Nova repeats, her voice barely anything in the chill of the chamber. Wedge’s thick eyebrow raises, his careful eyes searching over her face, trying to find her angle. “I’m not going to be. But I’m also not going to sit and wait on Mandalore for them to come find me, whoever they are. I’m not going to make it easy for them. Besides,” she finishes, eyes locking on Din’s, even under the obscurity of his helmet, “I’m a Rebel. Laying low isn’t in my blood.”

“Maybe,” Bo-Katan says, and there’s a razor’s edge to her already sharp voice. Something is wrong, Nova knows that, because underneath all of that icy venom, there’s a tremble that ricochets through her words. “But you’re forgetting something. You aren’t just a Rebel anymore. You’re the queen of a planet—”

“I’m a figurehead,” Nova spits back, exasperated. Maker above, her head is seriously killing her. Somewhere, distantly, she aches for the quiet crush of hyperspace, the dazzle, the glimmer, the flair of it all. Out there, running didn’t feel like running. And out there, home actually felt like home. “I’m nothing. I’m married to the Mand’alor, that’s it. I don’t rule. I don’t interact with anybody but the two of you. I wear Mandalore colored clothes, sometimes I’m in the war room, but most of the time, I’m staring up at the sky, and I can’t see the stars. I cannot see,” she continues, her voice unhinging into something desperate, “a single star from the planet’s surface. Bo-Katan, Mandalore is a ghost town. There’s only a handful of people left. Why did you battle Din for power in the first place,” she finishes, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, “if this was all that it was for?”

The room is silent. Nova can barely see straight, her eyes burning with the tears she’s trying to hold back. Bo-Katan looks like she’s been wounded—not pissed off, not royally wronged—wounded. Hurt. It’s written in the fracture lines of her face, and even though she’s been cold and hostile and a pain in everyone’s asses, Nova aches knowing she put them there. “Because,” Bo-Katan says, finally, and her voice isn’t icy anymore. It’s flat. Monotonous. “I love Mandalore. And I wanted something more.”

Nova inhales shakily, letting her shoulders round, clutching her arms around herself. The shawl wrapped around her upper body has fallen down to her shoulders, her loose hair flying in curls around her face. She’s exhausted. Behind her, she can feel Din stepping forward, his presence like a locus, an orbiting star. She staggers backward, mouth struck open, unable to conjure any words to fix this. “Bo-Katan—”

“Maybe I was wrong,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and her regular permafrost is back. “Maybe I was wrong about you. You’re right. You’re not a ruler. You’re a figurehead, Andromeda.” Nova recoils as if Bo-Katan slapped her. Slapping her would be better, actually, because the gut punch that comes with the stab of her old name is almost too much to bear. “And you’re sure as hell not a Mandalorian.”

Nova closes her eyes at the impact, but Din shoves his body forward, the whoosh of the Darksaber igniting in his hand before Nova can react. When she finally opens them, Din is standing like the warrior he is, like the bounty hunter he used to be. The horrible, flickering blade is up in front of Bo-Katan, an inch from her throat.

“I agreed to do this job because you insisted. I only promised to follow through if you were in my corner.” Din’s hand doesn’t waver once. Nova watches, horrified, as the terrible blade crackles and hisses in the low, cold light. “You intentionally disrespecting my wife is the opposite of being in my corner. If you ever,” he continues, and Nova can hear the grit of his teeth through the modulator, “use that name to refer to her again, those words will be your last. Do you understand me?”

Bo-Katan stares up at him, all malice. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Believe me,” Din spits, voice even and dangerous, “you haven’t been burned by me yet.”

Finally, she steps down, jutting her chin downward in a very reluctant nod. “Maybe you’re not a Mandalorian,” she concedes, staring back at Nova. Nova’s frozen to the spot, arms hugged tightly against her chest, knees shaking from the proverbial impact, “but Mandalore is still your home. For now, at least. And until we figure out who’s after you, that’s where you’ll stay. No Rebel missions. No alone time out in the stars.” She stares up at Din. “You wanted me in your corner? Fine. But your corner is on Mandalore, and Mandalore only.”

“I can’t do that,” Nova manages, quietly, her teeth aching in her mouth. “I need to train, Bo-Katan, I—I need to go see Grogu, I’m a commander in the Alliance, I cannot be grounded on a planet indefinitely, not with the entire galaxy on the brink of another war, not while there are two groups of people who want me dead or to be their slave—”

“Your home,” Bo-Katan interjects, her eyes dangerous behind her solid voice, “is on Mandalore now. What better place to protect you than a planet full of born and bred warriors?”

Nova’s heart is in her throat. It aches, pulsing and twisting and waning, like she has a knife lodged in her esophagus. “I can’t stay there indefinitely, I—I’m a Jedi—”

“No,” Bo-Katan interrupts again, “you are not. Not yet, and not until we figure out what danger the Order and these bounty hunters are to the rules of Mandalore. Besides,” she tacks on, leaning back on her heels, “Mandalorians and Jedi do not get along.” Her glance that flickers over to Din’s intimidating, awful silhouette, the Darksaber a ruthless weapon in his capable hands, is the only thing that gives away all the fear she’s tucked away under all that venom.

“Ahsoka Tano,” Nova manages, and something painful runs through the hard lines on Bo-Katan’s face. “You led us to Ahsoka. So no matter what you’re telling us right now, I know that you get along with at least one Jedi better than you think.”

Bo-Katan stares back at her. For a horrible beat, nobody breathes. Nova’s almost forgotten Wedge is still in the room until he lets out a quiet, exhausted sigh. “We’re going back to Mandalore. Wedge will run the Rebel operation from here, with people who aren’t responsible for a planet and the next collective fight of the galaxy. You leave Mandalore,” she says, and this time her gaze is trained expertly on Din’s visor, “you’re on your own.”

“Stop,” Wedge says, finally, and the singular word shatters through the tension, bringing everything down to the icy floor in one fell swoop. “Stop it. You,” he says, pointing at Bo-Katan, “were in here less than a month ago talking about unity, wanting to build something better, to protect the galaxy. I never thought we’d be close friends, Bo-Katan, but I at least thought you were on our side.” He lets the intention hang there, before turning to Din. “You are an incredible warrior, Din. I think Nova was right about you being a good leader. I think you have great potential. But I’ve seen power easily go sideways, and if you keep fighting against your own, you’re going to end up in another war. And you,” he enunciates heavily, turning on Nova, “you’re the best person I know. Kindest heart I’ve ever seen, except maybe for Luke. You’re an incredible pilot, a fantastic Rebel, and I don’t doubt for a second that you can save the galaxy from whatever evil it brings. But you’re not immortal, Nova. You’re not a saint, or a god, or anything bigger than a human being. Bo-Katan is right about one thing, and that’s you being in danger. They want you to be a martyr? Don’t let them make that a reality.” He pauses, and there’s something ancient in his eyes. “Go back to Mandalore. Work with each other, in whatever capacity that means. And when the three of you realize that we’re all in this together, no matter what threat we’re facing next, then you get to call the shots again.” He lets that hang in the air too, and it’s so heavy with genuine care, Nova’ heart breaks over itself again. “And I don’t make a habit of saying this, but may the Force be with us all.” His gaze roams over the three of them again, and Nova swallows, nodding against Wedge’s words. “We’re certainly going to need it.”

Mandalore is deadly and quiet.

It doesn’t welcome the three of them back in open arms. Bo-Katan’s ship is so much sleeker than Kicker, but Nova revels in the groan and tumble her starfighter makes when it touches down on cool, ashy earth. Her teeth are still shaking in her mouth. She has a headache, one she can feel in her jaw, right down to the bone. No one has spoken since Wedge gave his rebel rousing speech back on Hoth, and Nova knows that nothing she can manage can top that one. She’s silent in her flying, her disembarking. Slowly, she and Din trail Bo-Katan up the marble steps of the palace, and Nova can barely remember to offer her usual smile at the guards before the tall, impressive doors snap shut.

“I meant what I said,” Bo-Katan offers, finally, and there’s a wicked set in her jaw. “I can’t protect you out there. Mandalore is my home. I’m not abandoning this planet to run after the two of you and your masochistic need to save the galaxy. It’s been through enough, and I’m not going to let either of you ruin that. I meant it.”

Nova stares at her. She wants to snap back, to repeat what Wedge said, to shake some sense into Bo-Katan’s tense shoulders, but she doesn’t. She left all of her vitriol and fire back on Hoth, and she’s so incredibly tired. It’s nearly impossible to remember that DIn only took the throne a little over two weeks ago, that the ragtag group of their collected rebel fighters seemed so confident that they could stop the First Order, take down the evil lurking there, and restore peace to the galaxy. “So did I,” Nova whispers, finally, and Bo-Katan blinks uncharacteristically, a tiny slip in her usual armor before she opens her mouth again.

“We’ll talk more about this tomorrow,” Bo-Katan allows, and then she turns on her beskar heel and walks off somewhere in the dark haunt of the castle, her steps receding into nothing but dread.

Nova’s scar hurts. These days, it always seems to hurt, this horrible sucking wound that still aches, an aftershock of a trauma long gone. She sighs, long and heavy, wanting to sink into bed for a day or two and sleep all this responsibility off. She wants to be back up there in the stars, moving from planet to planet with purpose. She wants to use the lightsaber hanging from her belt. She wants to hug Grogu to her chest, to feel his tiny green body give off that special kind of warmth. She wants to lay with Din without armor, the rest of the world falling away.

When she finally manages to pull her heavy head up, Din is staring at Nova in the silence. There’s only a small strike of moonlight cutting across the strange, blue floor. He’s still wearing his helmet, but she can practically cut straight through the shield by the way she can feel his eyes piercing hers. This aches, too, such small hurts that accumulate across the map of her body.

“Come with me,” he says, finally, and when he reaches out his familiar, steady hand, she takes it.

It’s quiet in the palace, as per usual, but something about the moon striking through the windows as they move through the empty halls feels loud and haunting. Quietly, Din and Nova walk, hand in hand, past the throne room, past the staircase that leads to their massive bedroom, into the maze of corridors in the yawning belly of the beast. The amphitheatre is massive, something holy in its own right. Mandalorians treat battle like it’s divine, and the giant stadium built into their palace is made of marble and blue stone, the sky open and glittering above the arena.

“Why are we here?” Nova asks, finally, breaking the silence holding the both of them captive.

“Because,” Din answers, his voice level, leading her to the center of the ring, “this is where I won the Darksaber.”

Nova raises a dark eyebrow at him, and even though Din’s face is still obscured by the helmet, she can feel his face softening. “I know, mighty Mand’alor,” she deadpans, her own voice gentle, “I was there for the fight of the century, remember?”

“Stop it,” he interjects, but there’s no venom in his tone. She smiles, relaxing slightly, letting her aching shoulders drop. “I meant this is where it started. When we stood here, you said you thought I could be a good ruler. A fair one. Someone people would listen to.”

“I still think that,” she echoes, and Din’s fingers flutter over the makeshift hood of her shawl, dropping the blue fabric so that her hair falls loose. There shouldn’t be a breeze in here, but something rustles Nova’s long curls, letting them spiral over her right shoulder. “Actually, I know it—”

“I’m not,” Din interrupts, and Nova watches his movements, how calculated they are, how he’s pacing back and forth in the pit around her. It’s empty in here except for the two of them, but there’s some strange sense of exhibition, as if they’re being watched. “I’m not a good leader, Nova, because I’m not a leader. Bo-Katan told me Mandalore doesn’t take kindly to outsiders, but you were right earlier. This place is a ghost town. Besides the people who live and work in the palace, I’ve never seen anyone in the village. I’ve spent hours in the war room just looking at the maps, trying to figure out where all of the Mandalorians are.” He sighs, and Nova chances a half-step forward. “There aren’t any. They’ve either fled, been killed, or have left Mandalore to hide on other planets, like my covert.”

“Din,” Nova starts, but when he holds up a single gloved hand, the words die on her tongue.

“There’s nothing here left to rule,” he says, finally, like the words are both an incredible burden and the truth that sets him free. “Mandalore is gone. Whatever it used to be, whoever used to live here, what we see is all that’s left. Maybe I am meant to rule this planet full of nobody, I don’t know. Maybe this is some sort of strange...riddle that I can’t figure out. But I can’t understand why it’s so imperative for the two of us to step into these roles, to follow rules that make no sense, to try and be a leader for a planet that’s barely anything.”

Nova stares at him. A small smile winges across her lips before she even realizes why. “You don’t want to stay here,” she whispers, which is an echo of the same sentiment she’s been saying for weeks, but this time it feels like the truth laid bare. “You want to be where the fight is.”

Din’s quiet. His shoulders are still rigid. “I don’t run from things.”

“True.” Nova steps another foot towards him, her head cocked to the side, trying to puzzle out what’s happening in his head without seeing a glimpse of his face. “That’s usually my M.O.”

“Stop it,” Din whispers, but there’s no fire left in his voice. Nova studies him—his stature, his stance, the Darksaber hanging off his hip, the proverbial crown balanced over his helmet—but there’s nothing hardened there, nothing sharp, regardless of how regal he is, how his presence cuts through every room like a knife. When she’s finally close enough to touch him, her hands immediately go to his helmet, pressing her palms against the smooth, cold beskar, an invitation and a question all at once. “Novalise,” he tries, and her name sounds like something more, something deeper, something holy. Quietly, she presses her body against his, letting the coolness of the armor heat up against the soft curves of her skin. “We can’t do this in here—”

“You’re the one,” she breathes, hooking her fingers under the rim of the helmet, “who said this is our place to desecrate.”

Din’s breath comes out sharp and wicked, like he’s been impaled on her words. “And I meant it then,” he manages, as she starts to pull his helmet off, “but now all I want to do is be back out there in the stars. Not be this figurehead. Not being the leader of a dozen people who all hate my guts and want to slaughter me for the throne.”

“You are a leader,” Nova continues, pressing her body closer to his. Even through the armor, she can feel him harden against her touch, stiffening against her trousers, a sign that she’s pushing the both of them closer and closer to the edge. “You’re an excellent leader. Tell me what to do.”

“Nova—”

“Prove it,” she whispers, her voice barely air. Her blood is pumping so heavily in her ears that her own words sound distorted, like they’re under a waterfall. “Show me you’re a good leader. Because I believe you are, but I know you have to prove it to believe it.”

“This isn’t what this place was made for.”

Nova stops, her forehead pressed against his. Everything in this strange arena is quiet except for their breathing, an urgent pulsing in the cold, dark night. “So fighting is sacred to Mandalorians,” she breathes, feeling the airlocks that keep Din’s helmet secure around his face hiss. He doesn’t move, letting her lift off his helmet, to have him without his armor. “You’re sacred to me. Every inch of you.”

The sound that erupts from Din’s mouth is even more wicked as the modulator cuts off in the middle of it. Nova pulls the rest of the helmet off of his face, her eyes roaming over every single pore, trying to memorize the way he’s staring at her, half-frenzied, his eyes fluttering somewhere between pleasure and pain.

“Novalise.” Her name still sounds like a prayer. Nova doesn’t break Din’s eye contact, just drops the helmet with a clatter against the floor. It’s loud, deafening almost, but he doesn’t flinch at the sound. “You can’t say things like that to me—”

“Then stop me,” Nova counters. Her heart is hammering. She’s being a brat, she knows she is, a whiny, wheedling baby that only wants one thing, but she can’t help herself. Din’s gloved hand closes around her wrist, squeezing lightly, and even though it makes her heart skip a beat, she’s unhinged and dangerous right now. Silently, she unhinges his hand from where it’s gripping her arm and places Din’s fingers against her throat, leaning into his touch, eyes wide, inviting. “I know you. I know what you want. I know that I made a Rebel out of you, Mand’alor, but I also know that when you give people orders, they’re helpless to do anything other than follow them. You can have whatever you want. You just have to prove it.”

His eyes glint for just a moment. It’s in a flash, over almost as soon as it starts, just a nanosecond, but something glittering and dangerous sparks up behind Din’s measured brown eyes, and Nova barely has time to inhale before his grips tightens around her throat, his other hand anchoring her hips in place. It’s an exact replica of the way he’s held her a million times, but his touch still feels brand new. “I want you.”

Everything stops existing. The war, the ghost town of a planet they’re supposed to rule, the First Order, the insidious war that’s gearing up in the underbelly of the galaxy. The pressure for Din to be a ruler, the urgency of Nova becoming a Jedi, every single piece of their lives fall away. It’s devastating and divine, vivid and vivacious. “Then take me,” Nova breathes, feeling Din harden against her leg, hot and heavy even through her pant leg and the beskar that’s protecting him. “Take me, but do it without armor.”

He stares at her, just for a second, and despite knowing that she has her husband wrapped around her pinky finger, Nova’s own eyes widen, heartbeat quickening, worried she took it a step too far. When Din’s hands disappear from her body, a panicked apology is already trying to hurtle its way out of her mouth, but Din doesn’t break eye contact. His hands pull the armor off of his body, letting each piece clatter at his feet like it’s nothing. Nova’s breath has barely been returned to her lungs by the time that Din’s finished undressing, standing in front of her with nothing but his underclothes, Mandalorian blue, and then he slams himself into her, knocking both of them back a few steps with the centrifugal force. Her knees buckle as she lets herself be swept away, wind knocked right back out through the hollow of her open mouth, Din’s hands purposeful and intentional.

Nova’s pretty sure she’s seen Din this vibrant before, this full of desire, but the way he devours her means something deeper. It’s desperate, and yearning, and haunting, leaving his mark all over her body to be worn as a prize later. His lips trail down her jaw, his teeth sinking into her skin, tongue licking out a symphony on the pulse points he’s expertly mapped over the last year. “Din,” she manages, before his name is sucked straight out of her mouth, and his hands twist and writhe underneath the clothes she’s wearing.

Almost as immediately as he started, his mouth disappears. Nova’s eyes flutter open, trying to find where Din retracted himself to, and his large hands, suddenly bare of the gloves he was wearing just a second ago, grasp onto her face. She inhales sharply as he grabs her, the force of his grip puckering her lips up. Nova feels like putty in his hands, like she’s buzzing. “You want me without armor, cyar’ika?” he asks. Din’s voice is so low, it rumbles straight through her, everything between her legs a hurricane. “You want me to be a ruler?”

Wordlessly Nova nods, trying to coax air back into her lungs. “Yes,” she manages.

There’s something torrential in the low blaze of Din’s eyes. Nova thinks she’s still standing, that he’s keeping her upright, but honestly, she can’t tell. The only thing she’s focused on is the darkened outline of his gorgeous face, the flash of his eyes. “Then I want you like that, too,” Din breathes, yanking the shawl right off of her shoulder. Nova’s hair springs out from underneath it, ricocheting against her face as Din grasps her cheeks, pulling her forehead against his. “No armor. Submissive to what I say.”

Nova gasps, nodding against Din’s touch, and when he tears her clothes off of her, she doesn’t even try to tell him she needs them intact. It’s just fabric. It doesn’t matter, not when his hands can burn against her. When they sink down to the floor of the amphitheatre, kissing so hard their teeth knock together, nothing else exists anymore. It’s just Nova and Din and the stars they’re under, just like always.

The ground is cold against her back, but the second Din pulls his pants down and gets on top of her, the chill is immediately forgotten. Nova stares up at Din, trying to map every single inch of his face, even though she’s already memorized it, even though he’s shown it to the rest of the planet, it still feels so incredibly divine. He’s inhaling sharply, and when she flutters his eyelashes up at him, she nods. Permission. It’s just a second, wordless, but he understands. Usually, Nova wants foreplay, to be kissed, to have every single inch of her body blessed by the man she loves, but that’s not necessary tonight. When he pushes inside of her, hard and warm and huge, she gasps against the pressure. It’s devastating. It’s perfect. It’s hot and heavy and loud, and the force of how Din’s fucking her makes her head slam back agaisnt the floor. Before she can mutter a single word, one of his hands comes up underneath her skull, creating a barrier against Nova and the marble. She lifts her hips, locking her ankles around Din, trying to keep herself in the place he needs her, eyes rolling back in her head.

Somewhere, something devious whispers to her that she’s being used, but right now, Nova doesn’t even care. Every inch of her body is screaming out for Din’s, and every place where he’s touching her feels sacred, complete.

“Nova,” he whispers, and she’s a hymn, a prayer, something deeper than herself in this strange, makeshift place of worship. She wants to talk, to reassure him that she’s here, but then Din’s mouth is back against her lips, ravenous, unyielding. It’s everything. It’s dark in here, and still eerily quiet, and for the first time, she’s unabashed about filling this space up with their noise. It feels like a rite of passage, something divine, especially when Din licks his vows into her mouth, murmuring in Mando’a, swearing in Basic, and his other hand finds the curve of Nova’s hips, lifting her up so he can fuck deeper into her. Suddenly, every single insidious thought evaporates, her hand fluttering down across her stomach to reach her clit.

“Din,” she manages, breathy and disconnected, and immediately, his expert hand knocks hers away, replacing her touch with vigor. Before Nova even has a chance to adjust to his pressure, he’s pushing her over the edge, her oragasm quick and loud, deafening and ecstatic.

“Wait for me,” he grunts, his mouth back on her neck, and Nova’s eyes are flooding with collapsing stars, her ears buzzing, and she wants to apologize that she’s beating him there but when he’s touching her like that, she doesn’t even care. But then Din breaks away from her, angling his hips to slam deeper and deeper into Nova, and his lips tear off her neck, knocking their foreheads together. “Now,” he orders, and his voice is low and commanding, and that alone sends Nova through the roof.

Din grunts as he’s about to cum, writhes into her like it’s the last time that he’ll ever get to touch her. Usually, he pulls out soon afterward, rolls over on his back beside her, but tonight, he just grabs onto Nova’s jaw and stays pulsing in her. Every time his cock twitches with the aftershock, it extends Nova’s own orgasm, and she lets herself be held there, not wanting to move.

“I could,” she starts, panting.

“Stay here forever,” Din finishes, his voice barely anything at all. “I know.”

For what feels like lightyears, they stay together, a tangle of limbs and warmth, trying to catch their collective breaths. Slowly, the rest of the world filters back in, and the quiet, starry darkness of the amphitheatre doesn’t feel desecrated. It feels used, for something better than it was designed for, at that, and Nova feels her heartbeat pound down to a regular rhythm before she lets Din lay down beside her, both of them exhausted, staring up at the ceiling.

“I meant it,” Nova finally says, closing her eyes to feel the hum of her own voice in her throat. One hand is tracing the outline of her scar, the other is tangled up in the discarded shawl that Din thankfully did not eviscerate. “When I said you were a good leader. I think you’re a great one, Din Djarin, and even though I want to be out there.” Nova trails off, gesturing at the ceiling painted with stars, “if staying put means you get to do that, I’ll stay right here. I’ll be a Mandalorian.”

Din’s quiet. Nova doesn’t dare to move, because she knows the significance of what she just said, the crushing weight of it. “I meant it, too,” he whispers, finally. “When I said I’d follow you anywhere.”

Nova inhales sharply, finally turning her head to search her husband’s eyes. “I know,” she murmurs, eyebrows furrowing down the middle. “And I believe you. But what do you want?”

Din’s face is entirely unreadable. Nova counts the beats of her heart as they sit there in the silence, trying to encourage him without saying a single thing.

“You.”

Nova inhales, wetting her mouth with her tongue. “What else do you want?”

Din stares at her, moving only to press the open palm of his bare hand against her cheek. “I want you without armor, too,” he whispers, and then pulls both of them to their feet. Nova knows there’s more to that sentence, but she’s fighting sleep, and she doesn’t want to put pressure on more points than either of them can take. Wordlessly, they redress, and Nova follows Din out of the eerie amphitheatre, out of the maze of tunnels, back to the first floor where the giant war room sits, beskar throne impenetrable at the highest point. She wraps her shawl tighter around ehr shoulders, all the warmth that sex gave them blown away by the startling reality of the situation. Without a word, Din presses the ignition to the holotable, and the strange, blue, fractured image of Nova ten years ago illuminates.

She inhales sharply, her old reflection a sucker punch. Din grabs her hand, and Nova squeezes it, trying to stare at herself head on, without flinching.

“I want to kill off Andromeda Maluev and everyone who’s after her,” Din breathes, his voice so much louder without the barrier of the helmet and the modulator. “I don’t want to rule this planet and ignore the war that’s coming while there are people out there who want you.”

“Din—”

“Listen to me,” Din whispers, grabbing Nova’s face in his hands, and she turns away from her painful reflection, letting him become the only thing she orbits, even if it’s only for a second, even if it’s only for now. “You are Novalise Djarin. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from you.”

Nova’s green eyes flood with tears. Above them, above the mist and fog and haze that hangs over Mandalore like an omen, her stars are sparkling and clear. She inhales, focusing her blurry gaze on her husband, something concrete, something real. “What does that mean?” she whispers, and Din’s right hand goes to her right hip, purposefully knocking into the Skywalker family lightsaber, and Nova’s sharp inhale comes out stuttered.

Din’s eyes are a promise, a prayer. His bare hand smoothes back over her cheek, and something dangerous and pulsing inside of Nova suddenly quiets. “It means,” he says, guiding her own hand down to the weapon hanging from her hip, “that we do what Mandalorians do best. We’ll take it one day at a time,” he continues, and Nova nods, “but we’re going do what we do best. All of us.”

“What are you—?”

“I’m saying,” Din sighs, pointing up through the domed ceiling, and Nova strains her eyes to look through the clouds to the stars above, pulsing and flickering with the promises they’ve made to each other, “that Bo-Katan is going to protect Mandalore, Luke is going to train our kid, Boba and Fennec are going to avenge, Cara’s going to forcefully keep the peace, Karga’s going to figure out who put the bounty on your head, Wedge is going to rally the troops, and you and I are going to save the galaxy.”

There’s a smile on Nova’s face before can register everything Din’s saying. “Din—”

“You’re the only one who gets me without armor,” Din whispers into her ear, and Nova feels the giant door sliding open behind them. She’s going to turn around to yell at Bo-Katan that it’s not the morning yet, and that she just wants one tiny minute of happiness before returning to the weight pressing down on all of their shoulders, but multiple voices filter into the throne room, and Nova lets Din pull her up the steps onto the dais, watching as the space fills up with the people who still make up Mandalore. Bo-Katan raises her chin at them, but something’s replaced the fear and vitriol in her eyes. Din lets his helmet clatter on the floor, the noise loud enough for the rest of the hushed noise in the room to fall quiet. Nova swallows, staring out to the scene of people gathered in front of them, trying to look like a leader, like someone trustworthy. “We’re going to fight,” Din promises, his voice full and honest, a vow, and then he turns to face the people he rules in the center of the room. “Let’s get started.”

*

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*

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!! writing this story is truly my biggest joy, and getting to share it with all of you is priceless! i lovelovelove talking to you about your theories and comments and questions, so please leave them below or send me them on tumblr (amiedala)! i think i am finally back on track, so CHAPTER FOUR WILL BE UP SATURDAY, OCTOBER 2ND, AT 7:30 PM EST!!!

i love you all, have a lovely week (hopefully with fall weather coming your way)!!! <3

xoxo, amelie

[babbling-idiot]

Herbert West x reader

Requested: “Do you write Angst? Not like self harm or suicide angst though. Because if you do, I have a request;

So Herbert West x a platonic roommate reader (Dan can be there too, if you don't mind) and the reader has an s/o that for whatever reason dies and Herbert reanimates them and obviously it goes wrong and the reader has to kill their once beloved, and rightfully freaks out afterwards (whether that be a mental breakdown or yelling at their roomate/s)

Now, I had another idea similar to this where it's all practically the same except the reader's s/o was abusive and the reader gets a little carried away "taking them out" and that's what freaks them out?

Thanks even if you don't do it, I hope nothing in this makes you uncomfortable, thank you 💚🖤” -By Anon

Warning: Angst, Mentions of abuse, Descriptions of murdering someone

(Hello! So sorry for the long wait, I hope you likes this and enjoy!)

*****

The day had been going smoothly. You woke up easily. Looking at your phone before heading to the bathroom to start your morning routine. Luckily there were no messages. Thankfully, your partner hadn't texted you. As of lately they had been very, off. You had been with them for a bout a year now and after many attempts to keep it a secret, they found out about you living with two other people. Ever since then they had acted strange. Always texting to see what you were doing more than once a day. And sadly also being very rude. You didn't want to say abuse but what they had said to you throughout the relationship had been very much that. Especially when they had the balls to put there hands on you. Which was one of the things you didn't want to tell the boys about. Especially when they would come over to the house. At first it was harmless. They'd come in, see they guys and then you would both leave, end of story. But then it started getting to the point that every time they saw the guys they'd get angry. Command that you both leave right then. Now it wasn't that you didn't want to go. But Dan, bless his heart had always asked where you'd be. For safety reasons. Which was so thoughtful of him. Because in his eyes he saw you as his sibling. And the protective brother in him, came out around you. Now as for Herbert, he was the same way. Except he didn't like your partner in any kind of way. He thought they were a complete waste of time and were not good enough for you in anyway. He had a silent hatred for this person and every time they were rushing you, raising there voice at you and even when they would get close, the protective and slightly murderous part of him came out.

But as of this morning, there were no text. Now this would have been completely fine but something about no texts seemed odd. But not really paying attention you did your routine. You walked downstairs after and ate breakfast with Dan then headed out the door to your classes. Throughout your whole day you felt this sinking feeling in your gut. You felt as though something was terribly wrong and that something was up. It was around eleven in the afternoon when you got home and when you were walking up the steps to the front door. You found what looked like drag marks. Now with how long you had been living with the boys, you had grown to make out things. Like what drag marks look like. So, when you saw them trailing into your home, panic filled you. The first thing that came to mind was Herbert and how he has yet another dead body and is about to reanimate them. So, with speed in your step you made your way into the house. Locking the door behind you, you sat all your things on the coffee table and made your way to the basement door. When you got close you could the sound of two people, and the sound of another making some very nasty, guttural sounds. Like I said before living so long with them you made out the noise to be one of his reanimated corpses. It frightened you to hell and back and when you got the courage to go down those stairs you came face to face with a problem. Not only was there a very angry corpse, but that corpse was someone very familiar. At first you thought it was just your mind playing a cruel joke on you, but when they turned around and the prominent gash on there head and all the black goo pooling at there feet. You knew they were gone. You didn't know what to do, but when they lunged at you, hands gripping your shoulders, you felt as if you were in another heated argument with them. You pushed them off and they stumbled giving you enough time to grab the nearest weapon. You held it in hand, not wanting to hit them with it but a part of you knew it wasn't them anymore. They lunged yet again, this time you side stepped them and was able wack them over the head when you got a clear view of the back of there head. The first hit sounded like hitting a hollow object, and oddly it was satisfying to hear. When they turned you didn't give them enough time to do much until you hit them again. This time, you heard an even more satisfying "Crack" and the gash opened wider and was starting to run up into there hairline. It was after the second hit that you kept hitting them.

Herbert and Dan knew that your anger would take ahold of you, but with how much anger you were expressing on the reanimated corpse of your previous lover, they both were weary of getting too close. Out of there own safety as to not get hit as well. But Dan saw you tiring out and leapt in when he could. He wrapped his arms around your arms. Slowly pulling you away from the body as Herbert grabbed the bat from you. While Dan was helping you sit down Herbert was putting a cover on the body. Dan squatted down in front of you and tried to talk to you. You had tears brimming under your eyes and it was then that you fully realized what you had done. You broke down and Dan wrapped his arms around you again. This time comforting you best that he could. He explained to you that your now dead lover was in a fatal car accident and they brought their body into the hospital. The doctors tried to resuscitate them, but their heart beat never came back and Herbert saw an opportunity for parts. Bringing them here was a mistake, Herbert admitted to you when Dan mentioned bringing the body here. Herbert even apologized for putting you in this position.

It wasn't long after the incident that the police came to your door step and gave you the bad news. You had reacted as if you heard it for the first time. You cried yet again. Dan and Herbert were there for you. When the cop left, both Dan and Herbert apologized again. Feeling absolutely horrible for doing this to you. But you told them that it was ok, that hopefully you could forget that this day ever happened. But for now and a little into the future you would have to live with this. Live with the fact that you killed your lover. So, until then you would have to look at your hands, and remember the image of that object in your hand. And the satisfying sound of the "Crack" against there skull.

*****

(Hello again, So I hope you enjoyed this and if you did any kind of feedback would be highly appreciated. I hope you have an amazing day/night and stay safe out there in the world!)

[aquaquadrant]

the little things

Kenji’s mouth is dry. “Ben…?” he croaks out.

Ben swallows. “Oh,” he says, in a very small voice. “It’s you.”

~*~

Ben’s been reunited with the other campers, and seems to have come out the other end of his experience stronger than ever before. But as he slowly finds his place back within the group, a bigger picture starts to emerge, piece by piece.

Rated T for: mental illness, mild language, panic attacks, PTSD, anxiety, insomnia, eating disorder (not in a traditional sense, but definitely not a healthy relationship with food)

A/N: Hey Camp Cretaceous fandom, y’all mind if I uhhhh write six-thousand words about Ben’s trauma?? Basically, Netflix kept recommending the show to me so I watched the first ep out of curiosity and then ended up binging the whole thing in like two days, and now here I am.

(Dear sweet, patient, regular readers of mine: I’m so sorry my main fic’s been delayed but I promise it’s getting updated next week, I just had to get some feelings out about Sad Dino Boy)

Hope you enjoy, please reblog and leave a comment if you do! - Aqua

Click here to read on A03 (with more complete tags)

~*~

the little things

~*~ 

Ben Pincus has returned from the dead, and he’s never been better.

The other campers are amazed. What he’s been through must have been horrible. He thought he was the only one left, that there was no one to help him and no hope of rescue because he was presumed dead. It would’ve been enough to drive anyone into despair, or off of the deep end.

But Ben shows no signs of this.

They didn’t find him holed up somewhere, near starvation and waiting to die, like one might’ve expected. They didn’t find him at all, really. He found them, and by coming to their rescue, no less. And when he did, he wasn’t a trembling mess, he wasn’t a half-mad ball of paranoia, and he wasn’t a hollow-eyed skeleton fueled solely by desperation. 

He’s an all new and improved Ben, the best version of himself.

He hasn’t just survived, he’s flourished. He’s brave, he’s confident, he’s capable. He gives his opinions freely and without second-guessing himself, suggesting things the old Ben would’ve recoiled at. He fits seamlessly into the team like he never left. He faces problems head-on with determination and grit and not a trace of fear.

The turnaround is unbelievable. But even more important is that while he’s a new and improved Ben, he’s retained all the best parts of his old self.

Ben is easy smiles and meticulous organization of a leather waist bag and doting affection for a four-ton armored lizard. He’s sensitive and soft-spoken and accepts hugs from his friends gratefully. He still can’t quite pull off coolness, with a voice that sounds as gangly as his limbs look and an awkwardness he hasn’t grown out of.

And it’s perhaps because of this that no one thinks to look closer. This image is an easy thing to accept because it’s what they all want to believe, that Ben is okay- in fact, better than okay. But the truth is not always big and obvious upon first glance.

It’s the little things, as they soon find out.

~*~

That first evening after Ben’s return, after Mitch and Tiff and everything else, they don’t eat dinner.

They all ate their fill at the campsite and, after a month of scarcity, it was more than enough to sate their appetites. It’s Darius who thinks to ask Ben if he’s hungry, remembering that the boy hadn’t had the chance to eat with them. They have a good stockpile of food at the moment and he figures Ben must’ve been struggling.

But Ben shakes his head with an easy smile, and says, “Nah, I ate earlier.”

Darius leaves it at that, because there’s still so much catching up to do. They show Ben around their clubhouse, make plans for where to build a bunk for him (he insists he’d be just fine sleeping on the ground next to Bumpy, but they all veto that immediately). They talk well into the night about the day’s crazy events, filling each other in on their own sides of the story, and everything that’s happened since Ben got separated.

There are some more tears, some more hugs. But ultimately, the mood in the clubhouse is ecstatic. They never thought Ben had survived the fall so to have him back is better than a dream come true, it’s a miracle.

Darius thought he knew what it was to experience a miracle when they first saw that bonfire smoke on the horizon. But if he had to chose between the miracle of them finally leaving the island or the miracle of getting Ben back, it’s not even a competition.

Eventually the exhaustion catches up with everyone, and they turn in for the night. Bumpy parks herself underneath the clubhouse, her presence incredibly reassuring. Ben ends up sharing Kenji’s bunk because it’s bigger than Darius’s even when occupied by two, and the older teen had insisted in a very faux-casual way, to which Ben had rolled his eyes but nonetheless seemed touched by the gesture.

Darius takes the first night watch shift and gets to see all his friends sleeping peacefully. And even though Tiff sailed away with their only means for escaping, he feels a lot more hopeful than he has in a long time.

~*~

It’s canned peaches for breakfast.

A far cry from yesterday’s buffet. But no one’s complaining because the meticulous rationing of their food, courtesy of Darius, means they’re all starving by meal time and couldn’t care less what it tastes like. Darius is in the process of separating the food out into bowls, half a can for each of them, when he realizes Ben has yet to take a seat. He’s lingering at the edge of the room, watching.

“Hey,” Darius calls, “you coming or what?”

Ben shakes his head. “Thanks, but I already got my own breakfast.”

Before Darius can respond, Brooklynn shoots Ben a look. “What? Where?” she demands. “You holding out on us, jungle boy?”

Darius shoots her a look, but Ben just gives an easy smile and unzips the leather pouch that’s reclaimed its spot around his waist. He withdraws a small handful of bright red berries, no bigger than blueberries. It’s not even a fraction of the half-can of peaches the rest of them are settling for, and Darius sees his own unease reflected in the others’ eyes.

Brooklynn glances away. “Oh. Um, sorry. You don’t… you can have some of ours, you know?”

“I’m good.” Ben tosses a couple berries into his mouth. “You guys go ahead, I’m gonna go check on Bumpy.”

“O- oh, okay…” Sammy murmurs, watching Ben go with uncertain eyes. “If you’re sure…”

They’re silent for a moment.

Kenji inhales quietly through his teeth. “So… that’s weird, right?”

Yaz leans forward in her seat. “What do you think, Darius?” she asks lowly.

Darius bites his lip. Even though dinosaurs are his specific topic of interest, he’s gained a lot of second-hand knowledge about general biology and psychology. After all, he has to understand the processes behind behavior in order to identify patterns and deviations.

And right now, he has to admit that Ben is displaying a very concerning behavior.

“I’ll talk to him,” Darius decides.

There’s a collective sigh of relief around the table, and the others start eating. It takes Darius longer than usual to finish his serving.

~*~

“So, uh, bottom line is… you don’t need to feel bad about eating our food. You’re as much a part of this group as anyone else, and we’re happy to share.”

After a couple tense days, Darius is finally talking to Ben about the food situation. Or rather, talking at him. Because Ben’s not looking at Darius- his eyes are tracking the small spider that’s crawling along the railing next to them. Normally, Darius would take it as a sign of boredom and inattentiveness. But there’s an intensity in Ben’s eye that’s a little unsettling-

Quick as a flash, Ben shoots out an arm. He crushes the spider under his thumb and swipes it into his mouth. And then, untroubled as can be, he returns his focus to Darius as if nothing had happened.

Darius has overheard Kenji teasing Ben about eating bugs, and Ben has admitted as much in the stories of his time alone. Berries and grubs were what he lived on. Darius, for one, can’t imagine being hungry and desperate enough to snatch a bug off the ground and eat it.

But it’s even harder to imagine having access to real food, good food, and still choosing to eat bugs.

“Don’t worry so much,” Ben says lightly, patting Darius on the shoulder as he turns to go. “I can take care of myself.”

That does it. “You can’t keep living off berries and grubs!” Darius finally snaps.

Ben whirls around. “Says who?”

“Basic human biology!” Darius retorts.

Ben glares at him, but there’s something shaky behind it. “Darius, I told you it’s fine,” he says evenly, though he doesn’t fully meet Darius’s gaze. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Please? If I’m hungry, I’ll eat.”

Darius hesitates. “You promise?”

Ben breaks into an easy smile. “I promise.”

Darius sighs. It’ll have to be good enough, for now.

“Okay.”

~*~

Darius knows he isn’t the only one still concerned by Ben’s lack of appetite.

Right from the start, Ben was the scrawniest one among them, and it’s only gotten worse. But surely he’ll have to eat at some point, right? Basic survival instincts will win out over whatever stubborn mindset is holding him back. Plus, it’s clear that he’s got enough energy to run and climb and stuff with no problem.

Maybe it’s not as serious as Darius thinks. Maybe Ben just needs time.

~*~

Ben doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

He just- he can’t take their food! Why don’t they get that?

And it’s not because he’s stubborn, it’s not- no matter what Darius thinks. There’s nothing wrong with letting others help you (as long as you don’t let it make you soft, of course). After all, he relies on Bumpy. He just… when he looks at the food, and imagines eating it, he just knows it’ll sit in his stomach. Like a rock, weighing him down.

Plus, plus, if he gets used to eating like that, it’ll just- it’ll be harder to cope once it runs out. He’s already gotten used to roughing it and it was hard enough the first time, he can’t let himself slip back into complacency. And- and really, how long do they think it’s going to last? They’ve searched all the previously inhabited areas of the island and there’s no more food for them to scavenge.

Do they think they’ll be rescued before it runs out? No one is coming to save them. They know it as much as Ben does- they wouldn’t be bothering with rafts if they didn’t. Do they think they’ll escape, then? Sure, because their current attempts have been going so well.

No, they just aren’t thinking long term. Ben is.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

~*~

It’s the sixth day in a row where Ben eats nothing but berries.

He wants to search around some more, see if there’s anything more substantial. That would require him to leave Bumpy, though. And he can’t leave Bumpy. But the hunger is excruciating. It gnaws at him every waking moment, keeps him up at night. He’s never felt such hunger in his life, not even close. He can’t keep going like this, can he?

But there’s nothing else.

Except… something’s crawling up his arm. Something small, and leggy. Ben turns his head, squinting to focus his eyes in the dark. It’s some kind of beetle, with a shiny shell that catches stray shafts of moonlight poking through the roof of his lean-to.

Ben stares at it for a moment. Then, before he can think, he snatches it up and pops it into his mouth. He barely registers any taste, mostly just the crunchy texture. And even though it wasn’t any bigger than a quarter, after he swallows, he feels… fuller. Even if it’s purely imagined, it’s a comfort.

Berries and grubs. It’ll have to be enough.

There’s nothing else.

~*~

Ben continues to decline their offers of food.

~*~

A few weeks after the reunion, Kenji is starting to get antsy.

As the self-designated ‘pro-fun police’ (a clever play on ‘no-fun police,’ if Kenji does say so himself), he’s made it his responsibility to make sure none of his friends just keel over and die from stress one day. That means it’s his job- no, his duty- to lighten the mood with copious amounts of joking, goofing off, and, of course, pranking.

Jumping out to scare his friends while they’re trapped on a dino-infested island might, on paper, sound like a bad idea. But it keeps everyone on their toes, and the relief of realizing they aren’t facing a dino attack, just Kenji pulling a prank, helps keep any real anger at bay. It’s typically an exasperated annoyance, which Kenji will gladly take. His main targets are Brooklynn and Darius, because he can’t fathom doing that to Sammy, and Yaz is- while perhaps in the most need of lightening up- super freaking scary.

But now that Ben’s back, Kenji knows what he has to do.

Before, back when they were just campers and not survivors, Ben was easily the most frightened of them. The kid was scared of dirt. And his over-the-top hysterics always managed to, somehow, put everyone else at ease. Because if Ben was scared of something, that didn’t really mean anything. Again; scared of dirt.

(Now, if Yaz is scared of something, that’s a different story).

Since Ben’s, uh… departure, they’ve been sorely lacking that energy in the group. Kenji would wager he’s not the only one who misses it. He used to have so much fun riling Ben up with just a couple words (none of the others are so easily baited). And whenever Ben would freak out and instantly cling to him, like some kind of scrawny spider monkey, it made Kenji feel… capable, in a way.

Like, if Ben was trusting Kenji to protect him, maybe he wasn’t so useless after all (which was becoming an all too frequent feeling as the others continued to adapt and grow, leaving Kenji struggling to keep up).

Problem is, Ben’s really hard to scare now.

It’s not always obvious, like when he’s bragging about taking down Toro or itching to blow things up. Sometimes it’s the little things. Whenever they’re out in a group, foraging or gathering supplies, and there’s a sound in the distance that makes them all freeze, Ben’s frozen in readiness, not fear. He looks more like Yaz, tense and waiting with his fists up and eyes narrowed.

Sometimes, when they aren’t occupied by any particular task or imminent threat, and have the chance to enjoy some downtime, Ben drifts off to the side and just… watches, all tense, silent, and anxious. He’ll watch the tree line, or Bumpy on the ground below, or even just the rest of them as they go about their business. Kenji is sure he’s not the only one who’s noticed but none of them bring it up.

It’s… unsettling, seeing Ben like this. Kenji figured he just needed a couple weeks to fall back into the rhythm of the group, to see that he didn’t have to be this loner Rambo type of guy anymore. But even though he talks with them easy enough, seems to enjoy their company, and has a good handle on teamwork, it’s like there’s a part of him that can’t fully shake that mentality.

At least, not without help.

~*~

 Kenji’s plan is- in his humble opinion- pretty dang brilliant.

He waits for a time when it’s just him and Ben in the main level of the clubhouse (Yaz is running laps around their perimeter, Darius is in his bunk writing in his nerd book, Brooklynn and Sammy are upstairs going over inventory) and then announces he’s going for a shower. His daily showers are common knowledge at this point, so Ben just nods in acknowledgement and goes back to leaning against the railing, watching Bumpy graze down below in that tense-silent-anxious way of his.

Kenji sets up the shower and lets it run (he’ll go down to the river later and get more water to make up for the waste, because even though he tries to avoid manual labor whenever possible, it’s totally worth it in this case). And then, being more careful and silent than he’s ever been (except maybe in cases where he’s being hunted by dinos), he slowly creeps up behind Ben before leaping forward with a shriek, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Ben doesn’t just jump and scream. He jumps, screams, then spins around and swings a fist into Kenji’s jaw in one smooth motion.

Kenji’s laughing even as he staggers back, his jaw stinging (because at the end of the day, even though Ben’s kind of a badass now, he’s still Ben and his arms are pretty much chicken wings so there’s no real harm done, just a bruise at most). Plus that’s a valid reaction, considering everything, and he can’t say he didn’t deserve it.

“Oh man, I totally got you!” Kenji says anyways, to rub it in. “You should see your… face...”

And Kenji trails off because now he’s seeing Ben’s face.

What Kenji expected is this:

Once Ben realized it was just him pulling a prank, he would get mad. In that totally non-threatening dorky Ben way, where he scrunches his nose and puffs out his cheeks, his little fists clenched at his side like an irate toddler. Maybe he’d stomp off but it’d be worth it because being mad is better than being tense-silent-anxious and it’d give him the chance to be annoyed with Kenji. And maybe Ben being annoyed with Kenji would help everything feel a little more normal, a little more like before.

What Kenji gets is this:

Once Ben realizes it was just him pulling a prank, he doesn’t get mad. He starts shaking. Violently, uncontrollably. Like he’s suddenly come down with hypothermia despite being in a tropical jungle, staring at Kenji all the while and not saying a word. His chest rises and falls rapidly in little panicky breaths and the kind of fear in his eyes isn’t the kind that’s funny. It’s glassy-eyed with shrunken pupils that dart around Kenji’s face, frightened and searching, as if he isn’t fully seeing it.

Kenji’s mouth is dry. “Ben…?” he croaks out.

Ben swallows. “Oh,” he says, in a very small voice. “It’s you.”

Kenji hasn’t heard Ben’s voice sound that small since before, and it doesn’t feel like a victory.

By now, of course, the others have noticed the commotion and it doesn’t take more than a second for them to piece together what happened. Yaz rounds on Kenji with a furious snarl and whisper-screams a lecture about how stupid and irresponsible he is. Darius is immediately trying to mediate the situation while Sammy frantically asks Ben if he’s okay, to which he doesn’t respond. Brooklynn steps in, citing an unboxing video about dealing with shock, and when she goes to put a hand on Ben’s shoulder, he lets her.

And now Kenji realizes where he miscalculated. Ben never showed discomfort with physical contact before because he’d never been surprised by it before (because Ben has gotten scary good at being alert, always keeping an eye and an ear out on his surroundings even in the middle of a conversation). And when it came to his friends, it wasn’t unexpected for Sammy to rush in with a hug or Darius to pat his shoulder or Brooklynn to playfully knock elbows.

But Kenji snuck up on him, so Ben’s first thought wasn’t that it was a friend. It was that he was going to have to run for his life, like he has countless times since being stranded on this island.

Kenji apologizes over and over again as Darius gently leads him away by the elbow and Brooklynn talks to Ben in low tones while Sammy squeezes his hand and Yaz takes up a lookout position because they can’t afford for all of them to be distracted even though she occasionally cuts a glare at Kenji out of the corner of her eye so it’s really debatable how vigilant she’s actually being.

Throughout it all, Ben doesn’t get mad, but he doesn’t stop shaking.

 ~*~

 Darius explains it, later.

“The sudden fear reaction signaled a bunch of adrenaline to be released into his bloodstream, to give him the energy needed for running. And then, when he didn’t, there was nowhere for that energy to go. It’s like, even though his mind knew there wasn’t any danger, his body wasn’t convinced.” Then, a sympathetic look. “You didn’t know, man.”

Kenji only nods. But knowing doesn’t make it better because even though Ben’s stopped shaking he doesn’t turn his back on Kenji anymore and somehow that’s a million times worse than if he’d gotten mad.

 ~*~

 There are claws wrapped around Ben’s shoulders and shrieks in his ears.

Wind whips his face and his stomach lurches as he’s carried through the air, weightless, at the mercy of the Pteranodon. He’s never felt so small and utterly helpless before, not once in his life. Even his screams aren’t big enough to carry, snatched away by the wind and deafened by the roars of the terror-birds fighting over the right to tear him limb from limb.

And then he’s falling and has other things to worry about.

 ~*~

 Ben stops sharing Kenji’s bunk.

 ~*~

 In a rare moment of downtime, Yasmina is curled up with Darius’s field guide, adding a few more illustrations, when she feels Ben staring at her.

It’s not the first time she’s felt him staring at her. It is the first time, however, that she decides to stare back.

She means it to be playful, at first. She meets his eyes, one brow quirked as if to say, ‘What, is there something on my face?’ But instead of glancing away in sheepish embarrassment or jolting out of a daze, Ben just stares back. There’s no emotion in his expression at all except intense focus.

The faint smile drops from Yasmina’s face as she stares back in surprise. Then, with ever-growing confusion and a fair amount of alarm, she realizes that Ben’s shoulders are rising, tense and hunched like he’s trying to make himself look bigger.

Like an animal.

Yasmina knows what it is to stare down a wild animal. She’s felt predatory eyes on her before and either bolted or turned to face the challenge. And that’s what it is, for some of the dinos- a challenge. Sometimes they’re testing your mettle, and standing your ground is enough to make them back off.

Ben must’ve learned that, too. And for whatever reason, he’s slipping into that behavior now.

It’s a ridiculous thought. This is Ben, her friend. Her very scrawny friend who can’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and prefers a diet of berries and grubs. And yet, here he is, staring her down like she’s a particularly bold pack of Compies that’s decided to threaten him.

Yasmina gives a slow, deliberate blink. “Ben?” she calls. “What’s up?”

Just like that, the spell is broken. Ben gives a violent start, blinking and shaking his head. Yasmina sees confusion flash across his face, and then realization. And now the embarrassment comes, but it’s darkened by something like horror.

Without a word, Ben turns and darts away, scrambling down the ladder to the alcove underneath the house where Bumpy’s napping.

Yasmina lets him go, too baffled and unsettled to form words.

 ~*~

 Eventually, Yasmina tells Darius about it.

His expression is troubled as she runs through the incident. But in the end, there’s nothing more he can tell her than what she’s already worked out on her own. It’s just another side effect of the mindset Ben has adopted throughout his isolation. Those habits were what he relied on to survive, and it’ll take time for him to realize he doesn’t have to constantly be on edge now that he’s got a team to look out for him.

Though privately, Yasmina wonders if maybe the rest of them should take a page out of Ben’s book. Seems like he’s got a better handle on survival than they do.

(And then she thinks how Sammy would react, if Yasmina started acting like a wary animal around her, and she realizes Ben’s methods come with a price.)

 ~*~

 After Ben runs the Compies off for the first time, staring becomes a defense tactic.

It’s not always the Compies, who are slowly but surely learning not to mess with him. Sometimes it’s the Parasaurolophus in the river, or the lone Pteranodon perched in a tree, or the group of Edmontosauruses grazing on the hilltop. As soon as he feels their eyes on him, he knows his best chance is to stare back, to show that he’s willing to put up a fight, that chasing him wouldn’t be worth it.

Obviously, there are some dinosaurs that doesn’t work on. But if Ben can drastically cut down the amount of time spent running for his life by standing his ground, then he’ll take it.

All he has to do is not back down.

 ~*~

 Ben avoids Yasmina for the next few days.

 ~*~

 Brooklynn wakes up in the middle of the night with an unshakeable feeling that something is wrong.

Her bad feeling is confirmed when she gets a look at the moon. Based on its position in the sky, she should’ve been woken up by Ben to take her night watch shift at least an hour ago. This practice, established by Darius months ago who insisted they should always have at least one person awake, has already become routine within the group. Brooklynn couldn’t sleep fully through the night if she tried.

Ben’s only just recently become a part of the routine. Immediately after his return, Darius thought it best just to let Ben settle in and get as much rest as he could, now that he had the security to do so, and everyone agreed. Ben had insisted he didn’t mind, but Darius stood firm, so it’s only been within the last few days that Ben took part.

But this is the first time he hasn’t woken Brooklynn up and her heart is in her throat as she rushes to the lookout point-

Only to find Ben sitting right where he’s supposed to be, looking out over their compound as a small candle burns next to him.

As soon as Brooklynn’s relief passes, it’s replaced with anger. “What are you doing?” she whispers furiously.

Ben, not at all surprised by her presence, gives her a sidelong look. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You were supposed to wake me up, so I could do night watch.” Brooklynn struggles to keep her voice low, so as not to alert the others. “What gives?”

Ben shrugs. “I knew I wasn’t gonna sleep tonight, so I figured I’d just take the whole watch myself.”

“That’s not how this works,” Brooklynn hisses, crossing her arms. “Even if you can’t fall asleep- and I’ve totally been there- you have to lay down and close your eyes and rest. You need to rest.”

Ben breaks into an easy smile, but Brooklynn can see the annoyed creases at his eyes. “Hey, it’s fine. I can-”

“Take care of yourself, I know,” Brooklynn interrupts, hating how frustrated she sounds but unable to help it. “But you don’t have to. We’re a team. We can take care of you too, alright?”

Ben stares at her for a moment. “I know that,” he says, sounding uncertain.

Brooklynn softens. When she reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, he lets her. “Then… why?”

“I don’t know,” Ben admits. The muscles beneath Brooklynn’s hand are so tense, it feels like they’re going to snap. “I don’t know.”

They finish the night watch together.

 ~*~

 Brooklynn almost hates to bring it up to Darius.

Dude’s stressing almost nonstop about everything, all the time. And it really isn’t fair for him to be responsible for the rest of them, including Ben. But Darius is the only one who seems to have the… what’s it called, emotional intelligence, she supposes, to weigh in on the situation.

(Sammy is a close second, but her brand of caring is a little more touchy-feely, and this doesn’t seem like the right time for that.)

Darius is immediately worried, pointing out that Ben might accidentally fall asleep on watch if he keeps this up (something Brooklynn hadn’t even thought about). He promises to talk to Ben about it, and that’s that.

Brooklynn is only slightly relieved because she knows if Darius had a real fix for the problem, he would’ve said so. And if Darius doesn’t have a fix for it, maybe there isn’t one.

 ~*~

 Those first several nights, Ben doesn’t sleep at all.

And it’s not for lack of trying. But how can he sleep, when it’s pitch black and the jungle is full of unfamiliar sounds and he’s got no one but a baby Ankylosaurus by his side? He soon finds it’s even worse without Bumpy, though, because at least he trusted that Bumpy would wake up if there was any danger, as her senses are more powerful than his.

On his own, there’s no one to wake him up. So he has to stay up, and settle for catching short scattered naps throughout the day (if he can find a tree to hide up in).

It’s hard, but he’d rather be tired than dead.

 ~*~

 Ben is taken off night watch, but still ends up awake more often than not.

 ~*~

 Pyromaniac is a word no one ever expected to become synonymous with Ben, and yet here they are.

It’s one of the first things he always suggests as an answer to a problem; blow something up. Darius has a million reasons for them not to do that; they could get hurt, they could start a wildfire and burn the jungle down, they could attract unwanted attention from predators.

But that doesn’t stop Ben from cataloguing everything on the island that can be used as an explosive, memorizing their locations or creating hidden stashes. It doesn’t stop him from using the candles that came with the scavenged emergency kits. He’ll light them for no reason, just to watch the small flame flicker back and forth.

(Someday, months later, they’ll encounter a horrific hybrid dinosaur that is drawn to flames, and they’ll all think about how unsettling it is that Ben shares this trait, but none of them will say it.)

 ~*~

 It’s been one week since Bumpy left, and Ben is starting a fire.

Just a small one. It rained all day and he’s soaked to the bone, which normally wouldn’t be a huge problem considering the jungle climate. But now that it’s nighttime, there’s a chill in the air and he can’t afford to get sick. It’s risky, because at night he knows the light could draw attention to him, but his teeth are starting to chatter so there’s no helping it.

When a Stegosaurus stumbles upon him, baying low and angry at finding another creature in its territory, it’s the fire that makes it balk. Rumbling displeasure, it retreats back into the dark jungle. Ben quickly adds torches to his arsenal, using the rest of his shirt as tinder.

Fire is safety.

 ~*~

 Ben lights his candles in silence.

 ~*~

 “You can’t just run off like that,” Kenji says, deadly serious.

Ben scoffs. “I think you’re forgetting who defeated Toro,” he says with an easy smile.

“You’re not invincible, Ben!” Kenji snaps. The anger churning inside him is deceptively hollow, like it’s masking something else. “And I can’t lose you again.”

Ben isn’t smiling anymore. “You won’t,” he mutters, pushing past Kenji. “I can take care of myself, now. I don’t need you to play the hero and protect me.”

Kenji wants to protest that’s not what this is about, and that’s never been what this is about, but Ben is already gone.

 ~*~

 Ben still lives off berries and grubs.

 ~*~

 “… and so I was thinking, berries have seeds in them, right? So if we plant some, we’ll have our own berry bushes at the clubhouse. It’ll cut down our foraging time in the mornings for sure, and-”

“Uh, who are you talking to, Ben?”

Ben blinks at Yasmina’s voice, the girl having only just entered the room.

“Um, Bumpy?” he says, as if this should be obvious.

Yasmina glances out at the compound, where Bumpy is fast asleep and well out of earshot.

“… right.”

 ~*~

 Ben can’t sleep, even when he’s actually trying.

 ~*~

 “Alright,” Darius says, “so we need to get the T-Rex out of Main Street so we can do another sweep for supplies. Any ideas?”

Ben’s hand goes up.

“For the hundredth time, Ben, we aren’t going to feed the T-Rex to the Mosasaurus.”

Ben’s hand goes down.

 ~*~

 Ben feels more at home with Bumpy than the other campers.

 ~*~

 “You know we didn’t mean to leave you, right? We would’ve come back for you if we’d known…”

 ~*~

 Ben never talks about getting off the island.

 ~*~

 “You have to tell us where you’re going, Ben, you can’t just disappear-”

 ~*~

 Ben keeps slipping away.

 ~*~

“Blowing stuff up isn’t the answer to everything!”

~*~

 Ben keeps saying he’s okay.

 ~*~

 “We’re a team, we have to work together-”

 ~*~

 Ben keeps smiling.

 ~*~

 “Don’t you trust us to protect you?”

 ~*~

 Ben doesn’t know.

 ~*~

 Sammy finds Ben sitting on the roof of the clubhouse one day.

Her footsteps are loud and obvious as she approaches him. No chance of sneaking up. She knows he’s noticed her, from the subtle shift in his body. He doesn’t acknowledge her, though, continuing to stare off over the jungle and into the horizon, his skinny legs slotted through the railing and dangling over the edge.

The sun’s about to set, a few stars already twinkling in the purple edges of the sky. Sammy can remember another night, months ago, where Ben wasn’t here but everyone else was and they spotted bonfire smoke in the distance. She remembers the way her heart raced, the overwhelming joy and relief flooding through her. And yet, there had been undeniable heartache, because the realization that they’d made it out only meant it was more unfair that Ben hadn’t.

Sammy breaks the silence after a few moments.

“Are you okay?”

Ben doesn’t look at her, but she can see the easy smile that slants across his face, dying sunlight reflected in his eyes.

“Yeah.”

Sammy sees the lie for what it is. None of them are okay. No one who’s been through what they have would be. But there’s a certain danger that comes with not being willing to admit it, and an even greater danger that comes with not being able to see it.

“Y’know, it’d be fine if you weren’t.”

Ben doesn’t answer.

Sammy sits with him until the sky turns dark.

 ~*~

 It’s the way he struggles to eat anything he hasn’t obtained by himself.

It’s the way he sometimes goes off on his own without telling anyone.

It’s the way he talks to himself when he thinks no one else is around.

It’s the way he takes any concern for his safety as a personal attack.

It’s the way he leaps at the chance to blow something up.

It’s the way he can stare silently for hours.

It’s the way he smiles a little too easily.

 ~*~

 It’s not jumping at every unexpected movement, or screaming awake from night terrors, or flinching away from the slightest touch. It’s not loud meltdowns or hysterical sobbing or uncontrollable fits of rage.

(Even though those will come, someday, when the island is just a memory.)

It’s the little things, that- once you notice them- keep piling up.

And suddenly, they don’t seem so little anymore.

 ~*~

[ivyveil]

Mary Me

the one where he proposes aka the 1940s installment of The Soulmates Verse, Sign of the Times

A/N: Bringing this back from AO3, hope you guys enjoy! I wanted to create a series of ‘soulmate’ Harry/Y/N where they try to make it work each decade, and fate hasn’t seemed to get the memo. Here’s my Tumblr masterlist, and my AO3 hub! Thank you for reading, hope everyone is staying safe.

The room was swathed in a deep maroon. Curtains draped against the windows, curves forming around the sills and down the gold columns on either side.

It was a nice restaurant, with expensive-looking candles and fresh-cut flowers on each table. The bar wasn’t fully stocked enough for the crowds milling about, having yet to find its balance of supply since Prohibition ended a few months ago. It was a rough adjustment for everyone, with the prices taking a jolt and the people having to remember what a drink tasted like without poison.

While the idea of a fancy restaurant would allude towards privacy, this dinner was anything but. Granted, it was a personal room but the numerous crowds of friends and family around the table led the mood towards something more lively than dim lights and slow jazz. Tables were pushed against the walls, only a handful actually sitting down, and the band had taken its land near one of the corners, setting up an orchestra to dance for.

It was a gathering, a party.

Nerves were knotted against the floor of your stomach, and despite having a glass of champagne in one hand and hooch in the other, nothing was easing the clench. Perhaps it was residue from hardships that had only ended a few years ago, or it could be the more instinctive nerves - holding alcohol without needing to look over one’s shoulder was still new for everyone. Even now, you saw Nick stealing a glance at the waitstaff, as if sussing out which was the cop.

“‘lright, love?” Harry spoke low, his hand briefly resting against your back as he came around from behind. It wasn’t far into the party, enough time having passed for his entrance to be marked by everyone already feeling tipsy, but not raising an eyebrow at his late arrival.

His suit was understated, a black with minimal design. His mother would tailor all of his suits, resulting in most of them being the absolute extravagant pieces for all the parties he threw - the magnificent ones where the moon grew twice to try and be an inch closer, where the ocean glittered around his villa and you could strain to taste the rose-colored smoke in the air. They were alive with people and spirits and spirited people, and the types who would disappear in the morning and you’d question their existence, but never their stories.

His suit was fine, but his hair was a proper mess. Harry had insisted to you a few days ago, a dopey smile on his face as he leaned against your shoulder, that it was a rebel of the highest degree.  You knew the words were bullshit, but the way he spoke sounded like a home you’d never known, so you listened.

“You need a haircut.” The words came out before you could properly hold them back, the liquor having moistened your throat and disconnected your mind from your choices.

Harry broke into a smile, this time shaking his head slightly so the curls danced, delighted, in the dim glow.

“You like it?” he asked, and you made a sour face in response. He took one of the drinks from your hands, making the low noise in the back of his throat to signal disapproval. Where Harry managed to gather his rebellious streak of societal indignity, but still manage to believe that women should be held up on pedestals and protected, eluded you.

But you were still dizzy with him. Drunk in the way he said your name, caught up in his eyelashes, a fatal swoop in your chest that felt like laying in bed after a long day’s work. You were simply infatuated, but insistent on the fact that the feelings drifted no farther. Infatuation could be controlled, but love.

Love would be an entire beast that you couldn’t battle. It would include leaving him, leaving him because Mary was cemented down in his roots. Not that you’d agree with it, but she was, and it was a reality you lived with.

They’d been sweet on each other for the first couple months. You hadn’t kept up on the details too much. But time had worn their feelings thin, wafering holes poking through in the way they loved. Which was a wrong, horrendous source of comfort to you - but it terrified you, as well. Harry was the embodiment of love, with how he danced and moved and swayed into the moonlight, and yet there was something off in the way he loved Mary. It felt like a commitment for the sake of, rather than motivated each day, and the failures of love haunted you.

“Where’s Mary?”

Harry shrugged, taking a swig of the drink and looking against the crowd. The two of you were propped against the wall, as if only existing in the plane of the party by the physical constraints. If you had your way, your souls would fall through the wallpaper and into something more exquisite.

Harry had a way of making the dullest parties exciting, and you wondered what he had up his sleeve. But his face showed no signs of telling, a crease along his forehead denting in his sudden gloom and moodiness.

“Dunno. Was gonna find her, thought she’d be with yeh.”

That was his mistake, his constant mistake, of seeking his love around you. It was there but not where he expected - it was manifestation he sought, the woman he called ‘darling’ on late nights out, not the friend he called ‘love’ because it meant nothing.

Words didn’t quite fit your mood, so you merely shrugged and shifted your weight between legs. The music had picked up but your feet had been worn to the bone by running all over town the previous night, so you prayed Harry’s stance next to you would dissuade any men from approaching.

“Think I’ve got to end things with Mary, yeah?”

It was a loaded question, especially with Harry’s eyes staring into yours. It was a rush, how the lights cascaded down the side of his face and his hair was a horrible mess, an unsightly vision for anyone in town, but he was utterly angelic nonetheless. It was a weird sensation against your throat, seeing him tragic and sad, and not knowing how to respond that wouldn’t be an attempt to benefit your own tragic and sad.

“Why’d you say that?” you asked.

“It was never right, was it?” He spoke thoughtfully, scanning your face for agreement, and apparently finding some, for he continued. “It’s reached an end.”

Silence befell the two of you, yet it was heavy with the implication of further words against his tongue. They weren’t spoken yet, but you felt with one more moment-

“I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh. After it’s done.” His eyes had swept to his feet, the dirty tips of his shoes from the soil around the town.

You both were misplaced, you felt it in your soul and the way you two would wrap in each other’s auras, clasped at the hands and promising you’d escape this hellhole of a town one day. And it only was proven in how Harry’s eyebrows sloped together, a defiance in the order of things prominent in his pursed lips.

“Okay,” you drawled it out, but Harry didn’t seem to find anything humorous. With a tilted neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing and drawing your eyes in like flies to honey, he downed the rest of your champagne.

“See her over there,” he mumbled, slipping back into the throngs of the party. He was still incredibly visible, a mess of hair and clunky shoes passing through the sea towards his girl. She was sat, pretty and prim, but you could tell she felt only half. Mary had an odd sense about her, a jealousy towards you for sure, but a feeling around her sphere of influence that she wasn’t full unless Harry was there. Half-dazed without, only focused on him with, there was seemingly no win.

The pair of them slipped out into the night together, with your eyes trailing behind. Mary was oblivious as to how the conversation would go, and for that, you were conflicted.

It must have made you an awful person, how the nerves crashed against giddiness. The drinks may have kicked into effect, because before you knew it - you were swaying and dancing against the moonlight, around the tables with the rest of the folk, pained heels clipping against the floor as they did every night, dancing out the mundanity of a town life crippled with the distrust of life. It would be a conversation for the rest of the night, how Harry would retell the dramatic discussion with fire in his eyes and a sadness plunging into his heart, because he always felt guilty and you’d never understand why.

You glided out of the mass, panting with how the dance took your breath away, feeling the redness built up in your cheeks and the sweat on your brow. You passed Nick with his wide eyes and bursts of laughter, and noticed how he winked at you when you left the room. The restroom was calling.

The main hall of the restaurant was bustling with normal activity, waiters dashing around with massively weighed trays balanced against their shoulders. There was a coat rack near the entrance, huddled with pounds of jackets, hats, and scarves, and a lone Harry Styles squatted next to it.

He looked up when you passed by, the hollows of his cheeks straining purple in the grotesque lights.

You paused next to him, almost dashing around to head and pee, but his expression caught you off guard..

He looked in another world. His eyes, blue with morose, opened to look at nothing. Eyelids heavy with almost boredom, but his posture offered enough to let you know his demons were free once more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, and once he shifted to the side, you took the cue to sit beside him, crossing your legs and ignoring your body’s protests.

His mouth open and closed, his fingers spread wide in front of him to grasp onto his senses, but they were nowhere to be found. His lips were glistening, perhaps from him licking them continuously, but a small streak against his cheek made you think otherwise.

“Was she upset?” It was all you had to offer, but it seemed like you hadn’t struck gold. He continued to mime whatever words that were escaping him, but your attention had been caught elsewhere.

In one of his hands, you had thought he was holding onto his pack of cigarettes. At second glance, however, it wasn’t. It was terrible.

The fact it wasn’t, and the fact his mouth was gaping, and the fact his eyes were glassed and that his shoulders were quivering – it all accumulated into a story you never expected.

A blue velvet box, iconic in its time, holding only one thing inside.

“Harry, is that-”

“She’s pregnant,” he managed to choke out, not glancing at the box, his voice cracking in its sudden revival, “Mary’s pregnant.”

“She’s what.”

“Couldn’t break it off, would she gonna do? Can’t go back to live with her parents, the town’s too far off-” he continued to speak, words that made sense when combined but gibberish with how he stringed them. It was a rant that had been built into his lungs and found a small stream to blow off, with only your collection of stammers breaking through the dam.

“Did you–’re you–is that–”

“Proposed. Bit rushed, didn’t get on a knee, but it did its duty. I did mine, anyhow,” he said, a desperate gloominess clutched your dress as he presented the box. His fingers fumbled against the velvet, nubbed fingertips and signs of bitten skin surrounding the nails.

Opened, the box was empty. The contents were stuck on Mary’s finger, presumably back at the party showing off the latest development in her life.

“Congratulations.” It didn’t feel as if it were you who said anything, the voice too breathless and at ease to have come out of your body, with its thundering heartbeat and screaming mind.

“Gotta get a job, gotta call up Howard ‘n see what’s not ‘n the papers. There’s gotta be something, yeah? Need a crib, now, too.” It was clear his mind was far off, into what he needed to do, in the adult-life that neither of you had never quite fit into, but was now thrust upon him.

All your mind was on, was the trip you two had been planning for the past year. Harry had promised train tickets across the country, down towards where the sun always shone and the waters were constantly warm around your ankles, even in the dead of night. Maps and notebooks had cluttered your office for months, with strings attaching your future endeavors in a maze of findings. It had started out as an escape from the Depression, the one that had seemingly ended but never quite had, the one where your throats were aching for more than speakeasies could offer.

It wasn’t going to happen. It simply couldn’t. You’d never see how he would look, dozed off across from you on your hundredth train, his backpack used as a makeshift pillow. You’d never feel the brutal mountain winds with him. You’d never be able to wander around the greatest cities of America, you’d never explore all the lives you could’ve lived, in towns you never knew existed.

The realization brought you to another moment, another question, one out of place with Harry’s rant but in tune with how your blood ran cold.

“Where’d you get the ring?”

That snapped Harry’s attention, and his bloodshot eyes managed to find you in their blur. Perhaps it was an expectation, for you to ask, but the surprise against his lips, how they parted with a slacked jaw and a sharp inhale, said otherwise.

“Wha’?”

You repeated yourself, and he staggered into a motionless statue of himself, a final shake of his shoulders until he ceased to move. Just stared at you, haunted.

I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh.

“Harry.” To your surprise, it almost sounded admonished.

His eyes were pleading for you not to speak. For speaking would bring it into existence, and he could never juggle it all. Neither of you could, it was a mortal flaw that ran deep into your flesh, and now against your heart, where it felt it would stay forever.

You felt compelled to speak anyway, motivated slightly by the intoxication and the exhaustion and the bitterness in which life was taking from you continuously, without ceasing, and this was the one chance to take something back for yourself. To give a bit of yourself back towards him, to offer a glimpse of the life that could’ve been.

“I would’ve said yes.”

It was quiet.

You thought Harry was being quiet, as well, but his hands reached up to wrack against his scalp, collecting at his hair and his head went between his knees.

He gave a nod, a gentle movement from your perspective, and a choked cry. It was stifled by the sudden uproar within the restaurant – perhaps another fight, perhaps another birthday, you didn’t care – and your arm went around his shoulder, bringing him into your chest.

You cried. Tucked away, hidden behind swaths of clothing that had belonged to the rich and now hung off the poor, surrounded by lights and glamour that suddenly became cheap and instrumental, compared to what you two had deserved. He felt warm against your skin, his forehead now pressed against your shoulder as his body pushed forward in distress. Time stretched to allow for you both to have one moment, a solace against the blazing sun of normalcy. It was one minute until Anne would burst through the party doors, searching for her son, perhaps having caught a glimpse of the truth and knowing where his heart truly was.

But for that minute, his heart was in your chest, the beats matching up, the pair united for a last breath.

The box slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, half-open and completely empty.

It was a reality you’d have to live with.

[sushiandstarlight]

Lockdown Voicemails

Read this story on AO3

There was an extremely annoying sound blaring outside his cocoon of blankets.  No matter how much he growled and hissed at it, the sound wouldn’t cease.  In fact, it was only getting louder.

Crowley reached out and grasped his phone, swiping the alarm off without even looking.  He drug his now-cold arm with the phone back into the warmth of the blankets and sighed.  Maybe five more minutes.  What was five more minutes after months of sleeping?

He gave up on it two minutes in, an antsiness spreading out into his limbs making them want to move and slither.  He pulled the phone up in front of his face and blinked a few times to clear his vision only to startle and sit up, throwing the blankets back.

There were 24 missed calls, all from Aziraphale.  His heart started racing, thinking something had gone horribly wrong while he slept.  But, really, if it was something so bad surely Aziraphale would have popped over and woke him up, right?  He jabbed the first voicemail:

“Ah, I see I did miss you.  I had hoped, well... I had hoped to catch you before your nap,” and here Aziraphale’s voice waiver and lowered a bit, “It is just a nap, I hope.  I hope you won’t be gone until July.  Just... er, just call me back when you get up, I suppose? Okay.”

Crowley stared at the phone.  So, Aziraphale had been okay on May 2nd.  That was good.  He tapped the second message:

“I guess you were telling the truth about your nap until July.  That’s okay, really.  I mean there’s not much to do, is there?  I was enjoying my baking... The whole process and, of course, the tasting.  I don’t know.  It’s lost a bit of it’s shine, I’m afraid.  I thought about leaving some of my cakes on the neighbor’s stoops.  Not sure how well that would be received.  Is that a thing humans do anymore?  Unprecedented times, they keep saying,” there was a long pause where Crowley could hear him breathing, “I suppose that’s it then.  I hope you’re resting well.”

He scrolled down a few voicemails and tapped the one from the last day of May.

“I spent some time reading human accounts of ‘ancient Rome’ today,” Aziraphale began without preamble; Crowley thought he sounded tired, “not all accurate, but they do a pretty good job for what information they have.  Doesn’t quite capture the feel of the time.  You can’t capture the feeling if you haven’t experienced a culture though, can you?  Do you... do you remember the oysters?  I thought they were divine, but I remember your face when you tried them.” There’s a soft chuckle and then, “I miss our dinners.  Ordering in isn’t the same, even if I can get whatever I want these days.”  There was another pause and then a click.

Crowley’s heart was doing a funny little sideways wobble.  That was the end of May.  He was a little afraid to click the next few messages.  Maybe... maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to leave Aziraphale behind just to skip a few months.  He scrolled past a few more voicemails and tapped one for the middle of June.  There was hardly a sound at first, but an occasional soft sigh or the creak of floorboards gave away that someone was there, pacing.  Crowley held the phone closer.

“... the thing is, as you say... I miss you, Crowley.  I don’t miss our dinners so much.  I can order in what I like.  I don’t miss the plays; I can ‘stream’ those.  A lot of museums are putting so many interesting things on the internet for me to visit.  I can have the majority of the world right here in my bookshop with me.  Imagine, human ingenuity,” Crowley swears he can actually hear Aziraphale swallow hard over the phone, “But you’re over there sleeping and I miss your company.  Which is silly, isn’t it?  We’ve gone longer apart, I know...” there’s another near-silent pause before Aziraphale seems to collect himself, “Do give me a ring when you wake up, dear.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes with his free hand because they were itching from being closed for so long.  It’s the brightness of the phone, that’s all.  Still, his chest is aching solidly now.  There were a couple more messages before the last one and he skips those, opting to listen to the one from two days ago.

“It’s- It’s nearly July now.  I find myself a bit excited to hear from you.  I hope you don’t hit the snooze,” the laugh that follows sounds hollow and a bit forced, “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, though.  Especially if you check the news before your phone.  Things are not...  they’re not as far along as we’d hoped.  I mean, the world is trying to open back up.  Humans treat economies like living things, you know.  Some of the sellers on the street have lost their shops.  And, one of them got sick.  She’s still in hospital.  I would like to visit her... maybe help... but they aren’t allowing visitors due to the infectiousness of the virus...” there’s another one of those long, painful pauses that gnaws at Crowley’s chest before, “When you wake up you’re more than welcome to come here now.  I should have... I should have let you pop over to begin with.  It’s still hard to remember, sometimes... that there aren’t rules for us now.  Not even human rules, really.  You can drive as fast as you like in London.  We can’t get sick.  You can come here.  I wish.  I wish you’d come here.  Call me when you’re up, won’t you?”

Crowley tossed his phone and the blankets aside, sliding to the edge of the bed and rubbing his face with both hands.  Taking a nap had been a mistake.  He should have insisted and tempted the angel into giving in.  That’s what he always had done, wasn’t it?  Spin words differently until something that had sounded impossible started to sound like something allowed.  It was just that, after everything, he had wanted Aziraphale to invite him willingly.  But, what had that stubbornness really accomplished?  With a snap of his fingers he was clean and dressed.  He grabbed a few of his things and a bottle of wine and headed for the Bentley.

Strangely, a knock at the door of the bookshop door yielded no answer.  Crowley had seen plenty of humans out and about on the streets on his way here.  Maybe the angel had gone out at last.  Still, it was being advertised as a bad idea, so he didn’t think that was the case.  He snapped open the door and crept inside, locking it again behind him.  The bookshop was dark and still inside.  He kept walking through the maze of books and the collected clutter of all the angel’s lifetimes.

He found Aziraphale in a pool of light in the back room.  He was curled up at the end of the sofa where they’d spent so many nights talking and drinking.  A blanket was draped over his lap and a book that had been in his hands was now on the floor.  He was sleeping, unbelievably.  Crowley had never seen him sleep before.  But, here he was: asleep with his silly little glasses still on.

Crowley set the wine down on a side table and stooped down to pick up the book, closing it gently and setting in on the sofa beside Aziraphale.  He didn’t stand back up, instead crouching there and observing his friend: his face was lax in sleep, all the fussy lines smoothed out.  Crowley found he would rather have those lines back if it meant he could see his eyes.  He reached out and gently shook the angel’s knee.

Aziraphale startled which made Crowley jump, losing his balance and pitching backwards to sit on the floor.

“Crowley!”

“Yes, it’s me!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale flustered, going about straightening his bow tie and his collar, “How did you... Did you really pop over here?”

“You were asleep.”

“Nonsense, I don’t sleep.”

“You rarely sleep.”

“I don’t sleep at all.  You sleep.  For months.”  There was a hurt edge to his voice that cut where the voicemails had ached.  He had.  He had left him alone here for months.

“Okay, you weren’t asleep.  I just snuck up on you.  Very sneaky, me.”  He was back up on his knees now, unsure what to do with his hands.  He wanted to touch, but that hadn’t seemed so welcomed a moment before.

“That isn’t much better, is it?”  Aziraphale was fiddling with the edges of he blanket in his lap, “Did you have a good nap?”

“Nothing to speak of, really, I was unconscious,” Crowley wanted to rest his hands on Aziraphale’s knees at least, some form of grounding connection, instead he tried to use words, “I’m sorry-”

“I do apologize-”

They shared a long look.

“I’m glad you didn’t oversleep,” Aziraphale swallowed glancing from Crowley’s eyes to his own lap, “It’s been a long couple of months...”

Crowley placed a hand on one knee and when that wasn’t met with more than a cautious gaze he grasped the other and gave it a squeeze.

“I would rather have been here.  I’m glad to be here now, with you.”

“I’m relieved you’re here.  I missed you terribly, Crowley.”  Soft, impossibly warm hands covered his own and Crowley’s heart gave a lurch.

“Next time,” Crowley watched more lines cross the angel’s face, “if there is a next time, I mean.  Next time I’ll set my phone so you can ring through.”

“Oh, would you?”

“Anything, Angel, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Maybe next time- if there is a next time,” Aziraphale pulled back his hands and fussed with them in his lap, “Next time you could just sleep here.  So I... So I know where you are.”

“I could do that, too,” Crowley’s voice sounded rough even to him.  The distance between them, though scant, was still unnerving him.  He stood slowly and sat beside Aziraphale, knee pressed against his thigh, “You sounded so sad on the phone.  I should’ve been there to answer.  I won’t make that mistake again, I promise.”

There was a pause.

“You believe me?”

“I do.  You haven’t lied to me yet.”

Crowley felt his shoulder’s relax for the first time since he’d started listening to the messages on his phone.

“So, tell me: you’ve been here all this time wishing I was here, yeah?  What would you like to do?  I brought some wine!  We could play some board games.  Promise not to cheat... overly much.”  Crowley smiled at him, hoping to draw a smile from the angel.

Aziraphale smiled a little and then a worried shadow crossed over his face.

“Whatever you want, I’m at your disposal: a fully charged demon.”

“I... you don’t have to, you know?  It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale was rambling on like Crowley usually did and that was unnerving to say the least, “Could I... well, could I hold you?”

Crowley’s brain fizzled to a stop.

“You can say no,” Aziraphale’s breaths were coming faster now and he was blinking rapidly, “you don’t have to.”

Crowley sat up and threw a knee over Aziraphale’s lap so he could settle into it.

“Oh.”

“Whatever you want.  I meant it.”  Crowley watched for a moment as Aziraphale took him in, drinking him in really.  Then the angel was reaching for him and pulling him into a tight hug.  Crowley snuggled closer to him, burying his face in the angel’s shoulder.

“You’re what I want,” one warm hand was on Crowley’s back while the other was stroking up into his hair, “I missed you and now I only want to know you’re here.”

“m’here,” Crowley murmured into the shoulder he was pressed into, arms looping around Aziraphale’s neck, “Not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale squeezed him again and Crowley felt the tension in the angel’s body drain out, taking his along with it.

[mrsbarnes107]

Secret of the Widow

-part eight-

Summary: Post Endgame time period. The team is healing, trying to navigate this new normal they’ve found themselves in when Bucky and Sam bring home a stray with an attitude and a secret. Will the broken team take her in? Or is it too much to bare?

Warnings: language, *eventual* violence and smut, death, fluff, angst

Pairings: Bucky x OC

Disclaimer: this is posted to Wattpad as well and it WILL HAVE PLOT. I’m a Bucky hoe so there will be smut and romancy stuff but this is a series, so plot plot plot and slow burn.

*Bucky POV*

I've finally gotten away from Wilson and his incessant blabbering, and am now making my way to the training room to find Ali.

Ever since she got here, there's been this ache in the back of my mind. It feels a lot like the first time I saw Steve all those years ago. A dull tug, trying to pull something forward.

She knows me. Knows me well apparently. And I feel deep in this little dark corner of myself, that I know her too. She unsettles me immensely, the thought of her risking herself so wantonly with the Winter Soldier, knowing my past and darkness. It's horrible. But shes also comforting. A type of comfort I haven't felt in a long while.

She's a wild card still. Unpredictable. And yet she peaked my curiosity.

I still can't get her teary blue eyes out of my mind. I'm thankful I heard her sneak past my room the night before. Otherwise I never would have followed her to the lab. Never would have seen her pain and loss so openly. Her cries were heartbreaking, sobs wrenched from deep inside.

I understand what it's like to feel utterly alone and confused. And I wish I could take that feeling from her.

Taking a quick left I stop at the door of the training room, hearing music and the dull thud of knife hitting Kevlar.

God help me I can't get the image of her dancing so carefree in my hoodie out of my head either. Walking into the kitchen to that view, well fuck me back to the 40s. A beautiful woman dancing and singing, a home cooked meal on the stove, and a blade twirling between delicate fingers. She's going to give me whiplash. Or death.

This need to protect and cherish her conflicts with the instinct to be wary and set clear distance and it's worse than the cyclone at Coney Island.

I just know this isn't a good idea.

***

*OC POV*

"You're letting go too soon Doll."

FUCKING BLOODY HELL I'm gonna kill this man.

I very much did NOT let out a tiny squeak for the second time today and launch ANOTHER knife straight at Buckys (admittedly handsome) stupid face.

Okay I did.

With a cocky flourish he catches it and give the blade a nice twirl. "See? Too soon. You're aim would be more accurate if you hold off a second or so before releasing. And the blade would slice through the air better. It's catching too much resistance from the angle."

"You have gotta stop sneaking up on me Sarge. Unlike yourself, I'm too young for heart failure."

Bucky sends me a scowl and scoops up the rest of the knives from the target then makes his way over.

"Sweetheart, I may have some years under my belt, but I'm a fully and exceptionally functioning man." I look down to see the tip of a knife gliding up my stomach and to my throat, pausing to move a lock of hair behind my ear.

Suddenly sweaty I clear my throat and swipe a knife from his metal hand. "I'll take your word for it Buckaroo. Now you wanna show me how exceptionally you can teach?"

At that he steps behind me, chest pressed against my back, hard muscle very much evident under his tight shirt. His hand gliding down my arm softly until he wraps his fingers around mine, now holding the knife together.

His (very beefy) leg presses between my thighs, allowing his foot to hook around mine and reposition my leg.

Hell in a handbasket its fucking hot in here. Jeez. My heart is going wild and I know for a fact Bucky can hear it.

His breath ghosts along my neck as he murmurs low against my ear.

"You're quick and underestimated because of your size. Use that more to your advantage and strike like a little viper. Fast and deadly."

He guides my hand as if drawing the knife from my thigh holster, making my hips shift back against his. As our arms make a slow, practiced arc Buckys metal hand squeezes my hip telling me when to release the knife.

With another light squeeze he steps back and nods for me to continue.

This man will undoubtedly be a distraction in the field if I don't get it together.

With a sigh I drop to a knee only to pounce back up in a spin while drawing the blade, letting it sail through the air in complete silence, slicing through it only to come to a halt with a smack that echoed through the room. In the blink of an eye it went from my fingertips to the mannequins skull a good twenty yards away.

He really didn't need an ego boost but damn if he isn't talented.

"Better. Now let's see how you do hand to hand."

I was suddenly back to the mat with a very heavy soldier pinning my body down, knife pressing into the hollow of my throat.

I let out a soft grunt as piercing blue eyes filled with concealed torment and a hint of playfulness met my own. "Well this brings back memories... for me at least."

Using his confused pause as an advantage, I run my foot along the inner seam of his sweatpants as the other slips from between his to hook around his thigh.

A startled grunt escapes open lips and the knife moves a fraction as his hold loosens. With considerable effort I had the hulking soldier underneath my straddling hips, knife now running up his chest, small cuts appearing along his shirt.

Large hands rest on my thighs, squeezing with every dip of the blade as it runs along the ridges of concealed muscle.

"Dirty move Doll."

With a small shrug his shirt gets cut open completely. "It can get dirtier Sarge."

I shift against his hips and his hands clamp down hard, keeping my legs in place, most definitely leaving Bucky shaped bruises.

"Are we ever gonna have that conversation you promised? Cause I feel like I'm missing some important pieces to our story."

"Huh, I thought this was a training session, not a slumber party." With another squirm against his crotch he lets out a low growl and I hop up, tossing the knife into the floor by his head. "Come and get me Barnes."

With that I took off down the hallway, thundering footsteps quickly catching up with mine. Damn super soldier speed.

As his arm wrapped around my waist I let out a giggle and ducked underneath it, landing a blow to his stomach. Which did little more than make him let out a grunt of air as I dropped to swipe his legs from beneath him.

With a roll Bucky jumped back up and caught my arm, spinning me against the wall.

His thigh pressed between mine as his metal hand locked my arms above my head, our chests heaving together despite the minimal effort of the chase.

The forgotten blade appeared in his other hand, the sharp tip trailing down my arm, dipping along the collarbone. Buckys head tilted as my heart beat went double time, a small smirk appearing on his lips.

With a smooth flick of his wrist a bead of blood trailed down my throat, stopping between the swells of my breast, Buckys eyes following the slow path returning to mine darkened and razor focused.

With a glimpse to the lip I trapped between my teeth he cocks his head with a suspicious glare. “Bringing back more memories Sweetheart?”

“I don’t know, is it Sarge?”

Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t get you-

Buckys hips press firmly into my own, his thick thigh shifting higher, now tight against the needy heat between my legs. A very noticeably large and stiff bulge pressed into my hip. How am I not on fire yet?

A small whimper escapes my lips as Bucky trails his mouth and nose along the length of my neck, beard scratching deliciously against heated skin. My hips bucked, wonderful friction meeting my clothed center, a moan escaping with a sigh as I repeated the action.

Bucky growled low in his throat as his hips snapped against mine, leg tensing against my soaked cunt. “I might not remember our past yet Doll, but I remember this feeling. Your warmth. First time I looked into those big blue eyes I knew you were gonna ruin me. Had no idea who you were, but fuck it all I knew you somehow.”

With a slight tug he released my arms, hands falling to my waist, tracing a path along my body.

I rested my palm against his heart, as the other cupped his cheek. Thumb tracing his red lips I looked into lust blown confused eyes. “Maybe one day you’ll remember our story, until then I’ll remember for the both of us.”

A rough thumb brushes over a hard nipple as his hips start to rock steadily into my own. A small moan escapes as my fingers tangle in Buckys thick hair. His mouth once again finding my neck, this time leaving hot kisses. His tongue traced along my ear, teeth nipping along the skin until he reached the spot on my neck that made me keen.

His lips kissed a smile into my skin as he sucked it into his mouth, leaving his mark on my body. My greedy hand began to make its way to the band of his sweats as he-

“Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barnes, the team needs you in the conference room immediately.” Friday said from above us, damn near giving me a heart attack.

Cockblock. “Fucking hell.” I mutter as my head tilts back to rest against the wall, Buckys hot breath puffing against my chest from where his face is pressed into my shoulder. I run my fingers through his hair for a moment, relishing his warmth after so long being cold.

Bucky pressed a kiss to my collarbone as I clear my throat. “Well, duty calls soldier.”

As he backs away and releases my body, I rock onto my tiptoes and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before swiftly walking to the conference room.

I’m almost certain these shorts are ruined. My sanity is not far off either.

[marrys-dream-world]

if we’re bound to be something, why not together? (chapter ten)

Read on AO3

First / Previous / Next

Notes:  Content Warning: there's discussions of a canon-compliant suicide/self-harm attempt on s4ep11 Guiltrip. It's nothing graphic or even explicit that they talk about, but if this is a hard topic for you, it's better to avoid it. This will be under the cut for that reason too.

Day 10: Moonlight. @ladynoirjuly

Some miraculous powers left lasting consequences, but Chat Noir had felt none as acutely as he did Pigella's jubilation.

He knew that, on paper, her power was "Gift", the ability to show the person it was used on whatever they wanted the most. It was one of the most terrifying ones he had ever seen, along with the butterfly's akumatization and the cat's cataclysm. The power to show someone's deepest heart's desires, no way to hide them, made his skin crawl. It certainly left him feeling grateful he wasn't her enemy (and also reminded him to never get on Rose's bad side). 

However, the pig miraculous either had its own aura or amplified Rose's natural one, because Pigella by herself exuded jubilation. Just staying by her side gave him more energy than drinking five cups of coffee or even seeing his lady's smile. He left the battle against Guiltrip and a reluctant Reflekta absolutely high on joy, playfully teasing Chloé and joining in on the class's reassurance to Rose. Adrien felt invincible, laughing along with Marinette and Nino as Alya tried to guess who Shadow Moth was after school (the reporter was particularly stuck on Bob Roth and, after seeing how he riled up Mr. Ramier during the shooting of the apple juice commercial, he wondered if maybe she had a point). Adrien felt like he was flying.

That only made the fall harder.

It happened too fast, first he was giddy as he went to his fencing class, then he felt like all his energy was powered down and he was left hollow before even getting out of the car. Adrien performed horribly in class, Kagami breaking through her post-break up self-imposed distance to ask him if he was fine or needed to go home. He answered that he was okay, before getting his ass kicked so hard by her in a match that the teacher made him sit out the rest of the day. 

Chat Noir arrived at the patrol meeting spot already exhausted. He leaned against the railings of the bridge he and Ladybug agreed on, looking down on his reflection, illuminated by the moonlight.

At least I don’t look as awful as I feel. He thought, being seen by his lady as a complete wreck was the last thing he needed today. 

"My lady!" He half-forced a smile when he saw her. She didn't look as affected as he had, just a bit tired. "Wanting to meet me by the river under the moonlight? How romantic."

"Chat Noir." Ladybug said seriously and his smile fell off his face. "What was that today?"

He frowned. "The Sentimonster? I thought we did fine."

"No, when he got you and you activated cataclysm and…" Her voice got quieter and quieter until it disappeared. Her lip trembled. "What was that?"

Chat Noir swallowed hard. He had hoped Ladybug wouldn't have noticed that.

"It was nothing, bugaboo, really." He tried to stay light-hearted, but her distress didn't seem to be waning. "It was just the Sentimonster."

"No one else did anything like that." She insisted firmly. "Please, Chat Noir, talk to me. Didn't we promise to be honest with each other?"

He sighed heavily, caught. It's not like Ladybug could or even would force him, but the exhaustion he was feeling was clouding his mind and a promise was a promise, wasn't it?

"When I was young, my parents used to go on trips all over the world. They said I was too young to go with and I hated being left behind, but by the time they came back with souvenirs and stories, I didn't really care anymore." Chat Noir said. Ladybug looked admittedly confused, so he chuckled. "I promise this will make sense by the end. Let me finish?"

She bit her lip and nodded, gesturing for him to go on. He took a breath, shakily.

"Once, they came back from South America and my mother brought back a bunch of stuff, mostly stories. She knew they were my favorite." His mind drifted back to sitting in his mother's lap and he could almost feel a ghost of her hand combing through his hair. "The one that stuck with me the most at that time was about this girl that wanted to become a star. Sometimes, the moon would choose beautiful girls from her people to become stars and it was that girl's biggest dream to be chosen. But when her time came, she wasn't and she fell into despair. She went mad with a fever and jumped in the river, chasing after the moon's reflection, and drowned. The moon took pity on her and turned her into a giant water lily, so she could become the one star in the water."

Chat Noir paused, taking in his partner's blue eyes shining with concern (for him).

"I really didn't get it at the time, how someone could want something, miss something, so much that they would just give up everything. That she would just jump in the river like that." He said so to his mother at the time, even. You'll understand when you're older, baby. She had said. "I think I get it now. Sometimes, I think if it was to be with my mom, I would…"

Embarrassingly enough, his words were cut off with a sob. Before he could even blink, Ladybug enveloped him into her arms, squeezing tight like he would jump into the moon's visage in the river and disappear. 

"I-I don't really think about it a lot o-or anything." Chat Noir stuttered between sons, hot tears falling from his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to care that he was crying in front of partner, her arms felt too comforting for that. "But that Sentimonster was really powerful and I'm just so tired."

I can't even help my best bud face up to his old man…

It had been his fault that Nino was feeling that. Both as Adrien for being the source and Chat Noir for not protecting him from Guiltrip. In that moment, coupled with his father's apathy and Nathalie and mother too far for him to grasp, it was suddenly too much. 

"S-sorry for putting this on you." He apologized, but shamefully didn't let go. 

If possible, she tightened her arms around him even more. It left him with an ache in his bones that didn't bother him at all. 

"I want you to tell me these things, Chat Noir. You're my partner and I love you, of course I want to know." Ladybug said, voice wet. "You can lean on me, you know."

"I know." He said, voice sounding hollow. It wasn't that he thought his lady was a lia,r it was just… hard to do that. Being well and truly seen. 

"It's okay if you can't tell me, I know I can't be around all the time." She continued. "You can lean on your family and friends too, Chat, I promise that they'll understand."

Then you don't know them. He bit back this response. It wasn't fully true, anyways. 

"I-I can't talk to my family about this." His father was half the problem, after all. 

"Talk to your friends, then. You sound like you really care about them, Chaton, they can help you."

He wanted to make up excuses and vague promises to Ladybug. He wanted to explain that it was because his friends were great that he couldn't burden them.  He just felt so tired, though. The idea of going back to pretend everything was fine, to going back to his cold room and lonely nights made his skin crawl.

"My friends…" He whispered.

Nino and his caring personality. Marinette and her drive to help others. Kagami and her concern for him even after he broke her heart. Alya and her unstoppable sense of justice. The class's obvious love and care for a distressed Juleka and a sick friend. Rose herself, always sweet and optimistic in face of trouble. 

"I… I'll try, my lady." It wouldn't be easy, but he would. He had to. 

She deflated and it was the first time he noticed how tense she had been. 

"Thanks, Chaton." The skin of his neck felt wet. 

They stayed there under the moonlight, patrol forgotten.

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

To Dance With Danger | Jurdan Whump Fic

Anon asked: “Can you write something about how Jude gets hurt somewhere and the Court of Shadows and Cardan go looking for her”

Summary: “The only thing he knew was the weight on his chest, two boulders sinking into the concavity of his lungs. How furious he was with Jude, and how much that didn’t matter. That her favourite flower was the blue bellflower, and its petals were falling from the throne.” Please forgive me.

Rating: T

CW: Mild cursing. Minor mentions of abuse (~) and vomit (*); Paragraphs containing these sensitivities have been marked with the allocated warnings. Major descriptions of pain and delusions.

Part I    |    Part III    |    AO3    |    Masterlist

Part II- Follow You Down To the Red Oak Tree

She’d never considered herself stupid. 

Foolish, maybe once or twice. But Jude Duarte-Greenbriar was never an idiot outright. So it came as a great shock to her when she found herself bleeding out in a cave in the middle of the Milkwood.

Wouldn’t this be a hilarious way to go? All her life, Jude had been worried about time peeling her right out of her own mortal skin. Yet here she was, dying from a paltry cut.

That last thought, she knew was stupid. This was more than a paltry cut. It throbbed like a second heartbeat and burned like her knee was a plate of scrambled eggs someone was pushing around with a fork.

A small pool of spilled blood darkened the ground near her ankles. Sometimes, her vision narrowed, blurred.

Perhaps this was one last way for the stars to taunt her. Give her everything she ever wanted and more than she could possibly hope for; a grand feast befitting of a Queen, spread out just for her; then rip her away from herself like the tablecloth in one of those mortal magic tricks.

Jude was not afraid. 

When you’d lived your whole life knowing the promise of death was the single certainty of your existence, you tended to come to terms with it. So Jude did not fear dying. Only the horrible, yawning oblivion that came after.

☽☽☽☽☽

It was a quarter past one, and Cardan’s feet were flying. Out his chamber doors, down the spiral stairs, right to the little wooden door opposite the library, which he promptly began pounding on.

There was a groan within, some shuffling. Then, “It’s the middle of the day, for Mab’s sake,” a groggy voice came muffled from behind the door. “What could possibly be so—oh.”

The Bomb, all messy-haired, eyes squinting at the brightness of the hall, let the door creak open a fraction before realising who exactly had summoned her from sleep. She opened the door in full.

“Cardan—erm, I mean… Your Majesty,” she said, brows furrowing. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Pleasure?” Another even-more-groggy voice came from inside the room. “I’ve got a mallet hammering at my brain thanks to him. Bloody pusher. You can tell His Majesty to kindly sod off.” The Roach held a pillow over his gnarled green head and a rude finger up in the direction of the door.

“Van,” the Bomb tutted over her shoulder. She pulled her dressing gown tight around her and faced the High King again. Only then did she seem to register the look on his face.

“Liliver,” Cardan said, frantic. His mind was all static, hollow—so very full of nothing. Words felt like they came through a tangle of tree sap and brambles in his throat. “It’s Jude.”

That’s all it took. 

The Court of Shadows was moving, the guard summoned. Even the Roach managed to scrape himself together. The Ghost slipped into their ranks just as they were passing through the throne room, and informed the High King he’d done a sweep of the palace, just to be sure.

“And?” Cardan demanded, pivoting on his heel to face the sharpshooter.

“She’s not here,” the Ghost said.

Cardan’s mouth set into a grim line. He gave a curt nod, but his stare lingered on the dais. Where the pair of thrones sat, a latticework of woven roots and blossoms. They seemed to be holding their breath, too.

From the back of the leftmost royal seat, a deep blue flower petal shivered. Then it was falling in listless swoops and dives, whispering across the seat of the chair.

Hurry.

“Get a carriage,” Cardan said, just loud enough to be heard. The room was silent as a snowbank. “Go.”

There was a beat. Then, the din of metal and rushing of boots and they were all moving again.

The High King and his men took to the forests, guarded with crossbows and swords that might as well be spoons for how much they would protect against the glimpses.

Cardan didn’t know why his wife had decided to catch a glimpse. He had even less of a clue as to why she thought she had to do it alone.

The only thing he knew was the weight on his chest, two boulders sinking into the concavity of his lungs. How furious he was with Jude, and how much that didn’t matter. That her favourite flower was the blue bellflower, and its petals were falling from the throne.

☽☽☽☽☽

Night was encroaching. This, Jude only knew because the game she’d invented—finding pictures in the cracks and shadows of the cave wall to beat back the tide of sleep—was becoming more and more difficult.

She shivered. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying there, but the fever had set in.

Jude couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a fever. It must’ve been when she was six or seven. When she was still living in the mortal world, and her mother was still alive to take care of her and getting fevers was the most of her worries.

Eva had climbed into her bed with two washcloths and snuggled up real close. 

She’d sat there for hours, pressing the warm compress to Jude’s forehead when she was too cold and the cold compress to her forehead when she was too warm. Telling her stories of magical places. Feeding her saltines and seltzer.

Jude had wholly forgotten how it felt to have a fever. It was as if she was being filled to the brim with hot wax and dunked in a bucket of ice water at the same time.

She’d only recently rediscovered how it felt to be comforted. She wondered if she’d ever feel that again.

Maybe, Jude thought, she could imagine herself some comfort. She was so very good at lying, after all. Maybe she could lie to herself. Just for a little while. 

She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the woeful sighs of the glimpses ebb and flow from outside the cave.

She imagined lying next to Cardan in their bed in the Royal Chambers. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, Cardan would cocoon them both in satin sheets, trace lazy shapes around her bare shoulders with the tips of his fingers. Pepper her back with nips and kisses. 

He would agree to be the big spoon for once since she was the one in need of comforting.

“Jude,” he would say softly, caressing her cheek, brushing the hair away from her eyes, “You are perhaps the single most important thing in my life.”

She’d turn her head to nuzzle the crook of his neck. “And you, mine, my love,” she’d say. He smelled like fallen leaves. And burnt toast.

Jude crinkled her nose. Odd. He didn’t usually smell like burnt toast. Had they just had breakfast? She couldn’t remember….

“I don’t understand.” Cardan’s voice was dipped in worry, and he paused the soothing circles of his fingers.

“Cardan,” Jude said, rolling her eyes, “We’ve been over this. I want to be here. I want to be with you. I love you.” 

Sometimes her husband just needed a little reminding. Sometimes she preferred to give him that reminder in other, much more wicked ways. Perhaps today she would give him both.

A sinful smile curled the corners of Jude’s lips. She turned around in Cardan’s arms to face him fully and was about to seal the morning off with a kiss, followed by further disreputable behaviour, when she noticed the look on his face.

It was the same one he wore when he’d looked at her from the riverbank after pushing her in a lifetime ago. The same one that had graced his face when she’d first placed that crown atop his head.

Now, in the bed they shared, Cardan looked at her with nothing but cold ire. “How could you do it?” he whispered, and Jude’s brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?” She didn’t know why, but something slick like tar settled in the pit of her stomach. She wanted him to smooth the crease between her brows. To kiss her forehead and call her his darling god.

But Cardan’s face remained a glacial effigy of the man she’d come to love. With nothing but disdain, he looked down his nose at her and asked, “How could you kill him? How could you murder my brother?”

*Jude sat up straight and vomited all over the cave floor. Then, she was pulled out to sea by a riptide of sleep.

☽☽☽☽☽

The High Queen of Elfhame was spinning. Round and round, a circle of fever dreams.

It was like sitting on a merry-go-round and looking in towards the centre where all those mirrors usually hang. Watching whirling versions of things and lights and yourself pass you by in the reflective panels moving in the opposite direction. 

One terrible vision after the next.

Locke’s water-logged body, blue-green and covered in seaweed, standing at the mouth of the cave. Valerian, dirt pouring from between his teeth as he smiled, walling up the entrance with stones, then filling the cave with blood. Balekin ensorceling her to kiss him, then turning into a giant moth right as her lips touched his. Cardan’s head on a pike with upturned eyes, jaw dropped as if mid-warning. A voice in her head.

Heeding requests, even my own, is the singular skill which evades her grand arsenal.

No key fits every lock.

I do not want Balekin dead.

How could you do it? How could you murder my brother?

Perhaps this is what she deserved. Perhaps she was a monster who couldn’t control herself long enough to keep from hurting those she loved, no better than Madoc. Perhaps Valerian’s curse was coming to fruition, after all.

If Jude could have laughed, she would have. But she could not. Dark waves lapped at the shores of her consciousness; and who was she to ignore the sea?

☽☽☽☽☽

Eventually, there was another voice in her head.

Shit, it said. Yes, she really was in very deep shit.

I FOUND HER, it bellowed, splintering her thoughts. She wondered if she should tell the voice to shut up. Though, it probably already knew that’s what she wanted, since it was in her head, and had probably heard her think it.

It was getting crowded in here. Her head was a swollen, throbbing balloon.

Fucking shit, the voice repeated.

Well, she thought, that was quite rude. No way to address a lady, such as herself. Whoever she was.

Something prodded her leg. 

A sudden, violent wave of pain swept over her.  It rose and rose and rose, but never fell. Darkness pulled her to its depths again.

☽☽☽☽☽

Can you hear me?

Stay awake. Stay. Awake.

*The voice was urgent. And constant. And very annoying. It felt like a cheese grater running down her mind. Her throat burned. Maybe the voice had run a cheese grater over that, too. Her hand slid into something wet. It smelled like sick.

Then, there was a cold compress on her forehead.

“Mom?” she croaked, her voice like cracked plaster. She lifted the heavy weight of her eyelids.

A figure was looming over her. It was too dark to see who, but her heart thrashed against her chest, all the same. This was another terrible dream. She was not sure she could take another one of those. Then again, she was in no position to fend it off if it decided to come. She was in no position to do anything, really.

“Not mom, Your Majesty,” the figure sighed, removing the compress. “You’re burning up.” 

Not a compress. Hands.

“Whose Majesty?” she asked through the haze in her mind. Everything was so confusing. Everything was also spinning.

She heard rummaging. Next thing she knew, a match had been struck, and the room filled with warm light. The figure looking down at her was indeed a woman, though it was indeed not her mother.

She had familiar plumes of white hair circling her head like smoke. Full, wine-red lips pressed into a weak smile. “Hello, Jude,” the woman said.

Yes, that must be who she was. She opened her mouth to thank the beautiful woman for the reminder, but all Jude could seem to do was squint. She knew this woman from somewhere.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”

Jude could not muster the wherewithal to reply. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, slid gingerly under her knees. Then, the world tilted, shifted, until she was right up against something warm and solid.

Jude looked up at the woman. “You’re ethereal,” she murmured, staring up at the soft planes of her face. Blush blossomed a stain of pink across the woman’s cheeks. “Are you god?”

The woman snorted, then. Jude didn’t understand what was so funny. It seemed a perfectly reasonable question to ask. Since she was dying, and all.

“That’s quite enough of that, Your Majesty,” the woman said. “Let’s get you home.”

Home, Jude mused. She’d thought she was home, but maybe… she was wrong? Wherever home was, it sounded nice. She should like to go there someday.

☽☽☽☽☽

She was deep inside a cave. She could see nothing, but echoes of conversation pinged off the walls.

Delirious. Didn’t know who I was.

Reckon it’s the fever?

The infection perhaps?

Could be, but you need to keep her awake.

Can I hold her? Please?

The moon was a Cheshire cat smile above her. It grinned, then shattered into one hundred panes of opaline glass—a dragonfly’s wing, splitting her knee wide open.

☽☽☽☽☽

When Jude woke again, she knew she was home. 

She was being jostled around a bit, and her leg felt like someone had set it on fire, but she didn’t mind. She was wrapped in something soft. The sound of hooves on packed earth thundered in her ears.

Her name was being called.

“Jude,” someone said, over and over, a litany. A curse. “Jude, my love, you mustn’t fall asleep. You must stay awake. Can you do that for me, Jude? Please, stay with me.”

She opened her eyes. Blinked slow. The disembodied voice belonged to someone. That someone cradled her in his lap, holding her face between his hands. Everything was blurry, but she’d know those hands anywhere.

“Jude?” he whispered.

She summoned the tattered bits of her strength, lifting her hand to cover one of his. It was shaking.

“I know you,” Jude said, willing her eyes to focus. A keening sound tore from him.

Him. She knew his name. What was it? Her mind was so muddled by exhaustion and the riot of pain in her left leg, she could not remember. She was so angry at herself for not remembering.

Jude frowned. Huffed. Tried to refocus her eyes. It was the most important name, more important even than her own. She was a terrible person for forgetting it. She was pretty sure she was a terrible person anyway, but forgetting his name made her even worse.

She lifted a hand to his cheek. Her frown deepened. “Why is your face wet?”

“Because I’m very worried for my wife,” he said, in a strained sort of voice.

“You have a wife?” Envy billowed, a parachute in her chest. Which was ridiculous. She couldn’t even see this man. How could she possibly know if she was jealous?

He breathed a laugh. “Yes,” he told her, stroking her hair gently. “She is a headstrong, ornery fool who holds a vendetta against my poor nerves.”

Everything was quite difficult at the moment. All Jude could think was how beautiful this man’s voice sounded and how very badly she wanted to go back to sleep.

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes again. “She sounds awful.”

“No,” he said. “She is not.”

☽☽☽☽☽

*Watching his wife being carried off like a rag doll into the Royal Chambers, blood-spattered and covered in her own sick, Cardan Greenbriar had never felt so small.

~He felt smaller now than when Dain had tricked him, and he’d been kicked out of the palace for a murder he did not commit. Smaller now than all the times Balekin had removed his belt. Smaller now than when he was a kid crawling beneath the dining table, scrounging for scraps of food and attention.

The Bomb had explicitly forbidden Cardan from accompanying them further than the ante-chamber.

“If I’m going to heal her,” she’d said to him firmly, pausing outside the bedroom doors, “I’m going to need the utmost focus. Which will certainly not be achieved by you being in there, all blubbering and sentimental. So unless you know anything about mortal biology…”

Cardan had never in his life wished to be mortal; but suddenly, the desire to be one was visceral. He’d never wanted to lie more than he did in that moment. He tried to will the words past his lips, but they snagged in his throat. 

He was unable as ever.

So he’d been kicked out of his own bedroom. Away from his own wife. Who may or may not be dying.

The matter was still inconclusive. Cardan read it on the faces of the cycle of people poking their heads out in intervals to check on him or bring him tea. Sometimes, it was the Roach. Sometimes, the Ghost. Only once was it the Bomb, who had been hard at work for endless hours, and needed a break. 

Her face was just as dour as the rest.

“I know how you’re feeling,” she muttered, sliding down the wall to sit next to him on the floor just outside the bedroom doors. “If you need to talk—”

“What I need, Liliver, is for you to heal her,” Cardan snapped. 

He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. She was only trying to comfort him. She, too, had once been forced to watch as her beloved toed the line between life and death. Right now, though, the High King did not have the strength to feel sorry for anyone but himself.

The Bomb only nodded. Once, short and curt. She left him to his misery after that. Cardan supposed he’d probably have a lot of apologising to do to a lot of people by the end of this.

A while later, and rather belatedly, he realised he could very well just barge in there and demand to stay. Magical oath or not, he was still High King. They would still listen to him. 

But maybe the Bomb had a point. Maybe it would only make him more anxious, to be in there; he did not want to impede on Jude’s progress. Maybe nothing was the most he could do.

All his life, he’d spent doing most every childish thing. He’d tugged on the tails of cats, threw tantrums when he didn’t get his way, threatened people when they offended him. 

Now, Cardan sat there on the floor with his head in his hands, doing absolutely nothing, and felt more like a child than ever.

☽☽☽☽☽

Jude was a dragonfly hovering over water, dipping in and out of sleep. She was flying and then sinking and then flying again.

It went like this for a while. 

She’d fall asleep in one place and drift to the surface of consciousness in another. Sometimes she felt no pain. Sometimes she felt a great deal of pain all at once. The latter would usually send her careening back into nothingness.

On occasion, she’d awaken just long enough to recognise the faces floating in and out of her vision. The Roach, with his scythe of a nose. The Ghost, with his sandy hair and silent demeanour. The Bomb, who Jude had a strange, vague feeling was blushing every time she looked at her. She even recognised a nurse or two.

Always, there were people. There was one face, however, that she did not see.

“Bomb,” Jude rasped, and the faerie’s eyes met hers. “If I die, would you tell him I hated him? Tell him, that’s why I did it.”

“What do you mean?” The Bomb asked. But Jude was already drifting again.

☽☽☽☽☽

Next Part

Last Part

Masterlist

AN: I am…so sorry. I’ll be the first to say, I am the absolute worst for telling you guys this was going to be a two-shot and then leaving this on such a cliffhanger and making you wait for a third part. Don’t hate me? The good news is, I have a lot of the last part written. The bad news is, the last part is what has been keeping me from updating-- writing it feels more and more like giving birth with each passing day.

So if you enjoyed this part, and would like to give me some writerly encouragement in the form of a comment/reblog/keyboard smash/message/ask, any and all of the above would basically be like giving me a dose of that sweet, sweet epidural and I would be forever grateful :’)

If you’d like to be updated on the next part of this Three-Shot (to come very soon), let me know and I’ll add you to the tag list! Back to the woods now. -em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree by James Vincent McMorrow

Tag List: @velarhysismine​ @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte​ @knifewifejude​ @clockworkgraystairs​ @jurdanhell​ @judexcardanxgreenbriar​ @hizqueen4life​ @nite0wl29​ @mysweetvilllain​ @thesirenwashere​

[jacksons-goddess-gaia]

Demons Sonata~ Chapter 1

❖ EXO, tba idol x oc

❖ Series, fluff, supernatural au, angst, alternate universe au, ceo au

❖ Warnings: being followed, fear of the unknown, hinted death.

❖ wc: 2010

❖ Tag List: @queen-of-himbos @kimnamshiks @wonderland-obsession @gettin-a-lil-hanse @not-majestic-bluenicorn 

❖ Masterlist ❖

. ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Welcome into a different world~ Discover it-or more discover them and all the spooks, hijinks, light, and darkness along the way!  I’d love to know what you think!

. ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Feet clicked against cobblestone. Heels digging into sore ankles, blisters stinging with every movement. A harsh wind was blowing through the city streets, the icy bite of winter frost chilling her down to the bone within minutes. Despite this, she forged on, bright eyes squinting, straining to see the sign that marked her end goal.

Cars rattled past, the strangers within the windows of shops and cafes hardly taking notice of this oddly dressed traveler hurrying through the night filled streets. Nor did she blame them, they were all focused upon their own lives, the happy bubbles of people unbothered by the darkness plaguing her. The lady shook her head in an attempt to banish the terrifying images, dark, yet rich scarlet locks breaking free from their restraints to dance like flames in the night behind her.

“Come on!” She urged herself, frustration bleeding into her fear, hands clutching the thin black peacoat tighter around her. The far off sound of a siren wailing urgent and mournfully set her pounding heart on edge. If only she had listened to her instincts, if she had stayed home and ignored the snide remarks of her coworkers, she wouldn’t be in this mess! Cursing her all too human ‘want’ to be accepted, and her damned curiosity in the mysterious men who headed the company she worked for.

Their faces flashed before her eyes even now, dark eyes glittering, their curved lips and pride-filled powerful frames outlined in the glowing lights of the club. How stupid had she been, lured in by the forbidden fruit, that she had become blind to all the warning signs around her. Moments before it had all fallen apart she had wondered what her coworkers had meant when admiringly yet with a hint of something she now realized had been fear, called her brave for mingling with them. Like a fly drawn to honey, a rabbit awed by the beauty of the wolves den, she had been drawn into their trap.

As the shadows lengthened around her, the street lights burning, headlights of taxis flying past, she felt her blood grow cold once again. They had told her, had they not? Warned her that it was too late to turn back, too late to run, for now, the dark things she once believed were stories she knew to be real. And as she grew aware of them, they had become aware of her as well. Drawn to her they seemed to be, and even as she wished she did not, she glimpsed the shadow moving along the street across from her. Chewing on curved lips, painted a color akin to the blood surging through her pounding heart, she broke into a run. The small pools of that afternoon's rain splashing softly wetting her feet, however the promise of safety, however hollow and false it might be, drove her to pay the cold moisture no mind.

With an overwhelming surge of relief the neon sign, a beacon of light upon this smaller side street came into view. Had she paused for even a moment, stopped to greet the night guard as she usually would, Rosalina might have noticed the dazed and unseeing eyes upon the guards slack face. Then again had the wave of relief not distracted her, she might have felt the ice leave her veins. Or perhaps she might have noticed how as she neared the entrance she moved out of the unnaturally dark street into a bright beam of fiercest moonlight.

Feet pounding up the steps so quickly she appeared to fly, Rosalina had the door of her apartment unlocked and open before she fully stopped moving. As if to mark the end of her luck as she raced across the threshold, the stiletto of her heel snapped. A quiet gasp escaped her throat as she fell backwards, hands flying out into the shadows of the room for a hold. However, before she could fall back out the entrance from which she came, a set of strong arms wrapped around her.

“Careful.” Warned a husked voice beside her ear, the fear from which she had fled, flooding back the air leaving her lungs in a shriek.

“I forget how slowly you humans move.” Remarked another voice as Rosalina attempted to balance upon her now broken heels, the door swinging closed behind her with a click. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness within the room. Glancing around with wide eyes her heart leapt into her throat, nine figures slowly loomed out of the darkness, their silhouettes basking in the moonlight streaming from her open balcony doors.

“How?” as she stumbled back from the all too familiar man who had stopped her from falling. One of the men snorted at her legs trembling, she collapsed against the door.

“Really Rose, I’m disappointed. After what you saw did you really think a mere lock and chain would stop us?”

With the snap of his fingers all the lights came on at once, illuminating them fully before her eyes for the first time. As the folly of her actions and her last prayer that this was all one horrible dream, vanished like smoke before a hurricane. Rose was forced to realize the men who she had been so eager to befriend and learn about weren’t men at all.

“Don’t scare her.” Rebuked a man she recognized with ease, his stoic face a mask as usual. Sehun's eyes left her speechless as he leveled his gaze with the scarlet haired man sitting astride the arm of her couch. His gentle but raspy voice seemed to ease her nerves as she hesitantly kicked off her heels, if she needed to run-not that she believed now would help her in any way-she wasn’t about to break her ankle.

“Chill Sehun, he's being honest.” An impishly smiling Baekhyun was watching her with some amusement. Had she been less shocked and more angry, Rose might have told him to wipe that stupid grin off his face. It had been his interaction with her that had first piqued her interest, working under the funny man who had first invited her out. Dangling the fact that she could shut her snobby coworkers up if she came to the latest party to celebrate the successful buyout of their rival corporation. In fact she was angry enough, and as the grumbled words left her lips, the young man's eyebrows shot up to hide beneath his blonde bangs. While Chen choked on the tea he had seemingly helped himself to in her favorite mug no less, a rather irritating laugh left her bosses lips.

“See I told you she’s not a sheep like the others!” Baekhyun seemed delighted rather than insulted that his subordinate had just mouthed off to him in front of his own boss and colleagues.

“I guess there's still hope for humans.” Conceded Kyungsoo rolling his eyes as Kai beside him burst into hysterics, smacking his arm repeatedly in his mirth.

“Only some.” Agreed Xiumin grinning like the cheshire cat from story books.

“What do you want from me?” She demanded tired of this pandering and the uncomfortable feeling of those intense eyes burning into her skin. Pulling her coat tight around herself once again, Rose fervently wished she had worn a dress that was less revealing.

“Want?” Lay, who had stopped her from a crash landing in the hallway, cocked his head to the side puzzled.

“How do you feel about a promotion?” Chanyeol's cocky smirk said he knew all too well of how she would respond, a strong dislike forming within her at smugness.

“How would anyone feel about a promotion?” She scoffed, if she was going to be forced to play this game, she was going to play it her way, not theirs.

“Fair enough. Well, Rose-”

“Rosalina, only friends call me Rose.” She corrected Suho, for a second his pitch eyes darkened before he relaxed.

“I’d hoped we were. You didn’t seem to have a problem with being a friend earlier tonight,” he recalled with unnerving calm.

“That was before you claimed to be demons, and admitted to dooming me and everything else.” Rose reminded him with a scowl.

“Doom?” Sehun asked, looking affronted by the statement.

“You exaggerate.” Chuckled Chen not seeing the glare she shot in his direction,

“Exaggerate? Let me tell you mister big bad demon, humans are not used to seeing shadowy beasts moving and following them down streets!” Her snarl took the amusement out of the room, even Baekhyun sobered.

“They’re following her already?” Demanded Chanyeol, instantly moving to the window and looking outside before growling low in his throat, an inhuman sound that set the hair of her arms and head on end.

“Are you telling me you can see them?” Suho’s voice was deathly serious, his eyes darkening as he leaned forward, winged red hair standing out against the white of the couch.

“Yeah, those weird smoke shadow things.” She gestured back out the window, her bravery faltering as Xiumin joining Chanyeol at the window swore under his breath before he and the much taller man disappeared evaporating into billowing tendrils of black smoke.

"We need to leave. Now! She's awakening too quickly." Suho's words were directed at Sehun, the younger boy nodding face a mask as he seized her wrist.

"Let's grab your things, it's not safe until we know who is following."

"Not safe-You're the ones who-" 

But her protest was cut off as a shadow flashed across the room from the open window. Before it could take shape, Sehun's eyes flashed and with a burst of heat and flash of light it exploded into smoke. A dense smell of sulfur lingering in the air, the feel of a slimy phantom hand closing around your neck dissipating with it.

"Bogarts, no...its goblins. They love to prey on those at the beginning of their awakening, especially strong ones." Chen's eyes flitted to the window as a group of shadows raced away. "You must be especially tasty and powerful for them to dare enter the established zone. They must think you're worth the risk of dying since soon enough even you would be able to destroy them."

"They are notoriously dumb but to dare enter here..." Suho seemed enraged and equally disgusted, turning his eyes back upon Rosalina. "For now it'd be best if you came with us, not that we're really giving you the option. I doubt Baekhyun or Sehun would be thrilled if the goblins devoured your soul in order to transcend."

"Only grab the things you desperately need. Anything irreplaceable, otherwise we will supply whatever you need." Sehun's voice was quiet but left no room for negotiations. And that's how Rose found herself, scrambling to pack a suitcase of all her worldly and sentimental belongings.

"Really?" Sehun's eyebrow rose as she shoved a rather old and well-loved kitten plushie into the suitcase. However, as she glared at him, he held up his hands in surrender. Despite the calls from the living room to hurry it up, Rosalina took her time to pack, a mixture of rebellion and disbelief slowing her pace, praying that at any moment someone might jump out and shout cut, or that this might all dissolve away like the shadows. Sadly by the time she had finished packing however no such miracle had occurred. Taking her hand in his Sehun pulled her back out into the living room sparing her a sympathetic look as he felt the way her hands trembled, the tears of frustration and confusion welling in her eyes.

"Finally, get ready to go. It might feel odd, but bear with it, it'll all be over in a moment." Instructed Chen with a smile taking the suitcase as Sehun suddenly pulled her into his arms, wrapping himself around her from behind.

"Close your eyes." He whispered, the only warning she would receive before the world turned sideways, her stomach twisting as her feet left the ground; Everything whipping and warping around her before blinking out of existence.

[ohhoworiginalrfaheadcanons]

Something kinda angsty... after Jumin announces his relationship with MC at the party and embarass Sarah and Glam they blackmail MC behind Jumin's back into breaking up with him. She tries to do so to save him, how does he react?

Glam blackmailing MC into breaking up with Jumin after the party

Such a 180 doesn’t make any sense to him. The two of them have been nothing but happy together since she came to visit him, and she was absolutely ecstatic to agree to marry him at the party.

The party was yesterday.

Jumin is always direct, and at this point he’s also a little desperate. The MC, and their life together, means everything to him. Her suddenly changing her mind, not just to break off the engagement or delay the wedding, but to break up entirely? It doesn’t make sense.

Even Zen can’t believe it, and Zen is the most likely person to try to convince her to break up with him. So it’s not just him being biased or blind to something, it definitely doesn’t make sense.

He asks directly and bluntly why she would do this.

If she tries to escape the conversation by leaving the chat, then he will track her down and ask her to her face - even if that means going over Luciel’s head and getting the address of the apartment from V.

He’s actually not alone. No one in the RFA believes the MC. Everyone knows there’s something wrong, and Luciel and Jaehee immediately have suspicions as to what it is. Although she should be on holiday, Jaehee delays it specifically to look into what caused this sudden shift.

He’s not normally inclined to pressure the MC, but a situation like this one is one of the few times he’s demanding and insistent, going so far as to grip her arms and demand she look in his eyes when she says she’d ’simply been playing around and he misunderstood’.

Reasonably, he’s sure she’s lying, because it doesn’t make sense that she wouldn’t be.

In the end, emotion rules him more often than reason when it comes to her. He doesn’t have an answer for what to do when she manages to look up at him and say it, because in the stories that he’s read and the soap operas he’s watched, he’s never seen someone actually do that.

He’s never felt his heart break before.

It’s a strange feeling.

It hurts.

Not just emotionally, he’s felt that kind of pain before. When he saw how V had been hurt, when they lost Rika, when his father turned on him, when Elizabeth ran away. He’s not a stranger to emotional pain.

But this...hurts, Physically. His chest hurts, like someone’s reached into it and gripped his heart, like all those threads suddenly seized around it again, but this time wrapped so tightly that they sliced through it.

His eyes widen, and he doesn’t know what his expression is, but hers flickers into surprise before she yanks herself out of his grip and turns away from him. There’s surprisingly little strength in his hands, and she slips through his fingers without any effort.

For a moment, maybe more, his gaze falls to his hands, and he’s not sure what he expects to see, but the way her warmth dissipates into the cool air of the apartment makes it hard to breathe.

She still isn’t looking at him when he finally looks up at her, and her cool voice brooks no argument when she orders him to leave. Although he opens his mouth to speak, he finds that he can’t.

He’s sure. He’s sure that he’s missing something, but he can’t figure out what it is, because there’s fog in his mind suddenly and he just can’t think straight, not when she refuses to look at him and the warmth of her touch is already completely gone from where he’d felt her.

The sound of the door closing behind him causes him to stumble, to grip the wall with one hand as all the strength in his body flees him at once.

He’s never felt his heart break before.

He finds that he’d rather not have one at all if it’s going to hurt so much.

He doesn’t remember how he makes it back to the car, but he must have walked there, because he’s sitting alone, without anyone around who could have helped him there.

Without her.

Enclosed in such a tight space, empty but for himself, drab and lifeless when it had been so colorful and vibrant just the day before when he’d taken her out for dinner, it’s too hard to breathe. There’s a weight on his chest, like something impossibly heavy has settled there, but maybe it’s just those knotted, impossibly tangled threads that have filled him up so much now he can barely move or think.

There’s no point in crying. Tears are a waste of energy that solve nothing.

The phone slips from his fingers when he enters the chat.

What a miserable sound he makes.

He isn’t really sure what to do with a heart if it’s broken, but it seems like it ought to be treated like any other broken thing and thrown out. Somehow, he’ll figure out how to do that eventually.

He focuses on work, and he ignores the worried looks that Jaehee gives him. He answers the phonecalls that the RFA send him, but he stops listening rather rapidly once they chatter on about something that’s broken and useless.

He’s listless and uninterested, saying little even when he logs into chat, picking up a new project every time his mind attempts to drift back to the questions that make it hard for him to breathe. Whether or not he’s too broken and ugly a person to be loved has no bearing on whether he is an efficient worker, and rather than making unfair judgments or demands, it’s smarter to focus on what he’s good at.

In the end, it’s the entire RFA aside from himself and her that figure out what’s happened, what Glam used to blackmail the MC so effectively, and how to defang it completely. Luciel takes particular glee in ruining the woman in the process, although he only finds this out later when he reviews the chats he’s missed.

It’s V who ultimately brings her to his door again.

When he sees her standing there, eyes downcast, he can’t really understand or explain the feeling in his chest. It’s as if the threads had cut off the blood to his heart for so long that it’d gone completely numb, as if seeing her again, even before she’s said anything, caused all the feeling to rush back in again and that horrible thudding pain to crush in on him anew.

His fingers wipe away her tears even before he fully realizes she’s crying, and every part of him burns because he can’t simply pull her into his arms to comfort her.

“I...didn’t mean any of it. I’m so, so sorry”

It takes a few moments, answers from both she and V, before he finally understands.

“I love you”

Those strangling, slicing threads loosen and slip away, and the breath that he takes isn’t unlike the first gasp of air after almost drowning. That hurts, too, like his throat is still sore and raw.

She’s warm in his arms again, her light, her life filling up the emptiness that had hollowed him out at some point he couldn’t tell, and even if his lips are on her hair and he can feel his heart beat in his chest again, for some reason he finds that he just can’t stop the tears from running down his face.

Her arms grip around him so hard that it hurts.

He doesn’t mind.