#but healing from it and learning to cope with love and words unspoken

[anticidic]

Chronic hanahaki skk AU

Dazai jokes about the whole 'that's why I love you' back when they were fifteen, but that's where it all began. Chuuya's 'ew' hurts—that's when it starts and it's all downhill from there.

The flowers come and go over the years. Sixteen was perhaps the worst year of Dazai's laugh between almost losing Chuuya several times and almost losing his own life many times over. And he's never been more thankful than at that time for living in a shipping container in the middle of nowhere. Makes it easier to hide the flowers.

They've also evolved over time. The flowers started off as daisies. An innocent love. A first crush. Ew, indeed, even Dazai thinks it's a little gross. By 16 they become daffodils when the dark days end and the new beginnings are upon them. Things are looking up even if they still bicker and argue over things like cheating in video games and Dazai running off with Chuuya's belongings. But it's less vitriol and more just stupid teenagers being stupid teenagers. Dazai doesn't mind it as much. The pain ebbs and flows. Some days are worse than others, but he goes on.

Eighteen is when they rapidly change from purple hyacinths to forget-me-nots the day he leaves the mafia. Silence and longing, but also grief tears him apart. Grief for the world and a lost one. It might as well be dying because it's a different kind of rejection when Oda leaves the world. But Dazai keeps going because he has to.

At 22 they've become hydrangeas. All sorts. They began as green with rebirth and turned a shade of blue over time up until now. There's still someone important to him in his heart that he has not lost and focusing on what he has still instead of only mourning the past and all the what-could've-beens is what's important.

Chuuya's never rejected him since 15, not since that 'ew', but the trepidation about losing a loved one puts the fear into Dazai. He's not sure he can take that step forward and try again. The worst that could happen is a swift death, but even dying doesn't sound so enticing anymore. The pain's barely there. He's been able to suppress the growth of flowers thanks to Yosano and the medicine she got for Dazai.

He doesn't want to die; he wants to keep going. There's still that important person in his heart, waiting. But there's others he surrounds himself with now, too.

One day, he thinks. One day he'll show Chuuya that same brazen courage he had at 15. Chuuya's empty threats roll off of him, but it's still Chuuya at the end of the day.

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

His avoidance

I read this quote a few days ago and it reminded me of these two:

Source: Marriage.com YES! MARRIAGE DOT COM LOLOLOL!

So since I already went over her avoidant behavior 🔗 that might have as well cost us SYDCARMY this season:

Now I am gonna be fair because Carmy is avoidant too but differently. They are like "50 shades of I DON'T WANNA DEAL WITH MY FEELINGS, I RATHER COOK".

And in the bonus track, I will focus on the only great part of being a master avoidant.

So, Carmy... His avoidant behavior is a different shade of avoidance because while also being a defense mechanism, it is rooted in his C-PTSD, which he described in the AA meeting S1 monologue pretty well. He grew up in a totally different environment than Syd 🔗 but he also felt lonely and that scared him emotionally.

Avoidance resulted from that emotional scaring process that affects him even to this day. C-PTSD and PTSD are not the same, so it's important not to misdiagnose the two. Also, C-PTSD can cause autobiographical memory gaps but it only affects functional memory.

That being said, Carmy is extremely self-aware because he is an introvert. My theory also includes his AUADHD type, but I will not dive into that neurodivergency in this post, I will focus on his introverted type and avoidant behavior. That self-awareness is what differentiates him the most from Sydney who is an ambivert (extra-introvert). She defaults to denial, and he defaults to sublimation.

I went over his sublimation several times:

Here 🔗

Here 🔗

And here 🔗

Yeah... I gave it some thought ok?

Carmy doesn't avoid feeling, he avoids acknowledging, but he's not in full-on denial, he just dances around an idea, a concept he's fully aware of, and then decides to disregard it thinking that by doing so it will disappear. It doesn't and then it becomes ART.

It becomes ANGER.

It becomes INSOMNIA.

Just like in Syd's case, it becomes PANIC/ANXIETY.

It becomes ADDICTION.

It becomes silence that feels like something crashing his chest and not letting him say the words he wants to say OR cry. It becomes PARALISYS.

And he runs away from it by cooking or sketching, smoking, etc. Instead of facing it even if it hurts, elaborating on it and letting it out verbally, crying his heart out if necessary, and eventually healing.

I am positive that ended in 03x10 when he was strong enough to confront his nemesis and then have a good cry, finally!!! I was sooo happy for him, it broke my heart, but I was happy. He's finally on the mend.

Carmy will continue avoiding feelings he doesn't feel ready to cope with, deflecting and diverting to other stuff to fool himself, sure!

But this will not traumatize him anymore.

He will go about it differently now that he can let out certain things that were stuck in him for far too long. This will also enable other "un-stuck" processes, such as finally leaving C behind after having an adult conversation / giving that relationship the closure it deserves, which he has been avoiding since last season.

But for that, he will have to quit avoiding the reason why he stalled it in the first place, which I explained → here 🔗

I am sure S4 will be all about that because that's exactly where he ended last season, so it's the logical progression:

I bet everything on his success.

Avoidants are masters of the unspoken communication

Bonus track: Both Carmy and Syd are masters of unspoken communication, that's also why they end up overdoing it, they end up abusing that skill they have and it turns counterproductive. But it is a skill nonetheless. THOSE LOOKS, THOSE SILENCES, THAT UNSPOKEN LOVE, THEY CAN SAY IT ALL WITHOUT PRONOUNCING A SINGLE WORD OR BETWEEN THE LINES OF THE FEW WORDS THEY SAY. THEIR TRADE MARK. THEY MASTER SILENCES AND INFLECTIONS LIKE NO OTHERS. THEY CAN SAY IT ALL "DIFFERENTLY".

They got this. Let's give them more time. S4 is gonna be all about them learning to use their words "properly" after they stop avoiding the conversation they owe each other.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋

[iravaid]

I love your writing so much, your Simon Riley in Situations series is probably one of my favorite works in the entire fandom!!! The way you write tommy and simon’s relationship gives me so much emotions lol, like even though it only comes up a couple times in the entire series there’s just so much there! That flashback we get in in the desert was just a brief glimpse, and yet it was so much more powerful than how they were written in the entire canon comic (which might not be saying much because that comic left a lot to be desired, but still) It had me imagining their relationship as kids, and how tommy probably had a much easier time navigating their dad’s moods while simon struggled to pick up the social cues and unspoken meanings behind words and stuff like that, and how tommy, as a kid growing up in a pretty ableist society who had probably never even heard of autism until his teen years, would probably get frustrated with simon and not understand why he couldn’t just say the right things when he needed to, why he couldn’t just do what he needed to do to not make the situation worse (and simon feeling the same way and wondering why he couldn’t just know how to smile and say what people wanted to hear, like tommy) (This ended up being long and rambling but your fics just give me so many riley brothers feels lol XD)

Oh shit!! Thank you so much!!!! I'm so happy you enjoy this series, especially the relationship between Tommy and Simon!! It's genuinely so interesting to me and has a lot of potential to be built upon, considering how little there is for them in the comics (both a blessing and a curse let's be honest).

Augh, yeah, them as kids has a lot of emotional oomph, especially if taken the way I have, in all essentialities, taken the characters in my grubby mitts and gotten lint all over them. Tommy probably was the golden child in this family, Nigel played a lot of games in tormenting his kids, and I imagine turning them against each other, or at the very least Tommy against Simon, was one of them. I wonder if that dynamic might have changed when Simon left, leaving Tommy to be the only child in the house and no longer having a 'weird' older brother occupying the role of scapegoat (and protector, in his own way). In the beginning, I can see Tommy hating Simon for leaving, it's easier than hating his abusive dad at this point.

Things do change for the better, and in all honesties I can see Tommy getting therapy/counselling as an adult and learning how to become better adjusted and look back on his childhood with a trauma-informed lense, equipped with a kind of knowledge and vocabulary Simon doesn't/refuses to have. Internalied ableism definitely informs how they process their trauma and percieve therapy, and for Simon this is another brick in that wall after growing up the 'strange' one in the family that just doesn't get it. This is another thing he doesn't get, and it's a source of anger for him.

I imagine there is a lot of frustration for Tommy in the things you mentioned above, which is a dynamic I love love love, considering Autistic Simon growing up in Manchester in the 80s/90s at this point would be. A Lot for both of them, for different reasons. I imagine it would serve to emphasise that feeling of isolation Simon feels in this series, and I would go so far as to say Tommy doesn't hear the word 'autism' until he's an adult/in his 20s. Before then it was always alluded to, or people saying 'he's rather... odd.' about Simon with a strange expression on their faces. Autism and Asperger's (it's an outdated term now, but one that was used then) were very stigmatised and you were seen as there was something wrong with you or you were 'slow'.

God but their potential brotherhood when Simon comes back and kicks Nigel out of the house, and helps Tommy heal. I really love the complexity of their relationship, how two brothers who survived an awful childhood have different ways of coping and healing from it. Again, all in our collective heads, but I'm happy the comics only gave us the bare bones to play with. We'll grow our own meat, with blackjack and hookers.

I really want to write/am in the process of writing a fic set in Tommy's POV, waiting for his brother, beginning from Simon being announced missing after he's caught by Roba, to him being found and returned home, and ending just before That Scene. I want to explore their brotherhood through Tommy's eyes, how disparate some parts of them are and how similar others have ended up, as well as play on a theme Ghost haunting the family well before Simon is returned and believes himself dead. I'm unsure how it'll end up, but the goal is a 20k oneshot. Hopin to work on it in earnest in August, when Art Fight is over :D

Again! Thank you so much for this message! Had a big grin reading this, I'm so happy you liked those fics! Hell yeah!

[marjansmarwani]

Congrats on the 1k you gorgeous sweet bean!!

Okay, I’m going to apologise in advance because I could not, for the life of me, pick a single prompt from the touch prompt list. So I’m going to give you 3 and you can go with whichever one that inspires you the most 💖

3. hiding face in neck

28. feeling for each other in the dark

35. kissing their bruises and scars

Jess, my dearest, thank you for the sweet message! I went with "kissing their bruises and scars" and I hope you like it!

This isn't really like anything I have ever written before, but I always love a chance to run with a metaphor so here it is

1k Follow Celebration: Kissing their bruises and scars

802 words || ao3

---------

TK had always been fascinated by the idea of scars.

The idea that an experience could leave a lasting mark on you, a reminder to move forward with was something that he thought about often. It wasn’t just scars either, he had reasoned. There was a tiered system of sorts that he had developed in his mind in an effort to keep from dwelling, to distract himself from the wrongness in his head sometimes.

Scars, he decided, were experiences that stayed with you. Maybe not forever, but for a long time. They were the things you couldn’t just walk away from, that followed you, that kept reminding you. Even the stupid ones reminded you of something: watch where you’re going, don’t put your knives in the soapy water and forget they’re in there. The big ones were a reminder to heal, that you were not okay, but that you could be because it was healing.

Bruises, he had determined over sleepless nights as his mind wandered, were things that mattered in the moment. They stayed for a while but eventually faded; their hurt was only temporary. Sometimes they felt like the things that could end you, but they never were. The pain could be visceral and blinding, but it wasn’t permanent. They often hit hard and fast and left a deep mark, but time always told and bruises faded and you moved on.

There were other things that never showed on the skin but cut just as deep, but these mental scars and bruises were just as raw. TK was intimately familiar with those - he had spent a lifetime collecting them. His addiction was a scar; faded into memory but never truly gone. Alex was a bruise: something that had hit hard and fast but had faded without him ever really noticing. Something he had realized he was over one day when Carlos smiled at him and he smiled back on instinct, as natural as breathing without a single thought to what had come before.

But he had also come to decide that for every physical scar someone got, their loved ones ended up with a matching mental one. He had known this after years of a tumultuous childhood and adolescence, he had seen it in his parents; how his pain had weighed on them time and time again. But never had it been more clear to him than it was after he met Carlos.

Carlos, for all his composure, felt things strongly. It wasn’t something that he hid, and it was one of the things that drew TK to him from the start. He learned early on that when he was hurt Carlos felt it just as keenly. Even now, months later, some of that pain seemed to linger. He would catch Carlos eyeing the scar left behind by the bullet that had almost ended them, that had nearly ended him, from time to time. When they lay in bed he would often feel a hand gently tracing it, a kiss pressed to it. He never acknowledged it, content to let Carlos have this and cope with it how he wanted because he thought he understood.

It wasn’t until an officer in distress call that he truly did, when he watched Carlos breathe through the pain as Tommy put pressure on a deep knife wound in his side from a robbery attempt gone wrong. He bit his lip at the hospital as the doctor assured them that it wasn’t life-threatening; that with some stitches and antibiotics as a precautionary measure they could be on their way. And even with Carlos smiling at him - even with his hand in his and all the reassurances that he was safe, that he would be okay, TK couldn’t shake it. In that moment, he knew he finally understood.

The cut on Carlos’s side would heal, the scar would eventually fade. But this fear; the fact that for a moment he had been forced to consider the worst, never would. Now that he had tasted it the flavor of that fear would be forever in his mind, following him as he watched Carlos walk out their front door each morning.

He knew Carlos had noticed that something had shifted for him but he didn’t talk about it. Instead, he focused on Carlos, on making sure he was healing, on making sure he knew how loved he was. And if his hand lingered on the wound after it faded to a scar and if he paused as he traveled down Carlos’s torso to press a kiss on it, neither of them said anything. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, but they did say the important things.

Because while scars and bruises might be temporary, the knowledge that you are loved could outlast them all.

[disastrousjest]

Does it still hurt, JoJo? (Of course it does, how could you ask that?) Joseph’s hand rested on the door frame of what was Caesar’s room there on Air Supplena Island. He placed a hand to his chest, feeling a sudden pang there in his chest. The cold metal pressed against his bare skin wasn’t enough to ease the ache that had settled in his chest. Caesar. Caesar... The Joestar had to turn his back to the vacant room, suddenly clutching the fabric of his shirt. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, his eyes screwing shut. It felt like if he moved or did anything else he might just fall to pieces. It felt as though he were made of glass. Something that had been broken and carefully glued back together. Any moment anything could cause it all to come unglued and fall to a million pieces all over again. His heart ached. This pain felt worse than any of the injuries he had been recovering from since the fight against Kars. This trumped even the pain of losing his left hand and having to learn how to use the metal prosthetic that had been gifted to him by the Germans.  (Caesar... Caesar... I-I’m... I’m so sorry!) 

“If it weren’t for me--” He choked on his words, his other hand moving to slide over his lips. (Get a grip on yourself, this won’t change anything.)  It was no use though. Joseph was already in tears. A fact he didn’t know until he felt the warmth touch his skin, wetting his glove. He blinked suddenly realizing the tears that had been streaming freely down his cheeks. How long had he been crying? Perhaps the entire time, he realized. He had been so caught up in the pain of his own broken heart that he hadn’t even realized that he had started crying. Joseph had to wonder then, was it the thought of Caesar that caused the tears or the fact that he had lost him? It was a heavy thought and something he didn’t want to sort though. He knew the answer to that. It was because there had been so much he wanted to tell him and he had lost his chance. It was because he blamed himself for Caesar’s death. Constantly feeling if he had only been just a few minutes earlier. If only he hadn’t said what he did to cause him to walk out that day. There were so many ways it could have gone. And instead--this was how things had ended. Leaving Joseph with a hole as empty as the room he had turned his back to. Never to be filled again. Just as Caesar was forever gone from this place, he had been ripped out of his life. It had torn a hole in Joseph’s heart that likely would never mend.  Shaking hands lowered to his side, no longer having the will to fight the silent sobs that shook through him. HIs heat hurt. There was no escaping that. Instead, after several moments of coming to terms with that, he allowed himself once more to indulge in his emotions. Just as he had before, he dropped to his knees in the hall and allowed the grief to rake through him. Was this what it was like to have PTSD? Having to relive that horrible day over and over again? Would he ever get over Caesar’s death? Not likely, not completely. This would be a void that could never be filled, no matter what he tried or learned to cope with. The love he held in his heart only for Caesar would remain unspoken, unexplored--forever, at least as far as Caesar was concerned. And there would be nothing he could to fix that. No amount of healing would ever undo that. It was a loss he would just have to learn to deal with, even if it meant having moments like this.  “Caesar... I... I...” Joseph clenched his fists tight, now on all fours. He slammed them hard against the ground. (I loved you! I loved you, and you left me here!) A pained yell escaped him after that, echoing through the halls. He screamed until his throat ran raw and only then did he bury his face into his hands to allow himself to sob until he could calm down. 

Once he had gotten a hold of himself, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, using his forearm to wipe away the remaining tears. With a deep, shaky breath, he forced his legs to carry him away from Caesar’s empty room. Leaving with it a heavy heart, and a future he would never be able to see through. Caesar was gone.

[first-and-last-neocount]

Whumptober Day 2

So much love to @theobscurepotato and @peregrinealpha, you guys are fantastic and I really appreciate the support, it means the world to know that I’m not the only one excited for this! <3

I have no excuse for this one. Pretty sure this is the purest definition of an id fic, because it just kinda wrote itself, and when I was done and went back to read over it the front of my brain was like ‘what the hell did I just create’ and my lizard brain was purring ‘yesss, good’ like goddamn Palpatine. This is definitely not a scenario that I think would actually have happened in canon, but apparently it’s a scenario my brain wanted to play with, and I definitely do blame it on Gerald canonically having way too much fun needling Damien for no obvious reason other than for the sake of winding him up. 

Much like day 1, this is right in the grey area where I wasn’t sure whether to tag it NSFW or not, but I’m erring on the side of caution because I’d rather be overly conscientious than not. I also wasn’t entirely sure how to word the content warning tags, so I tagged it for general self destructive behaviour, because uh - what Gerald is doing here is not how to have a healthy relationship, kids. This is ‘personal experience with adolescent trauma’ meets ‘horrifically bad coping mechanisms’ with a dash of ‘really really warped views on intimacy’. This is also a consent nightmare, because Damien is not aware that Gerald is intentionally provoking him. Please do not try this at home. 

Day 2 - Theme Chosen: Choking

Gerald Tarrant wasn't above using deception to further his own interests, but he preferred evasion to direct falsehood, and he certainly wasn't in the business of lying to himself. Thus, he was well aware of why he was engaged in his current endeavour – that being, inciting yet another argument with his companion, intentionally goading the priest he'd spent the last few months travelling with into a heated debate over the fate of the little girl they'd unintentionally absorbed into their group after encountering the Terata. The part of his mind that was coolly analyzing his actions, though, was smaller than the part which was focusing on the argument itself.

Both of those part combined were smaller still than the part of his brain that was fixated on what the priest's hands would feel like closing around his throat.

“For the last vulking time, I am not just abandoning her!” The Knight's fraying patience finally snapped, and the bulkier man took a step toward the adept, his eyes blazing. He was only letting go this much because Jenseny was well away from the cave that was currently their refuge, gathering sticks with Hesseth to make a fire; the rakh-woman had sensed the building tension, and had deliberately taken the girl out of the way so that the two men in the group could clear the air.

“I don't care if you think it would be easier, I promised to keep her safe -”

His hands were clenched into fists at his side, the force of his indignation expressed through the whitening of his knuckles, the corded tension in his arms as he held himself back from violence. Gerald fired back a retort on autopilot during an appropriate pause in the priest's rant, his own manner cool and detached, his mask of indifference firmly in place despite his mental preoccupation. God, the strength in this man – Damien Vryce was a fighter, and the proof of that was in every line of his body, the broad stretch of his shoulders and the thick muscle that layered his naturally-sturdy frame. His hands were large and strong-boned, the skin tanned and weathered by years of travel, thickly calloused by the tug of leather reins and the hilts of weapons. Fae-augmented healing or not, if Vryce hit him, it would hurt. It would leave a mark, at least for a while.

It would feel real, in the way things rarely did now, isolated as he was by his own carefully crafted cocoon of power.

The words of a past lover drifted through his memory, that long-gone voice dripping with disgust. You're pathetic. So desperation for attention, you don't even care what it looks like. I could make you bleed and you'd say 'thank you', wouldn't you?

“Are you even listening to me?”

Gerald snapped back into the present moment fully, his unnaturally slow heartbeat accelerating a little as he registered the building fury in Vryce's voice. His lack of attention had been noticed, it seemed, and the priest's handsome face was turning an alarming shade of red as his temper swelled. Pride simmered in Gerald's chest at the reaction he'd provoked from the normally level-headed man, satisfaction slithering through his veins even as he replied in a deliberately bored tone.

“It's not as if you're saying anything you haven't said before, Reverend. Given the intensity of our pursuit, the girl would likely be safer out of our presence than in it. Regardless, though, it comes back to the same point; our goals are too important, we can't allow ourselves to be sidetracked by one insignificant chi-”

He read Vryce's intentions through the fae before it happened, the sudden resolve bleeding off the priest in an unmistakable wave of crimson, but his own surprise at finally eliciting such a concrete and visceral reaction kept Gerald from responding in time – not that he knew, necessarily, what response he might have tried to make. In a single smooth movement, the Knight grabbed Gerald's shoulder with one hand, shoving him forcefully backward while the other settled around Gerald's neck. As the Hunter's back slammed into the rough stone of the cave wall, Vryce pinned him there, leaning in as he snarled out his words in a voice gone guttural with rage.

“Don't you dare call her insignificant.”

The vitriolic reply he would have given in any other situation died unspoken as Gerald's usually turbulent mind went utterly, blissfully quiet, only a single line of thought remaining to him.

Yes. That's it. Do whatever you want. Hate me.

Hurt me.

Just don't let me go.

A dark and twisted lesson it might have been, but Gerald had learned one truth of human nature early in life, and had never forgotten it even as centuries passed. People were more than happy to lie and cheat their way through life, and would deceive you at every turn; you could so rarely be sure of  where their real intentions, or attentions, might lie. They could talk, laugh, eat, fuck, and at every moment their thoughts could be elsewhere – but not when they wanted to hurt you. If they were that angry at you, no distractions existed.

Once you drove them over the edge enough to put their hands on you, you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Gerald tipped his head back against the unyielding stone behind him, just to feel the way Vryce's hand was clenched around his neck a little better; he didn't technically need to breathe to sustain himself, but he was reeling and lightheaded nonetheless, from the heady mixture of triumph and adrenaline pumping through his veins. A sensation of mingled horror and satisfaction, so deep it made him nauseous, made him swallow reflexively against the way his mouth flooded with saliva in response – and then swallow again, when Vryce's grip tightened on his flexing throat, strengthening the whirl of emotions in his mind until Gerald felt a very real stab of fear that he might actually faint.

All of it lasted, however, for only the briefest moment.

He could see it as the Knight came to his senses; their faces were only inches apart, wide grey eyes staring into burning hazel, and he saw the exact instant that the blind haze of fury fell away and Vryce realized how far he'd lost control. A wave of horror doused the smouldering blaze in those warm green-and-brown irises, and Vryce wrenched himself away, his hands going lax and falling back to his sides as he stared at the Hunter in horror.

“I'm – I didn't mean – hell!”

Gerald drew in a ragged breath, now bracing himself against the cave wall intentionally as his head spun; there was a vague sense of loss echoing in his mind, but far louder was the roar of victory, the greedy hunger in his chest transmuted to a throb of purring satisfaction.

Yes, I can hold you, I can draw your focus, I can make you care...

Careful this time to show nothing of the emotional tempest in his mind, Gerald lifted one hand to rub lightly at his no-doubt-bruising neck, casting the Knight a sardonic glance.

“Don't flatter yourself, Reverend,” he muttered, with a icy steadiness that he most certainly did not feel. “I assure you, if I felt you posed a genuine threat, you would never have gotten that close to me. You couldn't truly hurt me if you tried.”

At least, not when I can make you look at me with that much fire in your eyes...

Vryce seemed to have registered his words as the subtle threat Gerald had meant them to be taken for, though, if the priest's thoroughly shaken expression was anything to go by. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated for a long moment, looking deeply conflicted and vaguely sick. Finally, he shook his head sharply, and bit out a curt few words.

“It won't happen again.”

With that proffered statement – surely meant to be reassuring, or perhaps pacifying, for no doubt he assumed the Hunter was furious about Vryce's presumption in laying hands on him – the priest turned and strode hastily out of the cave. Gerald stayed where he was, hands splayed out against the cold rock behind him, feeling his pulse beating forcefully in his throat as he closed his eyes.

Oh yes, it will. If that's the only way I can have your hands on me, I'll make sure it does.

[fantasyoverreality98]

Weather the Storm

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x MC (Casey Valentine)

Summary: Bryce and Casey go on a vacation to Hawaii a few months after the attack on the Senator.

Author’s Note: It took me a while, but here it is. This will probably be one of my last fics for the next little while, since I recently started my fourth year of university and things are just overall not very fun. Sorry for any potential typos! I’ll try my best to write a little bit, but can’t make any promises, unfortunately. Hope anyone who takes the time to read it enjoys!

Taglist: @anotherbeingsworld @aylamreads

Word Count: 1,260

---

Water lapped against the shore, soaking the sand beneath her feet.

Casey stood by the ocean, arms crossed over her chest, trying her best to ignore the dread that settled deep in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she listened to the sound of the waves.

Sienna’s sobs echoed in her mind. The image of Rafael laying down in a hospital bed burned into her memory forever.

Danny…

The tears started before she had a chance to stop them, and she covered her mouth with one hand to muffle the sobs. It was too much. The wound too fresh.

“Case? Are you okay?” Bryce stood behind her, the knowledge of his presence enough to calm her, even if just a bit. “What’s wrong?” He stepped forward, resting a hand on the small of her back.

She shook her head, not trusting her voice to remain steady. Instead, she looked up at the water once more, trying to focus on the fact that she was alive. Despite all odds, she had survived.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Casey glanced at Bryce for a moment, his face blurry through the salty tears. “I just—” She sighed, shaking her head before looking back at the waves.

Bryce wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to his side. His warmth reminded her that she wasn’t alone, releasing some of the tension in her body as she leaned against him.

Casey shifted, sniffling as she turned to face Bryce. He looked down at her, brushing some hair out of her face when they made eye contact. She pressed her lips together for a moment, letting out a shaky breath before she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him against her.

“I love you,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his neck.

He shivered at the touch, hugging her tighter. “I love you, too. So, so much.”

Never, not in a million years, would she grow tired of hearing him say those words. They filled her with hope every time he said them.

She leaned back, pausing for just a moment before placing her hands on his face, pulling him down for a kiss.

“Why don’t we go swimming for a bit? I can even teach you how to surf,” Bryce said once he’d broken off the kiss, looking down at her with a grin. “It’ll be really fun. I have a feeling you’ll be a pro in no time.”

Casey laughed, gripping his arms as she pulled away to look up at him. “That seems very unlikely, but a swim sounds great right now.”

The first few weeks after the incident at the hospital had left Casey terrified to step into any hospital rooms. Ethan advised her to take a break for a while, and after a while, she finally managed to set foot in the room of her first patient in weeks.

Now, three months later, it was finally time to get a proper break. She missed working, but also felt tremendous relief that she’d been granted time for a little vacation.

“Come over here, there’s something I want to show you!” Bryce’s voice echoed over the water, his excited grin enough to pull her out of the past again. “You can use my board!”

Smiling, Casey walked into the ocean, swimming out to where Bryce was sitting on his surfboard. He helped her up and pointed back to the beach.

“This used to be my favorite place to come when I was in high school. The beach was always a way to escape from everything that happened back at home.” His breath was warm on her neck, and she sighed as she leaned back against him.

Bryce wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. Were it not for his support the past few months, Casey wasn’t entirely sure she would have been able to cope. The two of them had been sleeping in the same bed since the night after she was free to leave the hospital. At this point, they practically lived together.

“Thank you for showing me,” Casey whispered, shifting to look up at him as she rested her head on his chest.

With a grin, Bryce looked down at her, brushing some wet strands of hair from her face. “I’ve been dreaming of taking you here for a while. Do you like it?”

“I love it.” She glanced back at the beach again before turning her head to peer at the water.

It wouldn’t be long before the sun set. Bryce tried to encourage her to try out surfing, but she decided to head back to the shore and watch him instead. Casey laughed when he wiped out on a wave after a few minutes, disappearing under the water a moment before his head surfaced within seconds.

When Bryce got back to shore, the sun was starting to set, the sky growing darker. He pulled Casey to his side as he plopped down beside her in the sand. The two of them were quiet for a while, watching as a kaleidoscope of colors reflected over the water.

“I really appreciate you showing me your favorite beach,” Casey whispered once the sun had set. She turned to face Bryce, hating that he would see the unshed tears shining in her eyes. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Memories of the night of the funeral plagued her mind. Seeing Bryce break like that had marked a shift in their relationship. It seemed both of them had decided that after that, there was no point in wasting time anymore. Casey told him that she loved him a few days later, and he’d immediately said it back.

Bryce tugged her even closer when she shivered, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “You have no idea how much you mean to, Casey.” She felt him shaking, and turned to see that he looked at her with tears in his eyes.

Neither of them spoke, instead leaning in until their lips brushed. Tears started to stream down her face as she thought about Danny and Bobby again. Every time it seemed like the wound had healed over, thoughts of that day sliced even deeper than before.

Some of the tears trailed down to their lips, the salt laced with an unspoken bitterness. Casey took a deep breath, tugging Bryce closer, holding onto him as if he would disappear if she let go. His warm hands on her body was enough to keep her grounded, to remind her that she was still alive.

“Come on, we should head back to the hotel.” Bryce pulled away, grinning at her through the tears that still shone in his eyes. “I’m taking you back here in the morning, and you’re going to learn how to surf.”

Casey laughed when he stood up and reached down to grab her hands, pulling her to her feet. “That’s going to end in disaster. I can tell you that much right now.”

“I’ll be right there beside you, it’ll be great.” Bryce winked, quickly wiping away the few remaining tears from both of their faces before he took her hand in his and started to walk.

As the two of them made their way back to the hotel, Casey thought about the events that had led up to this moment. She wished more than anything that none of it had happened. But right now, with Bryce by her side, she knew that, somehow, everything would be okay.

[helahades]

By the Water Fountain

(Natasha Romanova x Black!Fem!Reader)

A/N: This is my entry into @fanfictionaries trope challenge! I sort of completely twisted the prompt up. Mine was Best Friend’s Brother.

This fic doubles as a songfic for Water Fountain by Alec Benjamin.

I recommend listening to that song before reading. ( on youtube // on spotify )

Warnings: Red Room like abuse. Codependency. Trauma. Angst. Rejection. Seriously, abuse. Everyone is abused. Injury. Dissociation. Trauma.

Word Count: 3.4k

—

Under a blended peach sky, and during the in between that hangs both the sun and moon, a pretty girl is thinking about her soft and unshakable love for you.

Practice is over, and you’re smiling, looking out across the courtyard from where you sit with Natasha on the fountain’s edge.

“Do’ya ever want to get married, Natalia?”

When you say her name, it’s tangy and sharp, the Russian way, with a hint of Spanish, but gentle all the same. A drip of nectarine streams over your lip and down your chin, and you don’t even catch and cover it like you might if you weren’t high on dreams.

This dance academy seems like forever sometimes—its been years of your life since they demanded your recruitment—but you always take time to dream. If you don’t, Nat won’t, and her unspoken appreciation of your hope keeps the both of you warm.

At first, because she can’t help it, she thinks about marrying you, as if that’s what you meant.

“Maybe someday, I guess,” comes a thoughtful monotone that only Nat can conjure, “Why—you thinking about marrying Alec?”

“God no,” you huff, cuddling into her shoulder as the fruit goes bitter. She opens up to you physically in a minute way, receiving your warmth and closeness despite the neutrality of the coming breeze.

“Well...I just don’t know actually,” you continue, “The two of us fell in love way too young, you know… And I needed him then, so maybe it was more like dependence.”

Shifting on the cool stone of the fountain's edge, you are suddenly aware of the way the tights sit on the skin of your thighs, stretching with each movement.

It becomes hard not to think about the love shell you’re trapped in. Everyone at the academy has found a different way to cope, and for some, including the you of the past, that meant lying with someone just to remember intimacy.

That was before. Before you knew the meaning of the word, and before after dance practice naps in your little haven turned into kissing and heat and softness.

Some days, swaddled up and tangled with the other, you would press kisses under Nat’s jaw, where she smelled like cinnamon and flowers and fabric softener, and she would giggle like the world never gave any weight to feeling. She would dance her fingers along your spine when the peach stretched into moonlight, and the darkness would stun her into remembering you’re promised to another. Her brother.

“Sometimes, Nat…I think I love you instead, and that kinda scares me.”

You look at her, you squeeze the sour fruit.

She says nothing.

Her rejection is acid to your soul.

—

Shadows and blown glass and dried petals and the wood of your apartment at sunset.

It all runs through Natasha’s mind in a haze when she begins to think about the energy here and why she loves it, and why it feels so secret. She doesn’t go this far, but it all feels like sapphic poetry that a man might try to capture, but would never understand if he barged in here. It’s a secret world made for fond hearts.

When the both of you are here, you can pretend that your instructor doesn’t make you repeat across the floor routines til you bleed, or that you haven’t been criticized to the point of tears and vice. You shed the day together, so that when the masks go on in the morning, they aren’t shoved away by the bends of emotion. You touch and whisper and still yourselves passionately, being at one with dancing dust and ticking clocks.

Some days, you can’t explain, but she always understands, it’s easier to lie still and it feels like autonomy after a day of being forced to move. You can’t stop stretching your ankles and marking routines, and some nights you wake sobbing when the transition of a routine leaves you. But she’s here, like she always is, as you are for her.

You remind her to eat, when to stop, and when to put on clothes when the AC chill rattles too bitingly. You dream for her, until she can do it alone, and her soft grins grow into beaming cheesy smiles.

When you kiss her, she’s sweet. Her lips are plump and hydrated (because you can only stop dancing to drink water) and she makes soft sweet sounds against you that run down your throat and into your heart.

When she kisses you, she’s breathless, and she remembers all the ways you taught her to dream. She likes to hold your hand and kiss you languidly or sharply, like you have all the time, or none of it. Hands pushing up tank tops, thighs between each other, collarbone kisses, then Alec. He comes to take Nat home, to tell her it’s time to go, and he kisses you hard and scratchy before slamming the door, stealing your peace, and shattering your haven.

—

It’s not that you don’t like Alec. You did at one point, even feel in love with him. His energy is as strong as his body, and he seems to comically be everything Natasha isn’t. He fills rooms with overwhelming charm, his dancing is sharp, agile, cutting through the air like licks of flame.

You prefer to see Natasha dance in her tortured grace, she can be quick, but when allowed, her grace is slow like a bloom and moves outward from her form.

Natasha and Alec both have learned how to play this system. They’re both clever and witty, but Natasha is the best because of natural skill, while Alec is exceptional because he still runs the sibling rival race that Natasha dropped from years ago.

Alec plays everything to win, he is outwardly passionate, and to be the focus of his attentions is a life secured in… something. You love him in the way that you must love someone that is good enough, that can get you out of here.

If Natasha would say the word, you would leave him. She doesn’t hesitate because of some familial loyalty. Her brother isn’t a jerk, necessarily, just oblivious to the finer things. Nothing about the unique circumstances they’ve survived together brought them closer together as siblings. Natasha didn’t know that hurt people could heal from two into one. She didn’t know people should have someone to confide in, and you don’t really either.

Alec is just… a pleaser. A source of abject power in social circles. He rides the line of knowing how to deliver performance, but knowing which one will get the right results. He controls. And he is incredibly hedonistic. It’s hard not to compare this with how you and your best friend only try to pleasure the other. She lives for your smiles, even if they’re just chemical, and even if she has to squint for them in the moonlight.

There’s just something about having someone who knows hurt in the same way as you without explanation. You scratch a line in the baseboard by your door when one of you sprains or breaks an ankle again from the incessant repetitions forced upon you at the academy. You’re both fucked up enough to laugh about it.

You roll frozen water bottles over knots and stretch through the resistance of scar tissue. When the sky falls into the time of buttery peach, she falls into you, warm like sunset and lovers’ candles. You like to kiss between her thighs, where she smells sweet like sugar cane, even like bubbly hand soap, and you kiss the moons where her nails dug into her thighs too hard when she tried not to let the instructor make her cry. In the soft tissue of your underarms, when you fold over her, sometimes you feel the gentle drag of her body’s scattered hairs. And it’s intimate in ways unspeakable.

She’s pink everywhere. In her cheeks, in the reflection of her hair on the walls, between her thighs, and her lips. She feels vulnerable with you. It’s enjoyable in a way she resists some days. Reminds her of getting tickled. She hates it just like she hates not being able to pull the thread back that unwinds from her heart, and the way she opens when you smile at her.

It’s intimate and innocent the way you learn how another woman’s body can be different. The rounds of your nipples are wider, darker, softer in their edges. The curls of the hair on your mound roll into you, framing you, while Natasha’s aim down, straight, the way rain points down windows. Your eyes are honeyed caramel, Natasha’s are the splashes from the water fountain. You could look at each other forever. But you don't. You have class in the morning.

A frigid and grating rap of knuckles lets you know Alec is here. Shooting up, it’s a flurry of sweatpants and tossed scrunchies, a routine you and your best friend know too well. When you come to the door, he pushes in like he does, kisses you with the sharp grating of his newly shaved face. He groans into it, pulling you in with a scoop of a muscled arm. When he pulls away, your head drops. You can’t see her cat eyes, her firey hair, her composed face wearing its mask before she really should.

“Nat. Walk yourself alone, tonight,” Alec commands into the night, eyeing you with the calm and cool intent of predation, freezing the wax of your candles. The crickets seem too hush outside.

Nat makes for the door, with a face that reads as stoic to anyone who can’t read the slight upward curl of her lips. She pulls the ends up like strings, lest they melt into a grimace in front of this man made of fire.

“Are you sure”—

You knew it was futile before you began. He raises an eyebrow like you’re crazy, and she’s looking back, just for a second, eyes like oceans, before she picks up her bag and is out the door, walking brusquely across the quad.

You wish the chill had swallowed you instead. That you had slammed the door.

Motions happen.

You pull off your shirt, because he never knows how, he carries you to your little bed. His belt buckle hits the floor like a gunshot, and when he crawls over you, you stare at the ceiling.

—

“Baby,” he nudges.

When he touches you, you leap out of the fog, sleep leaving in a gasp.

He knows.

When he passed out without learning to perfectly spot during fouettés, they dumped buckets of ice water on his bare back. Poked him in the ribs for not improving his cambré. Made him balance relevé in the snow, naked, for falling out of it on an off day. You know why he’s the best. And it’s not because he wants to be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, accent tumbling. He rolls closer to where you sit, hands pulling your waist til you’re close enough to gather in his arms. He tugs you to lie with him. It’s comfortable enough.

“Baby,” he starts again, massaging a welt on your shoulder, “we need to get out of here.”

You want to scream at how obvious it is. You think about how you’ve cried it on your bathroom floor. How Natasha would say “One day.”

“And baby,” he whispers again, soft like he can’t stop, always, every night, “we’re doing it together.”

He presses a ring into your hand. It might not fit, it’s most likely stolen. But that’s not the point.

“I love you.”

The innocence has left.

—

The sun has risen, the sky is white like it’s running off a dandelion, and you’re in class.

Rose. Roza. You’re the rose, the pretty flower, paired with fire for a man.

You’re in the middle of a showcase—new dancers, new victims watching your display, sitting in a line against the mirrors, watching your demonstration with Alec before they themselves will go on and show their best.

It’s controlled—always. Each turnout and disengagement from the floor matches a single piano note. You face away from each other, the idea being that you can only trust yourself to be on time, and that your partner must know you won’t fail. There is a lift at the end, that depends on this synchronization, and if you fall before Alec comes ready from his pirouette, you’ll surely be injured. He’s always ready, it’s hardly a worry.

Launching out of your plié, you spin like leaves in the wind, like the flower they named you. Catching his eye as he plants after the pirouette, he catches you by the hips, raising you with a press of his shoulders. A gentle wrist, pointed toes, arched back, and the silence of your peers. Nobody claps. Claps are for the surprised.

When Alec lets you down, slowly and controlled, at least fifteen seconds after the final note, you catch a red bun when your vision levels. Mask sealed.

—

“Did you get home safe?”

“We don’t have homes.”

“Clearly not,” you spit, burning with her rejection.

Her face says nothing. You can only hear the spouting, rushing water.

“Does it not matter to you, Natalia,” you question, voice breaking slowly.

Her voice never comes.

“We’re getting married—Alec and I…”

You say it carefully. Like a threat. Hoping she’ll care.

“I remember the you that couldn’t imagine that.”

“I remember the you that didn’t make me want to.”

She looks bored. Like she’s waiting through the tantrum of a child. Your heart swells. Irritated with anger. Mask cracking.

You turn the ring in your pocket, upset with letting her win. Upset with knowing this is how it ends, and that your one day isn’t together. Upset with spending endless nights growing into her, just for her to watch you leave with indifference.

Pulling out a coin, the one that matches hers, the ones that you found before the fountain, you watch where she sits. You watch until she looks at you, and slide it closer to the water. You don’t push it in.

“He says he loves me. Who knows if he means it. But he said it...and you didn’t. I can’t be here forever, Nat.”

She blinks, willing words to come, and as you walk away, they still haven’t.

The sky turns sour.

—

Porcelain. Smooth, painted baby angel porcelain. You twirl like you’re in a music box, like a spring propels you. You dance until the days blend together, and you perform for Americans. You dance until they want to take you.

The rose and the flame.

—

Your American pointes are stiff. They expect you to break in new ones. When the sky turns peach, you’re under fluorescents, twirling like the wind. Twirling for hours.

“I heard Americans smell like wet dogs.”

He doesn’t bother to be quiet, and he’s smiling with the promise of intertwined futures. It also helps that no one practices as late as you, lovers more in love with a journey to come.

“I heard they have a lot of money.”

“That, they do, Roza,” his tongue rolls Russian, and he crosses to kiss the tips of your fingers. He’s so sweet in the nights.

His hands are unwrapped, his regular shoes are on the floor. Your eyes flicker to them, disapproving, before looking at him. Regular shoes scuff the dance floor.

“What will they do?”

He pulls your arms out of third, pulls your hands into his, stroking your locked up knuckles, undoing the forced curves of your hands. He’s telling you to come with him. To rest your overworked body. There will be plenty of time to practice in America.

It’s a sweet moment, soured only by being the wrong ending, and your unfinished business.

“Come with me. It’s our last night in this stupid place. Let’s celebrate.”

You let him pull you close. You kiss him and you mean it.

“I just have one thing to do.”

—

Knocking on Nat’s door, you realize it’s the first time you’ve done so and been unsure if she would answer. It’s 2am, after all, and the words you spoke before were very final.

When the door swings open, not enough time passes for a wait. She hadn’t been sleeping. There aren’t many words. There doesn’t have to be. What would you even say, really?

You go for a hug, but closing the distance, it morphs into a kiss. A gentle one. A sweet meet of the lips. A goodbye. Then, both of you are crying. Neither of you knows enough about America, enough about life without the other...but too much about saying goodbye.

There aren’t any words because they’re the kind of words you’ve already said to other people. The words that you hate to hear, that have been wrung too many times from the back of your throat to cover the spaces between that no language can. There aren’t words to say how this sucks.

Your lover, your confidante, your supporter. You try not to think about that strange fight. You try not to think about how she couldn’t say she loves you. You both know she does. Only she knows that her love won’t save you from this place. If you leave and have a boring life with Alec in some city or countryside, at least no one will beat you again. No more broken ankles, and no more bad jokes about them.

Some place squeezes in the back of your throat, pulling at the wells of your eyelids. When she pulls out your coin, the one you left behind, she presses it into your hand, watery tears on her pink cheeks, and she looks like a peach sky. Standing together with silent tears, it’s a moment before you calm them, breathing together like you would when tears meant harder hits.

You put the coin in your bra, giggling, because there’s nowhere else for it to go. She giggles too, and it’s a stupid thing, but the thing you find, because something needs to do. Something needs to be tallied in the baseboards.

“He’s waiting for me,” you whisper in your watery voice.

It’s always like this. Someone always has to start it with a timer.

You come closer because she’s so warm.

She strokes your face, pushing back some fly away hairs.

“You’ll do amazing. Don’t mess it up there. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t be afraid of them…”

She pauses, conducting the waves that threaten her composure.

“Don’t forget me...I won’t forget you.”

And that is the most she can give. That is her love, in different words, and that is the most she can say without you deciding to stay. You’d tough it all out with her, but it wouldn’t be right. She will make it out. You need to believe it.

You kiss her again. You hold her hands, and you walk away before more tears fall.

—

When you wake up, your back and legs ache, but the sunlight is in your bones, and your soul is light with new beginnings, and mourning like you’re already gone.

Alec made love to you last night, and you enjoyed it. Maybe… maybe there’s some understanding. Maybe life won’t be bad.

When you’re walked to the car that will take you to the plane, you pass the water fountain. The sky is blinding and empty. So is the seat that Nat usually takes. You taste nectarines.

Alec squeezes your shoulder, and you’re back in the moment. He tells you he loves you, the wind twirling around like a blessing. It feels unearned.

It’s an easy car ride, and as time clicks by on the digital clock, you recoil at the car freshener blowing into your nose with the biting freeze of the air conditioner. You can’t stop watching that clock. You take moments when you know Natasha’s alarm is ringing on her floor, when class starts, when lunch begins.

You think about what the American schedule will be like all the way to the plane. You wonder where you’ll go when the sky turns peach.

Soaring over cities, you see water. You see the glimmer of Nat’s tears, and you wonder if she’ll see the same sea when she makes it out.

You wonder if she’ll think of you too.

—

(reblogs appreciated!)

tags: @xbuchananbarnes (ty honey) @invisibleanonymousmonsters (ily) @threeminutesoflife @honeychicanawrites @sapphirescrolls @tropicalcap @mariahthelioness29 @avintagekiss24 @allaboardthereadingrailroad @venusbarnes @hurricanerin

[renaroo]

Thinking Positive

Disclaimer: Doom Patrol and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics Warnings: internalized homophobia, depression Rating: T Synopsis: In order to heal, Larry will have to work on being more positive. It’s a long and difficult journey. 

A/N: I watched Doom Patrol last year and to say I loved it would be a major understatement. But the thing that took me by surprise the most was just how meaningful Larry Trainor’s story was to me, someone who also grew up surrounded by a lot of homophobia and feels like openly living with pride is still a difficult and ongoing struggle into my adulthood. 

And with global quarantine being what it is, I’ve had a lot of strange and curious time on my hands to work on things so far as mental health is concerned. And it’s had me thinking a lot about how sometimes negativity and cyncism is a coping mechanism that’s easy to use but damaging in the long run. I tend to take that perspective away from Larry’s story rather than the way the show sometimes dismisses valid personal fears of outing and shames closeting. So this rambling story came barreling out of me. I hope it makes some sense. 

Larry dismissed himself from dinner with the rest of Doom Manor’s residents.

It didn’t take much more than some dismissive words on his part, easily ignored over the rambunctious antics of Jane and Cliff, or the attempts to quell said antics by Vic and Flex. Rita was the most difficult to escape, considering Larry was her main outlet for commentary, but even she was willing to let him go when he stressed that he was tired.

He had tired rather easily over the last few months, and Rita knew why even more than the others.

In some ways, it was like therapy. In other ways, it was like torture. But that had always been Larry’s dilemma. He was rarely allowed to have one over the other.

Even before the Negative Spirit melded to his very soul.

When Larry attempted to frame his fears in less selfish designs, he framed his need for more energy as being there for the others. Cliff needed to have someone counter his gutsier instincts. Jane’s sarcasm needed someone equally verbose in it. And Rita, of course, counted on Larry’s counsel more than anyone’s. But it was easier, lately, with each other, with the others like Vic and Flex and even Dorothy, young in appearance and still finding her place as she was.

Besides all that, Larry had made a promise to himself that he wasn’t going to blame his reluctance on others anymore.

Which led to the closing of the thick lead door behind Larry. The slow removal of his protective bindings as the Richter scale crackled in the decompression port. The daily walk through his metal room and his radiation proofed furniture.

It was funny to think that his room had changed so little from the minimal aesthetic it had when the Chief first offered him a place nearly half a century ago. Funny, but also uncomfortable. Like it was wrong and stupid of him, but it had been so long that it would be weirder if Larry attempted to make any big changes.

He laid down on his bed and made himself comfortable, his hands rested over his chest, close to his heart.

Larry gazed at the ceiling and felt the rumbles deep in his body which let him know that the spirit was aware of what time it was.

“Hey there, buddy,” Larry said, voice low and tired. “It’s that time again. The one where I try to get stuff off my chest.” His hands tapped rather nervously over his shirt. It was light enough that the nerve damage kept the tips of his fingers from truly feeling more than the slight pressure of it. “Literally.”

For the life of him, Larry couldn’t figure out why he always started out so nervous and uncomfortable every day.

Then again, Larry had lived his entire life nervous and uncomfortable. It was hard to break habits formed over a century, he supposed.

“Okay, well, here goes nothing,” Larry sighed, closing his eyes and preparing himself. Idioms aside, it did not feel like nothing, it felt like everything every time.

“Start from the top? Positive things?” Larry asked out loud. With his eyes closed, the rumble from the negative spirit felt even stronger, more enthusiastic perhaps. “Of course, you eat those up. Alright.

”Today my azaleas began to bloom early. I got some rhododendron seeds in the mail. Chief is offering to get me a new greenhouse on the property, to expand things. Dorothy made me a flower crown. She didn’t use any of my flowers. I think she used paper and then with her, ah, powers turned them into real flowers. Usually, her using her powers is disturbing, like the whole thing with the puppets. But this was, you know, cute. I liked it. I mean it’s quicker to use a Snapchat filter, but…”

The negative spirit rumbles more abruptly. It gives Larry a sense of warning or disapproval.

“I know, I know, staying positive,” he sucks in a deep breath. It’s the sort of deep, lung filling breath that he’s only capable of thanks to the negative spirit’s possession of him. Their temporary separation reminded him of that. That, however, was an unspoken positive between them.

“I tried a new recipe, everyone seemed to enjoy it,” Larry continued. “It’s curried roasted eggplant with smoked cardamom and coconut milk.” He couldn’t resist the huff of a laugh that escaped him as a result. “Sheryl would’ve never believed it.”

There was a numbness that spread out from his chest. It was an overwhelming sense, but Larry considered it a good development.

He and the Negative Spirit both took a long time to have a response to his ex-wife being invoked that was anything other than overwhelmingly negative.

Still, it was best to trade subjects and not linger on old regrets. As natural as it was for Larry to do that.

“With all the new residents, this place has really gotten lively,” he said, arching his neck back more comfortably on the pillow. “I know I’ve let you out a few times to explore that for yourself, but you probably miss a lot of the little things.”

A gentle hum radiated out from his chest. Positive? Affirmation? Larry was still deciphering the finer bits.

“It’s good for all of them,” Larry concluded. “They fit together well. Well, not fit. The whole point of this place is that fitting is…”

He trailed off, catching his own turn toward negativity long before the spirit had a chance to disrupt him.

“It’s nice, seeing how meaningful it is for Cliff and Jane to have someone…” Larry scowled and lifted up one of his hands from his chest to scrub at his face. Doom Manor was so hard to contextualize sometimes. “Not younger. She’s older than all of us. Smaller? It’s nice to see Cliff and Jane both have someone smaller to look out for. Daughter. Little sister. However it goes.” He lowered his hand down to his side, away from his chest where he’d more acutely feel the rumbles of the Negative Spirit’s responses. “Did I mention she made me a crown? That was nice.”

Larry lapsed into silence, his eyes unfocused as they stared at his ceiling and past it toward all the feelings and regrets of a long life.

He never felt the need to regain a sense of fatherhood like Cliff was haunted by. But he had been a father, too. He had been a father of two.

And he never saw either of them again. Never tried.

Sheryl had taken them away to a better life. Maybe she remarried, to a man who could love her the way she deserved to be love. Maybe the boys got a father who could teach them all the things about being a man that were beyond Larry’s comprehension.

It probably would have been simple enough to find out, if Larry had asked questions or reached out.

But he hadn’t. He forfeited that part of his life, just like he had forfeited so much else.

In some ways, he hoped Sheryl had told the boys he had died. That way they never grew up wondering why Larry hadn’t reached out. So they didn’t have the accurate picture of what a coward their fearless flyboy father had been.

There was no telling how much time he was prepared to spend down that path before his body jolted.

Not without warning, the Negative Spirit seized through Larry’s body with force and separated. His eyes rolled back into his head and everything went limp and dark.

When Larry woke with a gasp, he already knew what had happened, but he sat upon his bed all the same and grabbed at his head in frustration.

“Look! This is part of it!” he yelled toward his chest. His heart was racing, equal parts the Negative Spirit’s pulsing and Larry’s own anger. “I know, I know we need to work on being positive, but you got yourself paired with one of the most naturally negative sons of bitches on the planet. This wasn’t just about you, alright? We’ve talked about this before. I was born negative. I’ve been looking at the dark side of things since I was seven years old and that’s not changed in a century. You have to work with me here if we’re going to get anywhere.”

He was answered only by the creaks and groans of Doom Manor.

“I’m allowed to remember bad things, you know,” Larry continued to argue. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe everyone’s right and I’ve been letting them rule me. I-I know you’re all right about that. But completely avoiding and ignoring negative things doesn’t keep them from existing. It’s dangerous. And it’s wrong.” His frown deepened. “I’d be more of a monster than I ever dreamed myself being, if I thought anything less than the fact that the boys didn’t deserve what they had to go through. Alright? They may be old men now, but they are still my boys. And they deserved not losing everything they ever knew. And they didn’t deserve all the secondhand anxiety and paranoia from me. Those are just facts. Even if they were unavoidable.”

Finally, the Negative Spirit hummed again.

“What? That’s what you wanted from me?” Larry asked, splaying his hands against his chest to feel the rumble more. “You wanted me to say it was unavoidable? Look, how many times do I have to learn these lessons until you’re satisfied?”

There was quiet once more.

“If it’s until I believe them,” Larry’s voice softened to a murmur, “we’ll be doing this every day for a long time. Maybe until the day I finally die. And even then it might not be enough. You know that, right? I’m pretty majorly fucked in here, and a good amount of that came with the package before you joined in, buddy.”

The hum was unmistakable that time, Larry felt it through his core.

Okay.

“Okay,” Larry repeated, laying back down. “Stop having fits the second we go into some territory you don’t like, I’ll try to respond quicker.”

There was another unmistakable hum through his chest.

“If you’re wondering about the conversation with Rita about Flex, then you probably were already aware of most of it,” Larry snorted. “I’m coming up on one hundred years old, I don’t want to repeat what I said to my best friend about someone else’s quads.” He tossed his head a little from side to side and then sighed. “They are nice, though. And admitting it out loud didn’t light me on fire, so, who knows. Maybe being gay does get easier with practice.”

That seemed to satisfy the spirit, and it did Larry, too.

Small victories — victories so small that a previous version of himself might have argued they weren’t worth celebrating, not for the amount of time it took for him to get to that point. But he felt the accomplishment all the same.

There were so many regrets and so much fear in his life that was still there, and he still didn’t believe that erasing all of it was the fully responsible or realistic thing to do.

But he could make himself lighter, in whatever small increments he could. And that was surely worth the battle alone.

[bardic-inspo]

hey! just saw your stuff on AO3 recently and was wondering when you realized Deacon had grown on you like a mushroom? i'm also wondering about your approach to writing about trauma and mental health. not really a specific question, just wondering if you had any thoughts/resources/processes!

Hey there! Happy Friday!! 

Hahahaha. This made me cackle. I don’t think I’ve ever read something so accurate. He crept in on me!!

I started rough drafting Bring the Gasoline about a year ago, very shortly after finishing Fallout 4 for the first time. I traveled with Deacon a little bit at that point, but I couldn’t let go of Mac for very long. It was a while before I got his full story, and I was a good way into my fic by the time I did. BUT what really won him a place in my heart is @electricshoebox‘s incredible DeaCready fic, A Line in the Sand. I cannot recommend it enough for all of the reasons. It’s great. It’s amazing. Words are just...hard right now for some reason apparently haha. So, what I’m saying is, my love for Deacon is mostly their fault. <3 

I finally get to the point in my longfic where Natasha and MacCready meet him and...to quote a melodramatic elf from Dragon Age, I “felt the whole world change”. The dynamic between the three of them just caught me. So now, naturally, I’m helplessly in love with them and ship them in a happy OT3 in the post-game.   As far as my approach to writing mental health/trauma....ah....Just to be overly cautious, I’m gonna put this below a cut in case someone doesn’t want to see this content. I do talk a little about my own experience, but only vaguely.

To be a bit painfully blunt, I do write what I know to some degree. Without really meaning to, I realized that Natasha might have very different reasons for her trauma, but I projected a lot of the symptoms I’ve experienced as someone with an anxiety disorder and some traumatic family experiences, onto her. It was sort of jarring to realize this, because it wasn’t my intention. But I’m...okay with it. It’s helped me explore some themes in a safe way. It’s also helped me explore how those symptoms affect others who love the affected person.  When I’m writing characters with anxiety or trauma, some lessons that I’ve learned personally and try to keep in mind include:

Healing/Recovery isn’t linear. Even when life, overall, gets better, someone can still have bad days. And that doesn’t mean they aren’t trying, or they aren’t growing. A lot of mental health conditions have lapses or cycles. Certain things might trigger these days (or weeks, or months). Sometimes it just happens.

Love doesn’t fix everything. Falling in love does not fix or erase or heal someone from their trauma. But having that support can certainly help someone weather those trials. Sometimes you have a lot of great things or people in your life, but you still feel shitty. 

Trauma and mental health conditions manifest differently in different people. I’m using trauma/mental health to refer to a massive variety of conditions or experiences. But even with two people who have had the same experience or condition, that can look massively, incredibly different. They have different backgrounds that cause them to respond or react differently to those experiences. They may be at different stages of coping or treatment. They may respond differently to the same types of coping or treatment. 

Mental health conditions and trauma can be incredibly physical. This can be so many different things. Stomach aches, lack of appetite, fatigue, restlessness, so many more things. They may or may not be related to the source of the trauma. When my anxiety is at its very worst, I get choking sensations. I’ve never had an experience of suffocation (thank goodness!), but I have since developed some aversion to even having shirts or other things too tight to my neck, because that reminds me of choking, which reminds me of how I feel when I get way too anxious. When people are starting to recover from big, big emotions, their body is often exhausted (and dehydrated) and as a result, they can feel very achey and tired. That much emotion takes so much energy.

People who are struggling with mental health or trauma will not always tell you that. (Or, they will. But not with words). I’m going to use Natasha as an example here. When we meet her, she’s clearly leaning too hard on drink as a crutch. On top of that, she seems to be throwing herself into situations she seems to have at least some sense that she really cannot handle. People who are not ready or willing to face their current state will often express those sentiments in unspoken behaviors. Natasha is a character who seems to repeatedly endanger herself. She gives reasons for it, she’s even defensive about her choices when others try to broach the subject. When someone isn’t taking care of themselves, it speaks to how they view themselves. (Another character that comes to mind is Caleb Widogast from Critical Role, who often purposely dresses in filthy clothes and allows himself to be unclean).  But Nat’s situation is far more severe than my own. And I have not experienced any of the violence or physical trauma she (or any of the other Fallout characters) encounters on a near daily basis. This is something I need to do more research and take special care with as we move deeper into the fic. If you are anyone else knows of good resources for writing mental health conditions or characters who have suffered trauma, please always feel free to drop me a message. I have a lot to learn, too!

[the-devil-herself]

Never Enough - Chapter 10

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 10 DESCRIPTION: Certain mates of Jotuns receive soulmate marks on their bodies. What happens when Loki’s mark is found on a girl with immense power? RATING: M NOTES/WARNINGS: Plot development!! Hope you enjoy, all feedback is welcome!

TAGGED: @kneel-before-queen-loki​ @lokis-girl-in-mischief @tarithenurse @fangirls94

“Hello, little one,” Loki’s smooth voice welcomed me in.

I stepped into his room and saw he had made himself at home. His whole room was decorated with colors of green, black, and a splash of gold. His room was simple but neat. He had a few trinkets on his desk along with paper and ink, and several books on his shelves. His bed was huge, covered with furs that made it look insanely comfortable to sleep in.

“Chinchilla hair,” he answered my unspoken question. “Some of the softest hair on Midgard.”

“You just had it get chinchilla blankets, did you?” My tone was snarky, incredulous at the unnecessary blankets.

Loki chuckled and moved deeper into the room. He sat on one of the chairs by the fireplace, which wasn’t burning at this time of year.

“I did not ask for it. Nay, my brother gave it to me as a gift. I guess as a way of saying, ‘Yes you are a prisoner but here are some soft blankets to forget about it.’”

I grinned at his honesty. He could see right through every gesture, especially Thor’s.

“A prisoner that did harm thousands,” I pointed out, taking the seat next to him.

“Ah, yes, that. However, I did not ask you here to discuss my past affairs.”

“Why did you ask for me?”

I sat up straighter in my seat, ready for the oncoming interrogation. I would have to lie. I would have to dance around every question, maybe answering with my own questions. I would have to pull out every trick in the book, even though Loki most likely WROTE the book.

He grinned at my obvious anxiety. “Do not fret, little one,” he purred. It didn’t calm me down. “I won’t force you to answer anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he promised.

I nodded. “Alright then, what is it?”

Loki stood from his seat and faced me. Then he pulled up his shirt to show me his scarred side from where the sword had hit him and nearly killed him. It had healed pretty well, but my powers weren’t an exact science so there would be scarring from the dead flesh I accidentally hit.

“My wound has healed nicely,” he commented casually. “Thanks to you, I should add.”

“I didn’t do much,” I assured him, not looking into his eyes anymore. “It was more of a team effort.”

“Yes, well I don’t precisely believe that so forgive me.” He let his shirt fall back down, covering the scar. He went over to fetch some tea he had been brewing because of course he had that around.

He handed me a cup, still smiling. I drank in silence at first, waiting for him to continue, but he didn’t. “Well I’m sorry to say it’s the truth though.”

He let out a small snicker. “Darling, I know you probably thought you were going to come in here and lie to me, but there’s no need. I know you have abilities, but it is your choice on whether or not to disclose them to me.”

I sighed, putting the cup down on the table next to me. He was giving me a choice; I could walk out of this room and leave him confused. But I couldn’t. I think he knew that, too.

Maybe he deserved an explanation for his resurrection from certain death to cope. I wasn’t sure. But the one thing I knew is that I couldn’t walk out of the room and ignore the man that I cared for.

I folded my arms in my lap to stop my fidgeting. I shot a quick glance over to him before looking back down again.

“Yes,” I admitted with a breath. “I have abilities, and they helped save your life.”

He looked interested and nodded for me to continue.

Closing my eyes, I blurted, “I’m different from other mutants. I don’t have cool powers that can create fire or ice or anything. I can’t create anything really. I was cursed instead with immense power that was only made for destruction. My hands don’t help, they destroy. I can kill thousands in the blink of an eye, rather than save them. I’m not a superhero but a monster that’s being caged.”

I waited for him to be disgusted at me. Instead he leaned forward and nodded again for me to keep going.

I took a breath. “I almost killed the people I loved, so they brought me to Tony. He took me in and tried to train me, help me control my powers, but I know what I really am. If I’m not an Avenger well then, I’m a weapon, and that’s how most will see me. So, I hide away… from the world… from people. The world doesn’t need another nuke.”

I chanced a look at him. All I could see was understanding. There was no pity, or anger, just simple understanding. He knew what I meant—what it was like to be thought of as a monster.

A tear fell down my cheek suddenly. I brought my finger up to it and inspected the drop, surprised I had started crying. I didn’t even feel it coming on.

“I don’t know what will happen to me here—if I’ll become an Avenger or stay hidden forever. It’s unclear to me, and I think to the others as well. It’s a new path we’re on together, and I try to stay patient but… I need to live.”

Then, he did the unexpected.

His hand softly touched my arm, rubbing it lightly to say he recognized my situation. My mark spurted to life with a renewed burning, but I tried to forget about it. His hand on me felt too good. I couldn’t risk losing this moment, may it be the last time he touches me like this again. My skin was becoming goose-flesh, and my heart was aflame.

“I do not see you as a monster, Dana,” he muttered to me sincerely. He looked into my eyes but did not let go of my arm. “You saved my life by destroying the disease within me. No monster would do that. No, I see something stronger. Perhaps stronger than I.”

I chuckled. “How could I be stronger than you?”

“You have the world in your hands, yet you choose to keep it running, to keep it filled with life. Not many in your position would make the same choice. Power is not just the ability to do something, it is the ability to do something harmful yet choose not to.”

His words hit me more than I expected them to. He was calling me, a simple Arab girl from the suburbs, a more powerful being than himself.

Unfortunately, he dropped his hold on my arm to collect something from his desk. He brought it back to the seating area and opened the leather flaps to reveal a dagger. The blade shone in the dimly-lit room like a beacon and sharp to the touch.

The bottom was fashioned in gold with a pattern on it I couldn’t make out in the poor lighting.

“My mother gave this to me when I was but a small child,” he recalled, looking at the blade fondly and smiling to me. “She told me that since I was growing up, I needed to start making decisions. I was to be a prince and possibly king, so I had to learn—when to use the dagger and when not to. Then, she said, I would know that mercy, too, can be powerful.”

He handed me his precious blade. I carefully held it in my hands, inspecting the blade. He watched me with a grin as I observed it with wonder and awe. It was gorgeous to be sure.

My eyes moved from the tip of the dagger to the handle. The gold was definitely real, which explained why it was super heavy. There were engravings in different colors.

When I saw what was on it, I dropped it on the couch. I hurriedly stood up, shaking and huffing. “I’m sorry,” I sputtered before running as quickly as I could down the hall to my room. I heard Loki call my name in the back of my mind but paid it no heed.

I reached my room and slammed the door shut. My heart was pounding so hard that I felt ready to burst. I found that my legs were jelly, and I fell to the floor by my door. I brought my left hand up to feel my head and wipe the little sweat that had gathered there from nerves and running.

I looked at my hand then and brought it back down to eye level. Gently, I took the bracelet off and placed it slowly next to me. Turning back to my wrist, the mark was still there, clear as day and still tender from the burning.

What was happening to me? Everything about this seemed impossible, but no logical explanation could be found for why the pattern on my wrist matched the one on Loki’s dagger.

Why did I burn when I touched him?

My heart fluttered, and I leaned back against the door. Nothing made sense to me anymore, but everything was pointing me to Loki. I just wouldn’t accept it yet. Loving him was preposterous. And loving me was out of the question for him!

Love. Tears were flowing regularly now. Yes, love. I had never felt it before, but in my small time with the god, I had come to feel a connection and bond stronger than any I had experienced before.

But he considered me a friend, right? That’s what we were, at least acquaintances. Oh, what he would think when he saw my mark! He would believe I was an obsessed, love-sick girl. I could not tell him or anyone for that matter.

I mean, even I could barely accept the fact that I was destined for Loki.

[suzzblhgfdsbjkjds]

Ive been inspired to write my thoughts and experiences on depression.

Thing is that it's a silent killer. You don't really realize you're depressed untill everything around you changes. You change most drastically than everything else. It has an accumulative effect, it snowballs itself into fruition and by the time you start to notice that something ain't right it's been not right for a whole lot of time. Depression, something I often am uncertain of,do I really have it? Because I've been like this for a really long time, I'm not sure if I'm not just that kind of person now or whatever is going on, I rly don't have a way of comparison, I just remember that I was happy somewhere along the line of my life, but I can't recall the feeling. And by happy I mean fine, or okay. Not necessarily 'happy' but the opposite of miserable and empty. I guess I should call it peace. You lose yourself, you lose your interests, you lose your reason for existence. When it was at it's peak I slept from dusk till dawn, I skipped lectures, I failed classes, I didn't workout anymore, I didn't do anything besides sleep. And that itself creates a ground for depression to sink it's roots into. It's autotrophic in the way that it makes you create your misery and then feeds itself out of it, making itself even more impactful.

Depression is like onions as Shrek would say. It has layers and it's problematic in many different ways that compliment each other at the same time, you can't tackle one and expect it not to reappear if you shift your focus on the others. Its doubt in everything, and I did that, I doubted my friends, my family and myself, it's also fuel for every insecurity, it makes them grow a thousand times, it zooms into them, it makes communication so bad, because even the thought of speaking to someone about it is overwhelming.

Something that breaks a person is the fact that this is who you are now, you ain't going back. In my case I won't be going back to my previous plan of education, I won't be the same personality, I won't bring back the words I've told different people, I can't rewind the traumatic experiences, I can't delete the memories and thoughts about permanent solutions, I can't get rid of the eye shadows, the coping mechanisms i developed, the hairs I ripped out.

But the worst of it all is that it never goes away. Even if you get better, even if you're hanging in and you're progressing you're just one dead relative, one failed exam, one rejection, one quarrel with a family member or a friend, one of something triggering and you're back in there. Like it never left, and it didn't.

Yes it gets better, but you've got an anchor on your leg, you just wait till you get to the deeper ends of the sea again.

No one really has the power to help you, only to support you while you help yourself, it's a one man/woman journey and you gotta understand that, because I've been relying on people to heal me, and that makes relationships toxic and you lose your loved ones, you don't win the battle that way.

The number one tip I could give is to just focus on the current, the sounds right now, the light or darkness around you, the air in your space, don't dwell in your mind, it's intoxicated and will lie to you, and it WILL convince you to believe in things normally you would never agree with. You happen to have the enemy inside you , and the trick is to not take it out along with yourself. You start to self destruct and that's a strange opiate which I can't out with words but it's common and you should avoid things with lasting damage. You'll feel better destroying yourself in that moment, but when the moment passes you're left with the scars of whatever you've done to yourself, not necessarily talking about physical scars.

But let me tell you, there is good in every bad, light in every darkness. You'll become stronger by the time, you'll learn how to handle it more and more and you'll know how to help other people, you'll empathize a lot easily, you'll appreciate the smaller things , even the things you never saw before.

Depressed people have that unspoken connection between each other, they really understand what just can't be put into words or logic. That don't mean they can help each other, but it does give the perspective that you're not really alone, even tho it feels pretty lonely locked inside your own head.

I wish everyone going through this to make it out alive and well. They truly are special, like all people, magic and blessing in this universe they are.

You can't really knock depression out, you can't kill it, but what you can do is make yourself stronger to endure it's punches and do the things that wouldn't let it develop further.

[hughiecampbelle]

Haunted House (Ben Hargreeves Drabble)

((UMBRELLA ACADEMY SPOILERS))

Character/s: Ben

Word Count: 664

Inspired By: idontwannabeyouanymore by Billie Eilish

A/N: So. . . This isn't my best haha. But I love Ben and wanted to write something to get back into it. I hope you guys like it! 💜

He had his own unspoken language. The kind that whined in chairs scraping against the floors, embarassed at dropped dishes and sleepy knocks along the walls, restless flickers in the lights. One tap, two, a stomp. Your heard him up and down the stairs case. Chasing after you, letting you know he was always there. Sometimes out of boredom. The mundane pieces of life, he never knew how to quite handle them. Paying bills, chores, always up and down. Patient to a fault alive, he was done wasting his time. It was torture watching you waste yours. Get out, travel, leave the old house behind like you always talked about. A forgotten engagement, long gone with the rest of your future together.

Pots and pans would clink, silverware shake, cabinets swing open. He always forgot to close them. Careful with the books. A soft touch, flipping through them. A sweet sound, slowly turned pages. Engrossed in the last of the stories. You made a note to pick up more, ones he hadn't already read. The laundry tumbled, windows opened, he always thought a little more fresh air would do you some good.

You learned to interpret the silence, the long pauses, the lull in conversation. The anger, the sadness, the joy. You found yourself waiting for a response out of habit, part of you expecting his voice to travel through the halls, a laugh or sigh, anything to show he was still there, still listening. He never left without a goodbye. Made it known he had to go, but that he would always be back, the same way he used to.

That's when things seemed to be the emptiest.

You cleaned up the mess, straighten out pictures, reorganize everything you could think of to keep busy. You never liked to be alone. Your place was bought, meant for two. One without the other seemed off. These times felt as if he were really gone. Rearrange furniture, he always seemed to bump and trip when things moved. Careful, you'd warn to the room. The bookcase shook, the couch slide, somehow he always seemed to forget how much space he took up. Clumsy boy, you'd laugh.

Sometimes you got caught, careless. His siblings checked in, came with sad smiles and akward, distant hugs. They were still new to this, being a family. You didn't blame them, couldn't. If he could forgive them, you would too. All of them made lives for themselves, individual, growing outward. They never really knew you, of you, not before the burial. Meant to send out invitations - weddings and funerals the only thing that brought them together he once joked- but you barely had a date set. Thought you'd have more time for that. You knew their names, faces from pictures, tv, but someone had to die for you to meet face to face. They heard your whispers, aplogies, the panic in your voice telling someone to hush before answering the door. It was ridiculous, too hard to explain, even a little crazy. They thought you lost it, the others assuming it was your way of coping. Some you hadn't seen since the day you met.

Ben always said, no matter what, he would always come back. He didn't, one night, and then he did. You can't see him, not anymore, but you always knew he was there, felt his presence behind you, in the doorway, waiting at the table, a dinner for two. Together you lived in your haunted house. You weren't sure what would happen next. He urged you to leave, move on, the supportive fiance you knew he'd always be, but that felt impossible. Things still hurt. Saying his name. Watching his things collect dust. The stillness of his side of the bed. His ring on the dresser. It was still new, fresh, not yet healed over, but a knock, the moving of a curtain or drawer opening always reassured you no matter what, he was still there.

[katie-dub]

The Princess of White Chapel (12/12)

Dr Killian Jones is having a terrible day. He’s got a mission, he’s got a time machine, he’s got … drunk. What could possibly go wrong?

AO3 | Tumblr

Rated M for alcohol use, violence, minor character death, frank discussions of depression and grief.

I can’t believe we’re at the end - thank you to all of you for reading, to my betas, the ever fantastic @distant-rose and @ultraluckycatnd, and to the talented @princesse-swan for creating beautiful art for me.

Now, on with the show!

One Year Later

He was on a pirate ship, hand and hook on the ship’s wheel. The salty sea breeze felt good against his skin, soothing the heat of the hot, summer sun. Princess Emma was leaning against the railings, smiling brighter than any star in the sky and giggling as the breeze wafted her curls across her face.

Lily circled lazily overhead, on guard for attack from pirates, the Evil Queen, or the villain Rumplestiltskin. But those dark clouds on the horizon could not spoil this moment, for he was here with his love. He was at peace.

“Dr Jones, Dr Jones, calling Dr Jones!” Despite being fast asleep just moments ago, Killian's reactions were laser fast. His arm shot out and he answered the phone as he yanked it to his ear.

“I can send you to another bloody realm you know, Scarlet,” he growled. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh really?” Belle replied. He pulled the phone away from his ear to squint at it in confusion. Will’s face pouted up at him in a ridiculous kiss face.

“Why are you using Will’s phone?”

“Forgot to put mine on charge last night.”

“You never forget to put your phone on charge.” Killian could practically hear her blush at his unspoken accusation.

“Yeah, well, we were.. Um. Busy,” she blustered.

“Well, well, well Miss French. Find yourself busy with our dear Will often? If so, I'd suggest you get your jabs. You don't know where that boy's been.”

“Killian!” Belle was equal parts indignant and embarrassed. “What we - if I - look, if you're still coming to book group, can you bring that book you told me about?”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Really? I thought you might feel a bit uncomfortable, what with the subject matter…”

He glanced over at his copy of Atonement on his nightstand. “Lovers cruelly torn apart before their love story had truly begun? Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“Sorry.” Killian felt as though he could hear Belle's wince through the phone. “Honestly, I'll understand if it's too much.”

“It's fine, love. The counselling is helping me to cope with everything. At least this couple got their happily ever after, if only in fiction.”

He briefly wondered what he and Emma’s fictional happy ending would have been. He could practically see it, him gazing at her in adoration as they said their vows, her radiant smile as he dipped her into their first kiss as husband and wife.

He realised that he hadn't been listening to Belle at all, caught up in a love story that could never be. “... Should I stop by your place on the way?”

“Sure, you can tell me all about how Will finally tricked you into accepting that date.”

“I heard that!” Will shouted in the background.

“I meant you to!” Killian called back.

Belle sighed. “I'll see you at 7.”

“Bye. Don’t do anything I wouldn't do.” He raised his voice. “And, yes, that includes Will.” He was expecting the sudden silence that greeted his words. He may give Belle a hard time, but he really was pleased that they'd finally got their act together.

His eyes flicked to the time on his phone. 8:15am. Too late to go back to sleep, but he didn't quite feel ready to leave the comfort of his bed behind and face the world.

Instead, he pulled up Facebook and scrolled through his feed.

Cute baby.

Cute baby.

Woah, seriously ugly baby. Bloody hell, what an unfortunate face, Killian thought to himself, swiping just a little faster away from the photo.

Robin Locksley shared a post from The Guardian:

A Crocodile in our Midst

“One year on from the appearance of the London Dragon, and the start of the Enchanted Disaster, we now know one man was behind it all. Robert Gold. Now that the scale of Gold’s influence and empire built on favours, deceit and corruption at the highest levels has been revealed, we ask; what lessons can we learn?”

He hesitated. Stared at the post long and hard. He should have known his feed would be full of stories like this today.

He couldn’t read it now. Perhaps he never would be able to. He’d been through enough in the past year, reporting to the Darling Inquiry, to the police, to the university.

He was finally in a better place. People finally knew what a monster Gold really was, had always been. He was working alongside Dr Smee at Imperial College London. He was getting out more. He was having regular sessions with Dr Hopper.

But still.

He sighed and continued to scroll.

Holiday photos.

Cute children.

Cute dog.

Cute baby.

Aurora Rosen shared a post from The Daily Mail “People are so mean!!! Leave this family alone!!!”:

‘Leave our princess in peace!’ plead Ashley and Sean Herman

Alexandra Herman stole all of our hearts as the face of the Enchanted Disaster, a beautiful little girl lost in another world. Her parents’ campaign for her safe return had a happy ending, but now that she is safely home, they beg for privacy.  

Cute baby.

Holiday photos.

Ironic “wish you were here” post of a dowdy living room presumably intended to get a laugh, but coming off a little too bitter.

Ruby Lucas shared a post from OK! Magazine UK “Get it girls ;)”:

A Royal Romance for Rapunzel

“Singer Rapunzel and Princess Elsa open up for the first time about how their shared ordeal kidnapped by Gold led to them finding love.”

So many people had been brought together by the strange happenings in town, and what did he have to show for it? Two pictures on his wall. Emma’s sketch of a swan and the recent painting he’d done of a swan on the Thames that had made him smile. The first painting he’d done since she’d left that he actually thought worthy of hanging on the wall. Yes, it was lovely to feel that Emma had helped him to rediscover his love of painting, which gave him a link to both of his lost loves, but still... A painting couldn't ask about his day, couldn’t hold him at night, couldn’t borrow his phone when it forgot to charge its own phone because of their more enjoyable activities.

God he never thought he’d be jealous of Will bloody Scarlett.

Killian sighed and put his phone to one side. It was no good. Everything was making him think of Emma. It was still several hours until he had to be at their spot, he needed a better distraction than social media.

He’d been putting off deep cleaning his fridge. No time like the present.

***

He was at their spot and the sun was shining. It wasn’t the harsh, oppressive and overwhelming heat of the previous year, but instead a gorgeous sunny day.

He should have been grateful that on his and Emma’s day, the weather was glorious, but he felt angry. There should be storms raging, torrential rain, unnatural, unseasonable fog. Something, anything to show that the world understood what he had lost.

This resentment wasn’t a new feeling to him. He’d spent years biting his tongue at the way his friends prodded him about his love life or how an acquaintance would casually refer to the loss of Milah or at the sight of Gold. His short time with Emma and the healing that he’d done in the past year had helped him to not feel overwhelmed by it. On a normal day.

But today, it was all too much.

Twice he had loved wholly, honestly and truly; and twice that love and joy had been ripped from him.

He could see how much more to life there was than just romantic love now. His therapy had helped him to appreciate the richness and beauty in all aspects of his life. But he was a passionate man and he longed to share his heart with another. The absence of that love left an emptiness inside him that caused a deep ache if he dwelt on it for long, because whoever heard of lightning striking thrice?

The beautiful day made him feel like the world was taunting him. It was just so unfair. Where was the sense in anything that had happened? As he seethed, questions whirled through his mind, he could feel his wrath taking over. His muscles tensed, he clenched his teeth, his chest felt tight as the tempest grew.

No.

Not today.

He needed to reclaim today as a celebration of his short time with Emma. He couldn’t let his fury win.

He stared at the water and tried to remember the mindfulness exercises that Dr Hopper had taught him to help him to cope. Eyes unfocused. Deep breaths. Feel the bench beneath him. Listen to the sounds around him. Notice how he felt. Don’t try to change it. Accept it. Sit with his feelings.

He caught a glimpse of golden hair.

“Swan?”

The woman spun, he knew it wouldn’t be her. He’d done this so many times before. Especially in the beginning. She had magic. She was from an entire realm full of magic. She could find a way. She would… He’d always been disappointed.

“Yes?” Green eyes looked back at him. She had soft cheeks, a dimpled chin, she was perfect. She couldn’t possibly be real. Then she frowned at him. “Do I know you? Because you said my name and now you’re doing some kind of creepy stalker thing and I’m really not into that.”

“Are you Emma Swan?”

She held up her hands and stepped back from him. “Listen, buddy -”

Killian shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m being so weird. Um, you know the Enchanted Disaster that happened?”

“Yeah! Is it bad if I say that I thought it was cool as fuck? I may have snuck a niffler home. Kind of regretted that when the little fucker tore my purse to shreds looking for treasure.”

“OK, well, I met another you, from the Enchanted Forest.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“But I didn’t end up the other realm?”

“Not everyone switched places. Some people stumbled through portals. She was the first. Faced off against the London Dragon?”

“Oh god, I remember that! People kept asking where I’d learned how to do magic, didn’t like it when I said Hogwarts. But if you’re going to ask a dumb question...”

Killian laughed and nodded. This was so weird. She was Emma, but not Emma. She had the same dry sense of humour, but with the addition of pop culture references. He realised that he’d waited too long to say more, still overawed. “The dragon was actually friends with Emma,” he said, desperate for the conversation to continue.

Emma frowned at him and shook her head incredulously. “Oh come on! Now I know you’re making this up.”

“No really! I didn’t much like her, kind of a bitch and a major fire hazard. Honestly, I don’t miss having her in my flat.”

“You had Maleficent in your apartment?”

“I believe she’s Lily’s mother actually.”

Emma smirked at him. “Bullshit.” He just raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, trying to give off a “you keep telling yourself that” vibe as he grinned. “If I believe you then I have to accept that the street art I keep seeing of her looking like some kind of badass female Saint George is all anti-dragon propaganda. You have to let me have that vision, people buy me drinks because they think I’m her, I’ve gotten laid because of it.”

He laughed. “Far be it from me to cramp your style, Emma may not have actually slain the dragon, but she was definitely a badass. Have you seen the one of her looking like Wonder Woman with the lightsaber?”

“In the parking lot on Brick Lane? I love that one!”

“She loved it too. Of course, she didn’t actually know what a lightsaber was.” He laughed at the memory.

“Tell me you fixed that immediately or I’m not sure we can be friends.”

He laughed. “As if I would deny anyone a proper Star Wars education.” Emma nodded her approval. “Hey would you like to get a coffee?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Emma shook her head and his face fell. “Sorry, er, what did you say your name was?”

“Killian,” he said, trying not to feel too sad. He studied his feet, wondering if the ground could just open up and swallow him. Of course she wouldn’t want to get coffee, this was so strange and he’d approached her in the weirdest possible way.

“Maybe we could get a hot chocolate instead?” He looked up at her in surprise. She shrugged. “I don’t drink coffee,” she said apologetically. “Is that ok?”

“Yeah.” He was dazed, stunned into stupidity by this new Emma Swan.

“Come on, I want to hear all about how awesome I am.” She winked at him. And for the first time since Princess Emma had stepped through that portal he felt that powerful feeling surging through him and lighting him up inside. For the first time since she left, Killian had hope.

[choicesfanatic86]

TTS:  Part 33 In Liam’s Eyes (2/2)

DISCLAIMER:  All characters belong to Pixelberry Studios, except characters unique to my story.  Those belong to me. ;)

PAIRINGS:  Riley (MC) x OC, Riley (MC) x Liam, Liam x Riley (MC) x OC, Olivia x Drake, Bertrand x Savannah, Maxwell x OC

SUMMARY:  Liam learns of Riley’s accident, and is having a difficulty time coping.

If you are new to the series and would like to catch up by reading previous parts, please check out my master fan fiction listing.  CATCH UP HERE

TAGS:  @herladyshipxx  @theroyalweisme @blackcatkita @devineinterventions2 @hopefulmoonobject @captainkingliam @pbchoicesobsessed @cocomaxley @queencatherynerhys @mfackenthal @boneandfur @spetstoof @bobasheebaby @grapefrults @pessimystic-fangirl @dralenamax @mspaigemoore @drakelover78 @kaitycole @jayjay879 @hhiggs @umccall71 @penguininapinktuxedo @topsyturvy-dream @decisso @pnhanga @ladynonsense @mrs-simmy @jamielea81 @alwaysthebestchoice @hamulau @mrsdrakewalkerblog @crookedslimecreatorpasta @liamxsworld @flowerpowell

5/20/18 - This is part 2! And I’m done for tonight.  <3  Part 34 will be out maybe tomorrow. :)  As always thank you for the awesome feedback.  SO blessed and lucky to have ya’ll reading my fics!

PART 33 - In Liam’s Eyes (Part 2)

It had been nearly twelve hours since Andy had left, and Liam found himself unable to sleep.  It was futile trying.  His mind kept wandering to her.  He pictured her hooked up to a bunch of wires, unconscious, tubes piercing through her beautiful fair skin.  He wondered then if it was a car accident or if she had gotten hit by a car.  It was New York after all.  He was sick with worry.  He wouldn’t be able to sleep again until he knew she was alright.  He decided that the only way to get his mind off of things was to hop on his bike and go for a ride.  He needed to clear his head.  He didn’t know what kind of news to be expecting.  It could be awful, and that Maxwell was right, she was in a coma fighting for her life . . . or it could be a simple car accident and her assistant just jumped the gun in calling Andy.  He hoped that was the case.  He couldn’t withstand it if it were the former.  He’d never forgive himself.

He’d been riding around for an hour when he found himself at the doorstep of the Beaumont Estate.  He remembered the last ride that brought him to this doorstep.  It was the night he saw her for the first time again in two years.  He remembered how beautiful she looked, how absolutely breathtaking.  He loved her best when she was dressed down – no makeup, no fancy dresses, just Riley.  And that’s how he saw her that night as just Riley.

He glanced up to the front of the house and noticed that Bertrand was on the porch, sipping a cup of something.

“You’re still up?” Liam asked, taking his helmet off.

He nodded somberly.  “Can’t sleep,” he said bluntly.  “No one can.  We’re all waiting for Lady Andy’s call.”

Bertrand looked tired.  Hell, he was certain they all looked tired.  Worn.  Broken.  They’d all be the same way until they heard any news.  It had to be any moment now.  She’d had to have been in New York for at least a few hours . . .why hadn’t they heard anything? Liam left Bertrand to his thought as he entered the house.  He wandered through the living room, remembering the last time they had spent time together, how everything had been so amazingly perfect.  It was then that he decided he wanted to marry her.  The days they spent locked away loving one another had been the best days of his life.  He never thought that he’d ever feel that happy or that content.  He never wanted it to end.  Then it had all gone so terribly wrong.  He let his jealousy get the better of him, and he took it out on her instead of trying to allow her to explain what had happened.  He loved her.  He knew what kind of person she was, but his goddamn pride and stubbornness had blinded him to all of that.  He wanted to believe she was at fault in all of this, but he knew it was him.

And now?  Now he didn’t know if he’d ever have the chance to apologize to her.  To tell her how much he regrets the words that flew out of his mouth.  He wished he could blame the scotch, but he was drunk of jealousy and rage and it made him hurt the most important person in his entire world.  The atmosphere inside the house felt so terribly depressing.  He felt like he was at a funeral.  Drake, Savannah and Maxwell sat around sharing stories about their times together during the social season, and how amazing Riley was.  It was all too much for him. He couldn’t treat this like she was in their past.

When Maxwell’s phone started to ring, he could feel his heartbeat quicken in anticipation.  The news at the end of the line could possibly change his life forever.  A world without Riley?  He was already living in that world.  But a world where she was gone . . . forever?  He couldn’t imagine it.  He didn’t even want to think about it, yet the possibility was there.  Lord knew what kind of accident she had been in.  Every moment of waiting made him feel just a bit more empty and broken inside.

“Quiet down, it’s Andy!” Maxwell exclaimed.  In his eagerness to answer, he nearly dropped the phone in the process.

“Tiger Lily?  Any word?”

“Oh thank God is right,” he breathed a sigh of relief.   “She’s okay, guys,” he said eagerly to the waiting faces around him.  “We’ve all been worried.  That’s such a relief,” he turned his attention back to the phone.

“What happened?” he asked.  “Was it serious?”

“Little Blossom looks unwell?” His eyes drifted to everyone around him.  “Yes, I remember.  She did look rather pale, but I just thought it was the screen coloring,” he admitted.

“What are you doing to do?” he asked with concern.

“A broken leg?” he asked horrified.  “Her face, too?  Jesus, poor Little Blossom,” he said overcome with emotion. “I think I should be with both of you.  I can charter a plane, or ask Liam for his assistance again,” he made eye contact with the King, and Liam’s face immediately turned to one of equal concern.

“Her assistant is staying, too?  But, Tiger Lily, don’t you think she’d be happy to see me?  I mean, my handsome face alone would certainly bolster her spirits,” he joked.  

“Does she really look that bad?”

“Oh my God,” he paused.  “I should be there.  She needs all of us, Andy.”

Liam couldn’t handle the phone conversation.  He wanted to know what Andy was saying, but it didn’t feel right to grab the phone away from him.  After all, he had given the right to know any intimate details about her well being up when he kicked her out of his life.  He doubted she even wanted him to know about her condition.

“What’s the matter?” Bertrand asked.  “What is she saying?”

“No, that was Bertrand,” he sighed.  “We’re all just a bit overwhelmed.  It’s hard to be here when both of you are there,” he admitted.

“Perhaps Maxwell is on to something; maybe we should all take a short trip Stateside. Check in on Lady Riley, see how we may be of assistance in her recovery,” Bertrand said frankly to the rest of the group.

“Bertrand, Andy would like you to quiet down.  Tiger Lilly, I really think we should talk about us coming out there,” he said again.

“Give me the phone, Maxwell,” Bertrand grunted.

“Alright, Bertrand.  Tiger Lilly, Bertrand would like to have a word with you.  It will just be for a moment, I swear,” he said handing the phone to Bertrand.

“Lady Andy.  I trust you are in Lady Riley’s company?  Then why didn’t you call us much sooner?  We’ve been unable to continue with our normal affairs out of sheer frustration and worry.  Yes, well, it wasn’t soon enough.  Where did you go first?  And did you speak with her physicians?  Find out what occurred and her prognosis?  Well why the bloody hell not?  Didn’t you ask to speak to someone in administration?  Someone with more authority than a simple peon behind a computer screen?  Well, at least you’ve found her, now you can talk her into coming home to Cordonia.  We can hire a nursemaid who will provide her with round the clock care until she’s well again.  Well you should try harder to convince her that this is the only option.  She doesn’t know what she wants.  If she did, she wouldn’t have been so damn emotional before she left.  Why?  Fine,” he sighed, handing the phone back to Maxwell.

“Yes, love?  Alright, but he can be quite persistent.  Drake’s here as well, would you like to speak to him?  He’s very worried.  Are you sure we shouldn’t fly to New York?  It would only be an eight hour flight . . .we could be there first thing in the morning your time.”

“Liam’s been taking this very hard,” he gazed at Liam.

Liam’s eyes met Maxwell’s gaze, shaking his head.

“That wasn’t very nice.  You know very well that there were complications . . . a misunderstanding.  They just needed time and to talk things out.  He’s still very much in love with her.  Everybody can see it.  Apology accepted.

Liam cleared his throat, standing up to pace the floor.  He was quite aware the they all knew he still loved her.  It was the general consensus that he was a moron and should have just gone after her and made things right the moment she flew back to New York.  It was an unspoken understanding amongst their little circle of friends; it was very different to hear it spoken about so freely as Maxwell just had done.

“Please call me first thing tomorrow to let me know how she’s doing.  I really think we should fly out there.  Little Blossom needs her favorite Cordonians.  I know, I’m sorry.  I love you, Andy.  Be well, love.  Goodbye.”

“Well, gentlemen.  I feel a bit better,” Maxwell announced.  “It seems like she’s on the mend.  A little banged up, but nothing that time won’t heal,” he said happily.

Liam exhaled a large sigh of relief.  “At least she alive,” he said seriously.  “My mind was going toward some pretty dark scenarios all day,” he admitted.

“I know,” Drake nodded in agreement.  “Lawson’s tough.  She’ll bounce back.”

“I’d feel better if we had spoken with her physicians.  Lady Riley has such a laissez-faire attitude about things.  Even if something were seriously wrong she probably would think nothing of it.  She can’t be expected to take care of herself,” Bertrand said seriously.

“But Andy and Alicia are there,” Maxwell reasoned.

“Wonderful, the blind leading the blind,” he snipped.

“Well, she told me that we shouldn’t go down there.  I don’t want to upset any of them,” Maxwell explained.

“Maxwell’s right, we should just let things settle and see what happens,” Drake agreed.

“Liam, I’m sorry . . . about what I said . . . I just hoped that she would maybe send the message to Riley, and then you guys would be good again,” Maxwell said bashfully.  “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“Ever the hopeless romantic,” he clapped his friend on the shoulder.  “It’s fine,” Liam murmured.  “I need to head back to the palace.  Call me?  With any updates?”

Maxwell nodded.  “I’ll call you whenever I hear something new,” he said earnestly.

True to his word, over the next three days, Maxwell had called Liam constantly.  Each time Maxwell received a call from Andy, he would hang up and call Liam to ensure that he repeated everything to Liam while it was still fresh in his mind.  Although the updates seemed fairly positive . . . there was just something that didn’t sit well with Liam.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he still felt like there was something very wrong.  Perhaps, it was the fact that he wasn’t the one getting the messages direct from Andy.  Or maybe nothing would truly feel right except being there with her and seeing for himself that she was indeed on the mend.

It was the second call on the third date of updates that solidified the fact that something was terribly amiss.  It was the first time that Maxwell had shared with him his growing concerns over Riley’s wellbeing.

“Liam  . . . I suspect that there may be something more going on with Riley,” Maxwell sighed into the phone.  “Andy’s acting odd, and she’s beginning to cut our phone conversations shorter and shorter.  Then, just a while ago, I heard Riley vomiting profusely in the background.  I would expect her to be better by now.  I think they’re not telling us how sick she is.”

Liam could sense the fear, frustration, and anxiety in Maxwell’s voice.  Riley was like the sister he never had, and he knew that he cared for her just as much as any of them.  But Liam didn’t know what to do with this newfound information.  He had an inkling there was something wrong, and apparently, he had been right.  Riley was sick, and he suspected that her accident may have been the result of said sickness.  He just wondered what it was that was causing her to be sick for so long.  His mind began to worry, contemplating if he should have a specialist flown to New York since obviously, the physicians there hadn’t corrected the problem the first time.

“Thank you, Maxwell.  She’s going to call you again tonight, won’t she?  Will you ask her if she’s been seeing any other doctors?  Maybe we can figure out if she’s seeing the right people,” Liam reasoned.

“Will do.  I’ll call you if I hear anything else,” he said quickly before ending the call.

Two hours later, Liam had been knee deep in paperwork.  He had been so overwhelmed with all of the work he had been procrastinating on for the last few days, that he hadn’t noticed he’d missed a bunch of notifications.  Several being missed calls from Maxwell.  His hands began to tremble, worrying that something had happened.  He dialed Maxwell’s number instantly, but there was no answer.

“Shit,” he said angrily, tossing his phone on his desk.  He was just about to get ready to head out toward the Beaumont Estate when his study door flew open forcefully.  Liam was started to see Maxwell with a tearstained face and worried expression.

“Maxwell – “ Liam looked up in surprise.  “I tried calling you back-“

“She’s back in the hospital,” Maxwell said in a panic.  “I threw what I could together.  Bertrand and Drake are in the car waiting . . . I know it’s asking a lot but I was hoping we could use your plane again.  We have to be there with her.  Figure out what’s going on.  Andy’s not handling things well, and I don’t want her having to go through all of this alone,” he explained.

Liam stood up quickly.  “Is she okay?”

“We don’t know.  Andy just called me to tell me they were going to take her back in.  Apparently she hasn’t been doing well at all.  Andy thought things were under control,” he sighed.

“You can have anything else you need.  I’ll happily oblige any request.  Anything for her,” he murmured.

“Come with us then?”  Maxwell asked hopefully.

“Except that,” he shook his head.  “You’re wasting time.  Just go.  I’ll make the arrangements now.”

“Liam, this is ridiculous.  The woman you love is not doing very well thousands of miles away, and I think you have something to do with it,” he said pointedly.

“How so?”  Liam looked at him confused.

“Maybe you broke her heart so terribly her body couldn’t handle it again,” he fumed.  “Just come back with us.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Or you won’t?” he narrowed his eyes at the king.  “You ask about her every single day, Liam.  Multiple times a day.  You still love her.  Why are you being so foolish?”

“Because I’m ashamed,” he said sadly.  “Did Riley tell you what the last thing I said to her was?”

“Not in so many details,” Maxwell shook his head.  “I know there was fight, a misunderstanding,” he explained.

“I told her that I wouldn’t try to find her this time.  That she should just leave, because it’s what she does best,” his eyes scanned over his desk, falling to the envelope Drake had given him the night of Riley’s accident.  “She told me that she wasn’t going to let me break her again,” he said, his voice cracking in emotion.  “But I guess I still did,” he looked up toward Maxwell, his eyes filling with tears.

“Liam . . .” Maxwell said slowly, unsure how to approach the normally strong King.

Liam’s hand reached for the envelope, holding it up for Maxwell to see.  “You see this?  She wrote this to me . . . I haven’t had the strength to open it.  I’m not sure what she could possibly say to me.  I guess I’m scared to find out,” he sighed.

“Liam . . . you need to let this go.  Who cares what happened before . . . all that matters is what happens now.  Come with us.  Tell her how much she means to you,” Maxwell

“Just go, Maxwell.  Head straight for the airport, the plane will be ready for you when you get there,” he turned away, the envelope still in his hands.

“Liam, you’re a goddamn fool,” he admonished before slamming the door to his study shut.

Liam closed his eyes.  He’d never felt so terrified in his life.  Things had gone from bad to worse, and Liam didn’t know what to do.  He could normally handle any situation that he was faced with, but this . . . this was too personal.  This was dealing with Riley.  He couldn’t fix it.  He was thousands of miles away and he couldn’t fix whatever was wrong with her.  His hand reached for the envelope . . . . his hands trembling as his finger slid through the envelope’s seal.  He licked his lips in anticipation, preparing himself for all the hurt and pain he had caused her to come barreling out in a hatred-filled letter.  His eyes wandered over the letter . . . studying her handwriting.  It felt amazing to touch something she had touched.  He missed her so much.  Maxwell was right.  He wanted to be with her, but too much damage had already been done, why make it worse?  He started to read the letter, grasping the paper tightly.

Liam,

Well, I suppose our love story was never really meant to have a happy ending, huh?  I want you to know that I don’t regret any of our time together.  Not any of it at all.  I love you.  I probably always will.  It’s just so heartbreaking that we could never seem to get it right.  You said something once that we’re victims of bad timing.  I think so, too.  Always too late or too soon, never just right.

I remember thinking that love shouldn’t be this hard.  It’s always been hard for us, hasn’t it?  First with the Coronation, then with Madeline . . . it was obstacle after obstacle and somehow we got to this point, and I truly thought that it would be our turn for the fairytale life together.  I was wrong.

I used to think that love should be easy, and fun, and simple.  It shouldn’t be about fighting, and tears, and heartache.  Then I met Paul . . . and it was easy . . . being in a relationship with him was simple and nice, but he wasn’t you.  It wasn’t love.  Then I realized, that love wasn’t meant to be easy.  If it were easy, why bother?  It’s the hard stuff that makes life worth living.  With every tear and every fight and every struggle, the relationship builds stronger so that together, you can endure whatever comes your way.  Getting through it is what makes love stronger.  I suppose none of this even matters anymore.  You made it clear how you feel.  I know you don’t love me anymore . . .at least not how I love you, and it’s okay.  I don’t blame you.

This wasn’t just a fling for me.  I think out of everything you said that hurt the most.  I wanted a life together.  I think a little part of me still wants a life together.  The last week and a half has meant everything to me.  I just want you to know that I’m sorry I hurt you.  I’m sorry for back then.  I’m sorry for now.  It was never my intent.  I only wanted to love you, Liam.  Everything was real.  Every single moment of it.

Yours, Riley

Liam couldn’t catch his breath.  He read the letter once, twice, three times before fully comprehending the fact that she still loved him.  At least she had the day that she left.  What the hell was he doing here?  He needed to get on that plane.  He needed to be with her.  He was such an idiot.  She had done nothing but love him, and he just scorned her love for him and tossed her out like she was nothing. ��He needed to show her how wrong he had been.  He needed to show her how much he loved her.

The ride to the airport had been a frantic one.  He’d only had enough time to pack the essentials and a small bag of clothes.  He usually had people pack for him, but there was no time.  He needed to get there before they left.  When Bastien dropped him off at the private airfield, he was relieved to find that the plane hadn’t taken off yet.  In fact, it looked as if it were waiting.  It was waiting for him!

“I called ahead, sir.  The pilot is waiting for you,” he murmured.

“I don’t know how to repay you . . . “

“It was my fault you turned her away in the first place.  Just go,” he smiled lightly.

Liam ran up the steps of the loading stairs, lugging his carryon bags behind him.

It was Bertrand who noticed his arrival first.  “Your Majesty?” Bertrand asked, “What are you doing here?”  

He was breathing deeply, trying to catch his breath.  “Needed . . .needed to get here  . . . before you left,” he explained.

Maxwell narrowed his eyes at him.  “Came to say goodbye?”

“I changed my mind,” he said stoically.  “I’m going to come with you.”

“You are?” Maxwell’s face lit up, as he turned to Drake looking at him enthusiastically.

“You sure about this?” Drake asked him, staring at his best friend long and hard.  “She’s not well, man.  Don’t come if you aren’t one hundred percent sure about this.  She doesn’t need to feel worse than she already is.”

Liam adjusted the collar of his jacket nervously, his eyes meeting Drake’s.  He was just as fiercely protective over her as Liam.  All of them were.  She had become a part of their little family, and he’d forced her to leave them.  Twice now.  He may have been stupid enough to close himself off to her this last time, but he certainly wouldn’t be allowing it to happen for a third time.  This time, he was playing for keeps.  He didn’t care how long it would take, he was going to do everything in his power to make amends with her, and show her that he loved her with every fiber of his being.  He licked his lips as he cleared his throat.  “I am certain about this.”

“Alright then,” Drake clasped him on the shoulder.  “Wheels up in twenty.  I’ll let the pilot know we have a last minute add on,” he motioned for Liam to take the seat next to him.

He dropped himself into the seat, releasing a breath he had been holding since reading her letter.  He loved her.  Desperately.  And if she’d have him again, he would never let her go.  

[court-0f-dreamers]

ACOTAR: Restrung Chapter 3

Chapter 1   Chapter 2

Fic Summary: What if it was never up to Tamlin to break the curse? What if, instead, in a true test of love, Amarantha sent out Prythian’s most abhorred and cruel Highlord, to watch his land fall into ruin while trying to change the heart of a hateful human? A Court of Bitterness and Jasmine…A Court of Rhysand. Set in the same universe as our favourite Sarah J Maas characters, but with a twist.

CHAPTER 3

He was livid. Rage pulsed off him in lashes of warm night. Idiot girl. Stupid, unthinking, impulsive girl. He continued pacing across the floor of his private study.

“She wouldn’t have done it if she wasn’t so scared, Rhysand,” Cassian snapped, from his seat in the comfortable brown leather chairs, “You should have given her more of a reception.”

“She jumped out of the window!”, Rhysand said through clenched teeth, unable to stop himself gesticulating wildly.

“She abseiled out of the window.” Cassian couldn’t help the small smile across his face as he corrected Rhys, “Using your priceless curtains.

“And you know, you could make her feel more welcome. Find out what she likes. Be less...this”, Cassian continued, pointing to all of Rhys.

And then he leaned back and put his dirty boots on the ebony coffee table.

Azriel sighed from his spot on the mantelpiece, “If you’re going to pick a fight with him, please do it after we eat.”

“I can’t just go into her mind and find out what she likes, Cassian”, Rhys continued. He moved in between Cassian and the table and tossed his feet back down onto the carpet. “The curse doesn’t allow me to just delve into her mind. If not, don’t you think I would have just made her fall madly in love with this!” He pointed at himself, repeating Cassian’s gesture.

Cassian pushed on, “Now that we’ve found her, can’t you just do your daemati business and make her like you-”.

“You know I can’t, Cassian”, Rhys responded with equal snap. But Cassian’s words had found their mark.

He turned hitting his palm on the coffee table with an uncharacteristic unchecked rage, “Dammit! If I could enter minds so thoroughly, I’d have fed Kier and his subjects out there pillaging my city to the damn Attors!” His expression was fierce as his anger grew, and a dark shadow of his wings appeared behind him. “And then I would mist them all while they were still being devoured.”

He locked eyes with his brothers. His brothers knew him so well that they hardly blinked at the Highlord mask he wore. They had unshakable faith in the man underneath. Faith that he would uphold his duty to his land, his people, and most of all to his family. Looking at them reminded him of what he had to do here - and all that he couldn’t do.

He sighed and sat down next to Cassian. “Amarantha’s spell was so cunning. So slippery and yet so pervasive. The more I try to delve into its magic, the more it evades me. Now that Feyre is here, it’s starting to change, starting to become...more oppressive.”

He put his head in his hands. “I can feel it inching towards the core of my power.”, he softly whispered.

He could see Cassian schooling his features to hide his surprise.

Some nights were harder than others, but for them, for his people, Rhysand would never give up. “I am trying. With Feyre, I will try better-”

Azriel coughed. Rhysand could hear hesitant steps down the hallway.

They all fell silent and waited for the door to slowly open.

When they brought her home, she was in no state to talk to anyone. The girl, Rita, who was with her was equally shaken, but Az made sure she was returned to her family, while Cassian flew Feyre back to the House of Wind. On arriving, the always courteous Cassian pointed out the closest bathroom, and asked her to meet them in Rhys’ study when she was done hauling her guts out.

Feyre slowly stepped in, shoulders hunched, head held low but unharmed. Rhys didn’t let himself imagine what would she would look like if his brothers hadn’t happened to be flying so close to the Rainbow.

Almost unharmed. Rhys’ eyes immediately went to the backs of her hands. The cuts there were relatively shallow, but dirty. He had spent enough time during the war with humans to know how quickly those simple wounds could become life-threatening infection.

She met his eyes, and straightened her spine defiantly.

He quirked an eyebrow. So you think you were right to come up with that ridiculous escape plan?, he thought.

The fire in her stormy blue eyes clearly answered the unspoken question.

He peaked his fingertips together and lifted them to his lips. His hold on his emotions tonight was taut, like a tightly pulled string. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Azriel coughed again.

He sighed, anger deflating.

He was actually at a loss. How am I meant to treat you?, he thought, grappling for words. He was five hundred years old. He had ruled over two very different courts for most of that time. He used to command legions of Illyrians and Fae alike. And he didn’t know what to say to a 19-year old human girl. Not just any human girl.

He looked into her small, proud face, holding her gaze.  Feyre Archeron, you could save us all.

“Sooooooo...” Cassian came and stood between Rhys and Feyre, breaking their intense stare, “you seem to have some battle scars there.”, he gestured to her hands.

She quickly tucked them behind her back.

Azriel looked pointedly at Rhysand.

Rhys broke his silence. “The Attors have their own poison. To prevent those from getting worse they should be cleaned. There are those I trust, in fact I can have Velaris’ best healer-”

Azriel coughed a third time. Rhysand’s eyes narrowed at him, I should punch him in the throat, give him something to cough about. The stoic shadowslinger barely moved a muscle, but the small gleam of light in his eyes betrayed his mirth.

Ok Rhys, big smile, he thought and forced a smile of his face, “Well, how about I’ll heal them myself. Please sit down, Feyre”.

                                                          *** *** ***

Cassian and Azriel subtly stepped out of the room.

Feyre had been terrified that whole walk into the study.

After their initial interaction, the highlord suddenly excused himself, remembering something important he had to tell the two males outside the room.

Feyre was left alone in the surprisingly personalised and homely study. Unlike the rest of the palace, the usually bald red walls were covered with rich tapestries and abstract artwork, with the most surprising being a wall-high landscape vista painted directly onto the stone face.

Amazing. She had never seen art like this.

The painting showed a beautiful waterside city, teeming with life. There were vibrant buildings, giant cargo-filled boats, lush trees and pockets of wildlife scattered throughout. And there were people - well, Fae. Fae from all different origins; High fae that looked like the highlord, and faeries that looked like those in the dockyard.

That was when she noticed how familiar the broadwalk looked, how if the light was different, the dark looming mountains that shadowed her flight here could be like the open and inviting peaks of the painting. And the city, the colourful, alive city, could have been like Velaris. She turned towards the window where a wretched dying mirror image of the painting looked back at her. Why did he have this here, only to create the world outside?

Wait, what are you doing you idiot!, Feyre started, You’re alone in his study. Stop examining the art and find something that will help you.  

She began looking around. There were rows of books stacked neatly, a few choice artifacts on the low table between the couches, and in the far corner a desk with-

A desk! Feyre quickly moved to the desk hoping she would gleam any information that might help her.

She was ecstatic to find a map. She had never learned to read, she family too consumed by their own poverty to realise that she only knew her alphabet and nothing more, but she could understand a map.

Or so she thought.

There was neat scrolling writing throughout, possibly labelling cities, rivers and mountains. There were also lines all through it, making paths through various points on the continent. None of it makes sense, the script didn’t look like she expected. She squinted in the dim firelight, her eyes frantically trying to find the human settlements beneath the wall.

“Interesting technique. Not one I’ve seen before”, a cool voice said behind her.

Shit! Feyre said, jerking and dropping the map. Before it could hit the floor, he bent down snatching it up.

The Highlord of the Night Court. She dared to look him up and down properly for the first time since she returned - if only to see if he had any weapons on him. Instead, all she saw was his all-black fitted suit jacket and tapered pants, this one with violet embroidery on the edges. Even after midnight he looked pristine. Did he sleep in that? Feyre thought, despite knowing that she really had more emergent things to worry about that his sleep attire.

Just distraction as a coping mechanism. She knew being caught rummaging in his desk was only going to make her night worse.

“Maps,” he said, a self-satisfied tone to his voice, “are usually read with the inked side facing the reader, and the right way up.” He spun the map around.

Oh. She couldn’t stop the shame from blooming on her face.

His looked at her again, head cocked to the side.

She just stood there silently, holding her head low in a fake gesture of subservience. Try not to piss him off any more, Feyre, she told herself.

He rolled his eyes, not buying it, “Alright, fine. I’ll ignore your invasion of my privacy. Give me your hands.”

“What are you going to do?”, she tried to not let the very real fear show on her face as she whispered, “...Magic?”

She almost thought she saw a shadow of a smile, “Not today. Just antiseptic and bandages.”

He waved his hand and a metal table with various sized pieces of cloth and brown glass bottles appeared next to her. He carefully picked up her hands.

Silence descended over them as he methodically cleaned each scratch. He seemed content not speaking, which suited Feyre perfectly.

Her mind whirled with conflicting thoughts. It was hard to rationalise this male next to her. Here, in what had to be his personal study, there were personal touches and an inherent warmth that did not fit in with the dangerous and destitute city below and the dark highlord who ruled it.

Not to mention, he surely has more important things to do that tend to his latest prisoner’s minor wounds.

She was surprised by how gently he picked swabbed the fragile skin before applying a cool cream. She noticed he was careful not to touch her more than necessary. And she very much noticed that when his warm hands did lightly brush her skin, she didn’t want to jerk away.

Surprisingly, he hadn’t mentioned how thoroughly her escape plans had failed.

As if by thinking it, she had jinxed herself, he said “Unlike your cartography skills, I hope your survival instincts are sharp enough that I don’t need to elaborate just how insanely stupid your plan was tonight.”

And just like that every kind thought she may have had about him was gone; he is such a arrogant, self-absorbed…

“Not only was it stupid, but I would have lost something valuable to me,” he continued while tying off the clean bandage on her hand.

...entitled, egotistic... wait, what?

He looked up at her as he finished the clipping the gauze in place, “My beautiful curtains.”

...PRICK!

She snatched her hands back, huffing out a breath.

He stood up, nodding towards the door.  

Feyre was sick of him having the last word; “Well the only thing truly beautiful in your disgusting city is that painting!” she blurted, pointing to the painted wall.

He didn’t say anything as he rearranged the bottles and gauze pads on the table. His head down, it was as if he didn’t even hear her.

She felt stupid standing there, after being so clearly dismissed by the highlord.

However, as soon as she stepped outside she could have sworn she heard him whisper; “I know.”

                                                         *** *** ***

She wasn’t sure how she managed to fall asleep that night, but at some point during her uninterrupted mental stream of swear words to describe Rhysand, she had drifted off into dreamless sleep.

She was awoken the next morning by gentle sunlight as Cerriwden pulled back the curtains. She could not recall the last time she had slept in after dawn, and it looked terrifying like midmorning already.

“The highlord requests your presence on the grounds this morning.”, she informed Feyre softly, while subtly ushering her out of bed and in the direction of the bath. Feyre’s eye caught on the tray Cerridwen had brought up, laden with breakfast food.

Food. She skipped the bath and immediately sat down devouring the fresh pastry and brightly coloured fruits.

Halfway through, a thought struck her and her eyes jerked up at Cerridwen, “Oh! Can I eat this? I mean, is this safe for...humans?”. Cerridwen looked at her with a small smile, “Yes Miss. I would never serve you otherwise. You are safe here.”

Safe. She held back a snort, Cerridwen sounded like a parrot for her prick of a highlord. 

Although - she had been treated with nothing but kindness by her, Feyre wasn’t stupid enough to believe she could truly trust anyone in this world - she thought, as she relished a second serving of fluffy flourcakes and spiced milky tea.

“Sorry Miss Feyre, I’ll make sure that there is lunch waiting for you when you return, but the Highlord insists on your presence now”.

Feyre may have been dragging out her breakfast, particularly as as she doled out the last of a large bowl - which had likely contained a serving size for at least four people - of cream and strawberries onto her plate. She knew the highlord was waiting, she somehow sensed his…impatience.

“Miss Feyre--”, Cerridwen’s voice held a strong warning now.

Before she could shovel the plump strawberry with the perfect ratio of cream into her mouth, it vanished.

In the next heartbeat, the whole breakfast tray vanished!

And then, before she could voice her outrage, her table and chair vanished - landing her smack on her bottom on carpeted floor.

Fae prick! She narrowed her eyes. She had seen him perform his vanishing trick before.

Fine, I’m on my way.

                                                         *** *** ***

Rhysand squinted in the distance, fiddling with the coins in his pockets. The training ring on top of the House of Wind almost had a pleasant view, if you overlooked his ruined, sprawling city. He looked away and started rearranging the knives.

“We have company” Azriel mumbled.

A moment later, Feyre walked into their training room, her duelling emotions of surprise and agitation clear in her expression. It’s the tilt of your eyebrows, I can tell exactly what you are thinking, little darling, Rhysand thought.

He knew his little magic would have made her angrier with him. He was willing to pay what it may cost him - it was infinitely preferable than her being scared of him again.

He turned around reaching for her bow. Azriel had found it when he returned to make sure all the Attors were taken care of. Rhys had fixed it himself this morning with a bowstring that wouldn’t fail her again.

“Good morning, Prick,” she said.

Rhysand’s head snapped up in surprise. Oh!

“Good morning, Fiery”, he said, deliberately mispronouncing her name. He could almost hear Az rolling his eyes. His brothers had made it very clear later last night that his skills with the ladies had truly suffered in the last few decades, and he wasn’t doing a great job at proving them wrong.

“Well ‘Highlord’ seems to be pronounced ‘arsehole’ so why not?” she retorted.

“His name is Rhysand,” called Azriel, the nosiest shadowslinger he had ever met, from his spot near the grass.

Feyre pursed her lips, stopping herself from saying it.

“Oh. “No shove it up your arse” for Azriel here? He is saved from your loving nicknames, even though I am the one who made sure you had a delicious breakfast waiting this morning.”

“Do you expect me to thank you?”, she snapped, with none of the confused reticence she had last night.

She turned gesturing around her. “Since you seem to have so quickly forgotten. I am a prisoner here. I’m your prisoner, entirely at your mercy. My whole life and my family’s life is in your hands, and- and” she voice shoke, all her bravado stripped away, “And you expect me to be grateful?”

Her words hit him hard. He had sworn her safety to her family and to her. He had made sure her rooms were fittest with the most luxurious trappings, and even had Cerridwen, one of his most trusted employees watch out for her, and yet his city, his palace remained a prison. He shouldn’t have been surprised, its destitute walls were a cell for people who called it home, let alone a human he had forcibly brought here. 

He suddenly wanted to do anything in his waning, fading power to help her. He would at the very least help her.

“Let me make you a bargain.” he said quickly, “In my lands, you will be safe, you will not be harmed by anyone’s hand, not even my own. And I promise that while you are here your family will not want for anything.”

It was intricate, difficult magic but he could do it. He understood more than a little of that magic now, and Cauldron-damn him it was the very least he could do for this girl that he had taken everything from.

“And what do ask from me in return?”, she asked cautiously.

Smart girl. “Your time. No more escapes. No more climbing out windows. No ripping up my curtains.” he replied, holding all emotion out of his voice.

She bit her lip, unable to hide the uncertainty on her face.

“Oh and - let’s throw in learning to read there too.” Rhysand said, picking invisible lint off his suit.

Her face became flushed and her eyes narrowed. He could see her weighing up lying versus admitting her vulnerability. He noticed how she misread the map, it was clear she didn’t understand what was written on it. Plus, he knew how cruel human societies could be towards their females, it wasn’t unheard of that she wouldn’t be given her right to education.

Come on, take my offer, he urged her.

“Okay”, she whispered, looking at Azriel, rather than Rhysand.

“What did you say?” Rhys pushed.

“I said Okay!”, Feyre growled at him.

With a half-smile, Rhys dug in deep, deep into the recesses of his power, and starting winding out the bargain magic. In response, he felt a twinge between his shoulder blades, just as he could see the tattoo forming on Feyre’s forearm. He couldn’t help but detail in night court-black  ink, his beloved illyrian whorls, sprinkled dots shaped like Velaris’ unique starlight, and the leaves and blooms of jasmine, the flower of his court and his mother’s favourite.

He was surprised at the twinge of joy he felt looking at her arm.

And she looked appalled. “I didn’t agree to this. What is this?”

The unbridled consternation on her face took him the closest he’d been to laughing in half a century. His face remained impassive as he decided to add something to the already-completed tattoo.

A devious cat-eyed pupil winked up at from the middle of Feyre’s palm.

Her jaw could have hit the floor, and this time, Rhysand couldn’t hold back his smile.

                                                        *** *** ***

Eight hours later, Rhysand found Feyre where he had left her at her desk in her room. She knew her letters but she needed to practice her penmanship and progress to words if she was going to learn to read in the next few weeks.

Azriel had checked on her earlier in the day, and the shadowslinger had decided to stay in her rooms finishing off his own work and keeping her company.

Rhys was quite sure she didn’t wanted to talk to him, and he was happy taunting her from a distance. He had given her some provocative lines to copy, that she detested. Plus she was no doubt staring at that eye thinking he could somehow see her through it.

Strangely fun. He had had plenty of time to imagine what it would be like when he finally found the human, but fun was not what he expected. It was not an emotion he thought he could feel anymore; perhaps it wasn’t an emotion he deserved to feel anymore.

Despite his guilt, he found himself looking forward to seeing her progress.

He nonchalantly leaned against the door frame, “Ahem,” he said, crossing his arms in emphasis. 

The shadowslinger nodded his hello from the couch across the room, but Feyre continued to ignore him. He didn’t expect any less. It was odd, he hadn’t known her for very long but he felt like he knew her responses exactly. Not that she was predictable, but rather, somehow, she was familiar.

“You know if you don’t speak, I can just hear what you are thinking,” he said.

Her head snapped up, shock in her eyes.

“Just joking.” Rhys said, using her distraction as a reason to jump up behind her and peer over her shoulder.

She smelled...nice. She smelled like citrus and a fresh cool breeze. And her hands, most of them were covered in his dressings, but he could see her long delicate fingers poking out of them. Her hands were poised gracefully, like an artist’s.

“Are you happy, Highlord?” she looked up at him.

He paused, lost in those stormy eyes. He took in a breath, that was the first time she didn’t look at him with fear, or anger, or feigned disinterest. She was looking at him with laughter.

He snapped back, quickly looking down remembering he was meant to be checking her progress.

In already surprisingly neat script she had 100 lines of Rhysand is the most pompous Highlord. Rhysand is the most conceited Highlord. Rhysand is the most FLATULENT Highlord.

Feyre sniggered. Cerridwen, making up Feyre’s bedroom, giggled. And he could have swore he heard quiet laughter from Azriel’s newly-vacated chair, where now only wisps of smoke remained.

Unable to stop himself, and even Rhysand let out a small but very real laugh.

                                                        *** *** ***

Nesta pushed through a bramble of thornbushes, and came upon a tree with dark peeling bark and sprawling roots - a very familiar, tree with dark bark and lots of roots.

“The fire of all the hells!”, Nesta swore aloud, likely realising this was the third time she had come upon this same tree in an hour, from three entirely different directions.

Cassian stepped out from where he was hidden from her eyes.

“Why are you here?”, he asked frankly and with authority.

She straightened herself, trying to hide the shock from her face. “None of your business. Leave me alone.” Her eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape route.

Stupidly, she pulled out a kitchen knife, which she held with clear ineptitude.

He was tempted to roll his eyes.

He had been monitoring the Archerons. Rhysand had made sure they were cared for, the day he brought Feyre home. He had seen the poverty they lived in, and he knew Feyre had kept them alive. Cassian was there to make sure that everything went to plan, that they had everything that humans desired. He was on his way in when he scented the older Archeron sister in the woods. He scoffed, he could have just as well heard her. Not only did she swear every five minutes, but she wasn’t very good at keeping her position in the woods a secret.

In a few hours, her dress was already ripped, her shoes were falling apart, and her face covered in mud. But her eyes were clear as they looked up at him, instead of fear, he was fierce determination thinly veiling crushing despair.

Cassian didn’t want to feel sorry for this girl.

Damn myself! He thought - because he did feel sorry for her. Rhysand had shown him all of what happened that day in the cottage. This girl standing before him with squared off shoulders had let her little sister get taken away by a stranger, had not fought back one bit to keep her, had not used her last moments to bid her goodbye. 

He understood what it was like to have family that rejected an innocent. Despite that, the girl was standing in front of him with her head held high. 

“You are Fae. Show me how to get through the Wall.”, she demanded. 

“Why?”, he demanded back. 

“None of your business.” she retorted. 

Cassian’s temper was uncharacteristically short. He wanted this girl back in her home. He didn’t want to have his Highlord or Feyre troubled by her insignificant family anymore. 

He became the Commander of the armies of Night Court, the Lord of Bloodshed, and he held it all over this girl. Standing to his full height, letting his wings flare out.

Her eyes widened as she took in the wings he knew she hadn’t seen yet. Instead of cowering, she stood her ground, even widened her stance. And unblinkingly locked her stormy grey eyes with his hazel ones. That was not something even most battle-hardened soldiers could do. 

“Tell me where the hole in the Wall is.” she said, this time slowly, vehemently.

“No,” he said, trying not to be impressed. “Go home.” 

“You know her?”, her wall of ice chipped, there was some hope in voice. 

“Yes.” 

Despite the set of her shoulders, her eyes betrayed relief, and he could see the toll of physical exhaustion hitting her.   

“Tell me.”

He sighed. “She is safe. She will not be harmed. And honestly, she is better off without you.”, he said, knowing his last words would find a mark. He needed her to stop looking for Feyre, and he needed to know.

“Now GO HOME. If not I can promise you the next time you run into a Fae in the woods, they won’t hesitate ripping you into little shreds.” he said. He pointed behind her. “Go that way, in about twenty minutes you will be on the border of your town. Now.”

She didn’t look like she was going to go anywhere. She gritted her teeth and stared him down. But finally, something in her snapped. Her shoulders sagged as she sensed the truth in his words. She turned around and started walking away, but not before imperiously glancing over her shoulder with one last word: “Bastard.”

How she knew he was from Rhysand’s court, he didn’t know. How she knew he wasn’t there to hurt and harm humans like some of the other Fae that made it over the wall, he had no idea. How she knew that that he could be trusted, that he would eventually give her the information she so desperately wanted, he didn’t know. 

But he thought about it the whole way home.

                                                       *** *** ***

The Highlord watched Cassian fly back into the city borders. It was a common sight, the silhouette of the Highlord looking out of the watchtower above the heavy city gates. Most knew, and those who didn’t, suspected the truth; that the curse trapped the Highlord in Velaris. As payback for keeping this city a secret from Amarantha, he was sentenced to watch it fall. He could leave sometimes, when the terms of the curse allowed him to, but he could not leave of his own free will. They watched his harsh, cruel expression as he stood unmoving as a statue above the city dying around him.

No one noticed the hooded figure walking straight through the small service door in the iron fence. No one could truly see him, their brains filling in his image as a just another guard or part of a shadow. No one saw as he finally did what he had been planning for the last 49 years, the plans that caused him to stretch him magic further than he ever had before, the plans her arrival had solidified. He was going to save Prythian. 

And as Rhysand, Highlord of the night court, winnowed away, no one would know.