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aqua-the-smiter · 6 months ago

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Part 4. Cato's still not paying rent. At least I started reading his books now. When he's needed most, he will crack. He thought that should've been obvious. Cato Sicarius x female reader you are the only light in his life Divider by @squishyowl, and once again I apologize for so many @ s. He won't leave me alone man. Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNNPgIfK2YE

As you stared up at Primarch Roboute Guilliman, you were filled with a mix of potent awe and fear.

He had sent Titus to fetch you while Cato was away, occupied with an Astartes's daily tasks. He'd been courteous and quite warm with you, which had gone a long way to ease your worries about being summoned by the Primarch. But standing before him now, you felt them all rushing back.

He was huge. You'd seen him from a distance, but up close, even just sitting down he was massive. Not just tall, but broad and well muscled. Bigger than even the Primaris marines. His expression was neutral, but you could see creases in his forehead where his own concern was showing through. That helped you wrap your head around him. You started paying more attention to his features as well. His skin was fair, hair was blond, and eyes were the most beautiful, startling blue you'd ever seen. That helped you ground your view of him. Once you got past the whole...Primarch-ness of him, he was quite a good looking man too. His face looked like it belonged on the back of a coin. You could see where Cato got it from, and you amused yourself by imagining Guilliman with a beard.

"My lord Primarch." You bowed low to him.

He returned the gesture with a nod, and bid you stand. "My lady. I apologize for summoning you here with little warning. I am tied up with preparations, but I had a spare moment, and I'd like to speak with you."

"Have I...have I done anything wrong?" You asked.

"No, you have not. Don't worry." He gave you a reassuring smile. You felt better almost immediately. "You have recently gotten close with Cato Sicarius, and I would like to ask you about him. That's all."

"I see. You're not...displeased with it at all?" Because I'm not leaving him even if you are.

"Of course not. It is unusual, but harmless. In fact I think you have been doing him some much needed good. He loves you very deeply." After a moment, he added. "Many Astartes forget they too are human. Cato having you will help remind him of that."

You thought for a moment. "Then you've noticed that he's acting weird too? I thought I was the only one."

Titus gave you a soft smile. "Not all of us have hung our brother out to dry."

Guilliman nodded. "I have noticed his odd behavior for a while. When Titus came to me about it, I realized I cannot let it lie any longer. Which is where you come in. You know him well. I wanted to ask you what you've noticed about him. What you've seen."

You breathed a sigh of relief. Happy to not be in any trouble with the Primarch, and also that someone seemed to finally be taking notice of Cato's...issues.

"I thought someone would never ask." You admitted. "I've been trying to help him the best I can, but I think it's something far out of my wheelhouse."

"It's not an easy subject to broach."

"It's not." You agreed. "Well...let me think. He avoids his battle brothers a lot. Before we got together if he wasn't on duty I would find him in strange places. Doesn't really talk with anyone besides me either."

You paused.

"I've noticed he never seems to be calm. He always seems tense. Paranoid, even. Like he's just waiting for something to go wrong. Even when we're alone together I can feel tension in him. Sometimes I'll catch him staring off into the distance for minutes on end. He hears screaming, or music. He's woken up screaming more than once. Really, really bad nightmares. Night terrors even."

"Does he tell you about any of it?"

You nodded. "He tells me everything. I've been trying to be there for him. I told him if he needed just one person he could trust with this I would be that. He's told me about the Emperor's Will, and Damnos. Black Reach."

The Primarch was silent for a moment. "Thank you for your honesty. And for looking after him. I would like to say that he hid it well, but I think the truth is that he was not hiding it at all."

"You have so many other things demanding your attention, lord." It felt weird trying to reassure a Primarch, but you honestly didn't blame him for Cato's poor state of mind. "What are you going to do exactly?"

"I will have to consider it. This whole situation is delicate. But I will not leave it alone any longer. It appears to have grown into something where I cannot. Please, continue on as you are with him. You do him good."

You nodded. You doubted you needed to tell him you stuck with Cato because you loved him.

The Primarch let you go, and you gave him a little curtsy before you left. He smiled.

Titus turned to him. "What are you considering?" He asked.

Guilliman sighed. "For now? I will have to leave it to consideration only. I have received a message from the Redeemed."

"Was their mission a success?"

"If you consider rooting around in the Imperial Palace for one document a mission." He said with a rueful smile. "But yes, it was. I will have to leave soon, and go with them to Medusa. You will all learn what it's about when I return."

"You are leaving?" Titus asked.

"I have to. I made a promise."

He looked at the wedding ring sitting on his desk. Gold and silver, patterned in intricate Medusan knotwork. It was sized for a finger bigger than his, and hung on a platinum chain.

"And Cato?"

"Help him however you are about to. I will need him before long."

Titus nodded. "I will do my best." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Cato wished Guilliman had taken him on his excursion. But the Primarch had been adamant. It was best if he undertook this mission alone, so as soon as the Redeemed had returned to Macragge, he'd been gone.

He hadn't quite resorted to begging, but it had been close. He was getting desperate to get off of Macragge. To get away from the Fortress of Hera, from his brothers. Even the civilians, who all looked at him like he was some kind of hero. It gave him a strong desire to start scratching at walls. Moreover, at least on campaign Cato had a solid excuse to avoid sleeping, even if he had an opportunity to.

Sleep was hazardous. With sleep came dreams, a jumbled mix of different pieces of his past all ground down into a slurry of nightmares. On campaign he was either locked in combat or planning strategy or doing a hundred other things. While he was stuck at home, he didn't have that. And even Astartes needed rest eventually.

Well, "home" was a relative term. He didn't remember the last time the Fortress of Hera had felt like home.

You, bless your sweet heart, were always chiding him about getting sleep. Even before he'd been blessed with you in his arms, as his serf you always made a point of looking out for him. Telling you off in that softly displeased manner that even Space Marines needed got tired and how he needed to go get some rest. You didn't know then, about his nightmares.

Granted, he didn't always have them. Whenever you cuddled in bed with him, his sleep was far more peaceful. Those nights were always the best for him. Holding you close, pressing his face into your hair, feeling your small, soft body snuggled against his. It was nothing short of blissful.

But tonight his bed was empty aside from himself, and his sleep was as troubled as it always was.

It was like an ocean. A geometrically perfect ocean of chrome and malevolent emerald green. The sky overhead was dark with an approaching storm, and the plain shrouded in mist.

And it was dead silent.

There were necrons. Endless, endless necrons, a legion of them stretching all the way to the horizon. Like every single last one of the mechanical horrors had made their way to this battle, and were all standing before him in a great gray sea.

He didn't fear them though. Cato Sicarius feared nothing. He was a part of the greatest army the galaxy had ever seen, and he was their zenith. No xenos filth would stand before he and his brothers today. No matter how many of them there were. He knew no fear.

"The day shall be ours, brothers!" He bellowed. "For the Primarch! For Ultramar!"

It was like a parody of every speech he'd ever given before a battle, all watered down and weak.

When he turned back to look at the ranks of his brothers behind them, he saw not a single one of them had moved. They all stood as stock still as the necrons, weapons held at the ready. It was like the legion of the Great Crusade come again. Had there been so many before? And they all stared at him. He could feel it, hundred of pairs of eyes all glaring at him. Judging him. Looking at him like he was an idiot.

In front of them stood Marneus Calgar and Severus Agemman. Both glaring at him in the same manner. Like he was a fool.

"Well?" Calgar asked him.

"What are you waiting for?" Agemman continued.

Cato wanted to ask what they were talking about, but his tongue felt leaden in his mouth. His jaw hurt, and he couldn't move it. Like it had been welded shut.

"You wanted glory, didn't you?" Marneus asked again.

"You want to be Chapter Master?" Severus echoed him. "Then go ahead. Go prove that you are worthy of it."

Cato wanted to scream that being Chapter Master was the last thing he desired now. He wasn't fit for the job and he knew it, but his mouth wouldn't work. He couldn't say anything, so he did as he was bid, his grip tight on the Tempest Blade.

He wanted to weep at what he saw in front of him.

The necrons had changed. They weren't metal anymore.

They were still necrons, but necrons made of flesh and bone and sinew instead. The shape was still the same, twisted into something made of glistening red meat.

Somehow, covered in organic matter, it looked even less human. The once metal skeleton, now bone, twisted and spiraled together in strange shapes. Raised red veins and ridges of flesh formed odd, vaguely geometric patterns in the muscle. He could see squishy, pulsating organs in their abdominal and chest cavities, barely held in place by spars of bone and stringy loops of meat.

Emerald eyes glowed with malevolent luminescence like the lure of some deep sea fish. Ivory teeth leered from lipless mouths curled into a mummy's dry grimace. The air stank of raw flesh and blood enough to make him gag. "I can't." He whispered.

"You must." Said Calgar and Agemman.

This time Cato was the one who began to scream.

And then he woke up. His face wet. With tears or sweat, he couldn't be sure. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ There was a small, unspoken fear when Guilliman left that he wouldn't return. Nobody said it aloud, but it was an undercurrent of tension all the same. Thankfully, it all turned out to be unfounded. The Primarch returned a few months later on the Redeemed's ship, safe, sound, and bearing some unusual cargo.

It was winter on Macragge. The Fortress of Hera was frosted in snow and icicles, and the neophytes were getting into snowball fights.

Of course, Cato didn't know that. When you'd made your way to his quarters to see if he'd gotten the good news, he was still fast asleep in bed. Snoring like a chainsword, nestled into his blankets, and drooling a bit into his beard. You giggled a bit, seeing your beloved captain looking so disheveled yet so cozy. It almost hurt you to wake him up.

"Peahen?" He asked groggily, his eyes fluttering open.

You kissed him on the nose. "The Primarch's returned."

That got his attention in a hurry. He sat bolt upright. "Did I oversleep again?"

"Not this time." You ran your hand through his hair. That helped calm him down a bit as he kicked his covers off. "Lord Guilliman is just an early riser it seems."

"I used to be."

You shook your head, throwing a body glove at him while he finally emerged from his blanket cocoon fully. Then you sat and set about polishing a few loose pieces of his armor. Helmet, pauldrons, gauntlets. He'd handle the big stuff.

"Don't bother with that." He chided, shuffling over with the bodyglove half pulled up to his calves. "You'll never finish it in time."

"Oh hush up. I want you to look nice in front of your gene-father. It'll go much faster if you pull that thing on and help me."

He rolled his eyes, but did as you asked, and ten minutes later his armor shone like blue tourmaline. The plume of his helmet was brushed out, and finally you helped him fasten his cape to his pauldrons.

"Oh look at you." You purred. "Always so handsome in your armor. Just like a peacock."

He tilted your chin back and pressed a brief kiss to your lips. "You do nothing but fill my ears with flattery."

"Someone needs to." You offered him his sheathed sword with some effort. It was affixed to his belt in short order.

"I suppose it's impossible to inflate an ego that has so many holes in it that it may as well be a shooting range target."

He offered you his arm, and the two of you walked down to the parade grounds to see just what had become of Roboute Guilliman. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Cato took his place at the head of the other Victrix Guard, earning him a few stares since he was the last one there. He realized belatedly that his lack of punctuality combined with the state of his armor was probably sending a decidedly negative message. You might have liked his peacocking, but nobody else had ever did. He'd made an effort to stop. And now there's be snide comments for weeks about how he'd probably be late to a battle because he was shining his pauldrons. He sighed internally, already dreading it.

The Astartes were arranged into two columns, forming a path between them. Titus was standing a ways off with his Primaris, and Uriel with the men of the 4th. Calgar stood at the front along with the Victrix. Cato could've sworn he smirked at him as he passed by. The fresh snow from the night before was packed with footprints. Light wind sent small sprays of glittering powder skittering across the courtyard and ruffled his hair. They stood in silence, waiting.

Finally, the gates swung open, and the Primarch entered.

Trailing behind him came the Redeemed. Their armor gleamed, ceramite as white as the snow with gold trim. The chapter symbol, a wheel with eight spikes turned inward, flashed in the sun. So did their Chapter Master, and his crystalline...well, everything. Armor and body alike casting small rainbows on the ground.

The sword of the Emperor was sheathed at Guilliman's side. It took Cato a moment to realize he was holding something. Once he got closer, the Victrix captain had to bite back his shock.

In Roboute's arms was a tiny, tiny little baby boy. The infant was nearly swamped by the blanket he was swaddled in, black silk lined with the fur of a Medusan snow lion. Picked out along the hem in silver thread was a design of knotwork. Worked into the pattern was a gear with a hand in the middle.

He was fast asleep, his head resting against Guilliman's breastplate. Comically small. Roboute's expression bore a tenderness that none of the Ultramarines had ever seen on his face before. It made him look decades younger, stripping away the stress and pain in his eyes.

"It can't be." He barely heard Titus's whisper, and he was bound to agree.

Nothing had been said yet, but the obvious conclusion was hard not to draw.

Roboute came to a stop next to Calgar and turned to face his sons. The Redeemed lined up next to him, all solemn and oddly subdued.

"My sons." He began, quieter than he would have been normally. "I thank you for your patience while I was absent, and with the secrecy. This was too critical for me to risk. First, I would like to thank the Redeemed for their part in this. If not for you, this may have never been set into motion."

Kaleidius, the chapter master, dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"As for what this was all about, well. As it turns out, my brother was very, very good at keeping secrets."

But maybe in the end, he was the wisest of all of us for doing so.

"I know there are going to be many questions. There will be answers in time, but they cannot come now. Things are still...delicate. I will tell you this though. His name is Melor, and he is very, very precious. I will be caring for him for the foreseeable future, and we will be protecting him for as long as necessary." He announced, and let his words hang in the air for a moment.

Cato could hear even some of the Victrix starting to whisper amongst themselves, and he couldn't blame them. There was obviously something unusual about the boy, even if he couldn't put his finger on what.

"My lord?" Marneus spoke up. "Forgive me if this is out of line. But may I at least ask why you have chosen to take on this responsibility?"

"Do you take issue with it?"

"No, my lord. I merely wish for a clearer understanding of your logic."

Guilliman sighed. "There is not much to it. I made a promise. One I do not intend to break, no matter how inconvenient it is. I owe him that much at the very least."

He stroked the short, fuzzy growth of black hair on Melor's scalp with his fingertips. Then, he turned to Cato, who felt like things were about to go very wrong for him.

"Captain Sicarius."

He stepped forward at his Primarch's order. Feeling like a psyker with how he had predicted Guilliman's next words.

"You have been captain of the 2nd, and you are captain of my Victrix Honor Guard. Many times over you have proven yourself to be valiant and a warrior of renown."

He wanted to laugh. Where the hell had the Primarch gotten all that from? He was barely competent. His record was full of poor decisions and good men dead at his hand. Ego leading him around like the blind leading the blind, and he was only renowned because his battle brothers couldn't stand him. But he couldn't make his jaw work to say any of it.

A part of him wondered if this was Guilliman's way of humbling him even further. Of bringing him down so low that he never forgot how much of a failure he truly was. Why else would he ask him to guard an infant? One who's significance he had yet to explain. It would surely keep him far away from any future battlefields. Maybe someone else would replace him as captain of the Victrix while he was relegated to nursemaid.

Over the sound of his blood in his ears he swore he could hear a pipe organ.

But...

No, surely not. One look into the Primarch's eyes told him that. There was love there, genuine love for that child. He wouldn't put the boy at risk by using him as a tool to rein Cato in. Which left an even more horrifying reality.

Guilliman thought he was a good man for the job.

"I am assigning you to be his guardian. I will be with him as much as I can, but I know for a fact it won't be as much as I would like. You will protect him when I cannot."

Cato felt like the ground was caving in under him. He didn't know if he wanted to scream or laugh. That child was probably safer with Ezekyle than with him.

"My lord." Cato began, his voice uncharacteristically weak. "I'm honored you think I am worthy of such a task. But I cannot accept this duty."

"Captain?"

"I am not the man you want for this, my lord. I cannot protect him."

Titus and Uriel shared uncomfortable glances. Even Calgar's usually unreadable expression was slackened a bit as he stared at Cato like he'd gone completely mad.

Kaleidius looked at him with surprising pity in those blank, pitch black eyes.

"Explain yourself, captain." "I..." He felt like his throat was sewn shut. "I am not reliable, my lord. My record speaks for itself. Heavy losses and failure after failure. I look around and all I can see are my brothers who are not here. They’re all dead. My honor is in tatters. I cannot take on a task so important in such a humiliated state. I don't know why you still allow me to lead the Victrix guard like this."

He should have been demoted. He should have been sent back to the scouts like Leandros had been, to learn a lesson. He should have been executed.

His battle brothers stared at him. As if he'd just morphed into Horus himself in front of them. Most of them had no idea where all of this was coming from.

You knew. Watching from a doorway with some other serfs, and it took every ounce of your self control not to runto Cato and throw your arms around him. Titus and Uriel knew, given looks they were exchanging. The former's a mask of barely contained horror. If he'd known it was this bad, he would have talked to Cato himself.

The Primarch's expression softened, just a fraction, and his voice was more compassionate than another commander's might have been. "That is not for you to decide. I have made a decision which you have no right to refute. I understand that some of the things you have done haunt you, but you let that color your view of everything you have done. Do not let a few failings tarnish every achievement."

Roboute could see that Cato wasn't convinced in the slightest, but he nodded in assent. "Yes, my lord."

He complied. What else could he do? If there was a way to dissuade his Primarch's misplaced confidence in him, he didn't know it. What he did know is that when this too ended in failure, the consequences were going to be horrific. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Cato knelt down, holding you close. Hugging you tightly, as tightly as he dared. His head rested in the crook of your shoulder, and you felt that spot growing wet.

You didn't care. You held him just as tightly, running your fingers through his hair. He didn't say anything, didn't make a sound. Just clung to you.

"Maybe Lord Guilliman is right." You told him softly. "I think you'll do just fine. Don't let every wrong thing you have ever done wipe out all the good."

"And what good have I done?" He whispered back.

You kissed his forehead. "More than you realize."

#warhammer 40k #warhammer #adeptus astartes #space marines #ultramarines #space marine x reader #space marine x female reader #cato sicarius #cato sicarius x reader #cato sicarius x female reader #cato has ptsd #captain titus #marneus calgar #uriel ventris #bullying cato #roboute guilliman

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bravo4iscool · 1 month ago

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i kinda like the idea of cato being a nice mentor so, take this blurb🙂‍↕️

(mentor!cato hadley & fem!tribute)

i made slight changes to the time before the games. instead of one week, they spend two months in the training centre! (this is purely for my little one shot to make sense lol)

tagging @bumblebeesfromvenus because she likes my cato fanfic and maybe she'll like this too🧍🏼

(masterlist overview | join my tag list!)

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!

when he was told he would be a mentor he thought he would train one of the district two careers, not some random 12 year old girl from district 11.

district 11 never had any victors and his district had too many. it was only natural they’d send him off, he was the new one.

but he had hoped for a guy, strong build and maybe a small chance of a win. not this fragile little girl. she was small, not even reaching his shoulder. her eyes were hallow and he was pretty sure some of her bones were showing under her skin.

he studies her as the district 11 escort, panacea, leads her towards one of the arm chairs in the train wagon. she looks afraid, scared; terrified actually.

he pushes a glass of water in her direction, his expression stoic. “i am cato,” he then says. “i am your mentor for the next two months.” the girl absently nods. cato watches her again for a few minutes. “you should drink something,” he then speaks up again, looking at the glass.

“i’m not thirsty,” she whispers, averting her gaze. she was intimidated by cato. everyone knew who he was and what he’d done. he was ruthless, without any remorse. she was afraid he’d handle her the same way.

“i don’t believe you.” he purses his lips and pushes the glass further towards her. “you don’t need to be afraid of me. i’m not gonna hurt you.” he tries to keep his voice as soft as possible, but he wasn’t used to being soft.

panacea sits down beside the girl and pats her arm. “you have one of the best—if not the best—mentors one can have. this is going to be thrilling!” her face beams with a smile, and cato wants to wipe it off her face.

that’s no way to talk to a 12-year-old kid who just got thrust into the last two and a half months of her life.

“well, training won’t start until next week,” cato clears his throat. “it gives you time to get settled in.” he tries to catch her eyes, but she avoids any kind of eye contact. looks like he would need to get her to warm up before all the interviews. there was no way she would get sponsors like that.

“this is your room,” cato says as he leads the girl around the district 11 floor. “you can retreat here when i’m done showing you around.”

panacea has a permanent grin on her face as she leads the tribute around by her shoulders. “isn’t it lovely?” she enthuses and cato just rolls his eyes. the girl hasn’t talked since she boarded the train and denied the glass of water.

he continues his tour without paying much attention to panacea. “i’ll show you the training room and then you can rest until dinner.”

the tour is finished faster than he thought and he finds himself in one of the bars littering the capitol. he has a drink in his hand, staring at the wall of liquids behind the counter.

"well, who do we have here," a familiar voice then sounds and cato rolls his eyes.

he takes another sip of his drink before he turns his head. "haymitch," he greets his fellow mentor, slighty pulling back a stool beside him. "what brings you here?" he wants to know, putting his glass down.

haymitch lets out a drunk chuckle. "as if you don't know that." the former district 12 victor didn't expect the young man to be here. cato has never been much of a drinker. he was too focused on his physique to waste his life with liquor.

cato rolls his eyes again and orders another drink. "what do you want?" he asks the older man. there was no reason for haymitch to talk to him. actually, haymitch should hate him. cato killed his precious tribute.

"little birdie told me something," haymitch shrugs, swaying his bottle of liquor. "they ain't letting you mentor district two." cato doesn't reply to that. everyone knew who he'd mentor this year. no need to make fun of him now.

haymitch dramatically sighs and pats cato's back. "maybe you'll know how i feel each year now." he gets up and smiles crankily at cato. "may the odds be ever in your favour."

cato's jaw tenses as he watches haymitch leave. he would show this old drunk how his tribute could win. she would win. he'd make sure of that.

to be continued. maybe...

#writing #ao3 #fanfiction #archive of our own #story writing #cato #cato hadley #cato x you #cato hadley x you #cato x reader #cato hadley x reader #hunger games #the hunger games

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clatoera · 1 year ago

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uni application season has made me drop off the face of the earth so i'm extremely late coming to this chapter... but omg glim glam and cato.. TRAUMA BONDING?!?!?

cato with a gun. that's the entire review.

i love how simple this chapter is with the most infinite lore ever!!! clove can cook! what! how did that start, what was her favorite recipe, does she partake in... girl dinner?? so many questions.

glimmer with finnick kind of gives the platonic soulmates vibe. i just love how comfortable they are with each other and how much they have this underlying love & respect towards each other even though the other can fuck them over. ugh my beautiful capitol ruined babies.

"“It is. But you can’t change it now. I want to hate you, Finnick. I want to hate you, but then I remember being seventeen and terrified and in pain and you being the only one who could sit with me while I cried in the shower. I want to hate you but you were the one who carried me home after those terrible procedures, every time I cried because I thought I was bleeding to death, Finnick... I want to hate you but it’s hard to hate you when you look so pathetic.” Glimmer takes the risk, reaching her hand out to place it on top of Finnick’s. “How can I hate you, after we ended up in the same terrible sinking boat again.”"

LIKE WHAT? do you have no shame in just ripping out my heart in broad daylight?!?! 'it's hard to hate you when you look so pathetic' is so funny but so sad when you compare it to katniss saying it's hard to be angry at someone who cries so often back in mockingjay. UGH. justice for finnick, he better not die this time around.

CATO WITH A GUN. cato... with a GUN. there should be a hunger games with pipe bombs in it and i think we should place cato in it just for the giggles. i also love how the second they're back with weapons they just revert back to the academy mindset of Kill The Enemy which used to be other tributes but now has morphed into actual treason. well! sucks to be snow i guess! especially now that glim glam is getting her pink gun (which is also bejeweled in my mind)

love it as always! love u! it's all amazing thank u!

Hi bestie! I understand! I am actively working on residency applications as well so I totally understand. I'm actually waiting for my board scores to be released Wednesday so thats why I haven't posted/written another chapter yet, I am literally in too much distress to think of anything else until wednesday afternoon (think of me bc i'm going through it).

Cato and Glimmer trauma bonding was immediately part of the plan once I decided to take Glim Glam to 13. That was a without a doubt going to happen sort of situation if they were together here.

Thank you! The whole idea if these couple of chapters is to establish their lives in 13 and what will happen in a world without the people they love and without anyone to ground them!

Soooo yes Clove can cook. That comes from her childhood, in which she was a neglected little girl in charge of her own meals and keeping herself alive. She learned how to make her little sandwiches and keep herself afloat another day, at like..6...before she went to training at the academy. It compounded in her adult hood as a way to use her knives and keep up to date on fine knifework skills. I think she really got into it once she won and had the time and means to try new recipes. They seem like steak people. Good roast chicken people. I think Miss Clove would participate in girl dinner if not for the fact she's also responsible for feeding her 6'3 man friend who most definitely could not survive on girl dinner with grapes and rice crackers.

Glimmer and Finnick..have gone through a LOT together. They are TRULY trauma bonded and have been working on that bond about 7 years tbh. They have gone through a LOT and they went through a lot TOGETHER. They love each other and they DO respect each other, after all they've been through, they are life long friends. As they deserve.

I did hope it would rip your heart out, if for no other reason than I think it's fun to hear your reaction. I kid i kid but seriously the heart to heart HAD to happen. They had to make up from the whole "hahah no I didn't tell you about a whole rebellion" thing. And while she isn't happy about it, she can't hate him anymore. Not after what they've experienced together and also...because he DOES look pathetic with his little knots.

Cato with a MF gun. That can't even entirely be credited to me. That was honestly @ohhowwehavefallen sending me a tik tok that sent this into existence. She should get credit tbh.

Being back with weapons like..it's almost a comfort for them. It's how they were raised, it's like your favorite stuffed animal after not seeing it for a long time. This is what they know! Weapons! Kill! Enjoy treason! Glimmer has a bedazzled glock everyone watch out!

thank you thank you thank you my love! I am sorry this took me so long, I have been stressing MASSIVE amounts over these exam scores and it's disoriented me!

love you long time bb @lwveless

#arwbfb tag #arwbfb reactions #thank you!!#i love you my baby girly pop

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the-chosen-fanfiction · 2 years ago

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Gentile. | Chapter 9

Atticus escorts you back home at Quintus' behest, where you find clarity.

Chapter list

Quintus is chipper today, much to both your delight and dismay. He has been leering at you hungrily ever since you sat down in the office with him a few hours ago, your legs pulled up on the chaise longue as he tries to focus on his work. He should be concerned with his unresolved administration, but instead, you feel his eyes bore into you.

“Have I already told you that you look… Positively ravishing today, darling?” The tone of his voice is not one you like. You grit your teeth and do not look up from your book.

“You have. Four times already.”

He laughs. “And yet I feel the need to say it again. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Very,” you state rather monotonously whilst flipping the page.

Quintus shoves back his chair, stands and strides over to you. Letting your eyes flicker up to him, you feel your heart sink. You know that look.

“Cato,” he says to the captain standing nearby, “Leave us.”

“At once, Dominus.”

You swallow thickly as Quintus towers over you, reaching for your book to pry it out of your fingers. He quickly glances over his shoulder to see if the coast is clear and roughly cups your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “How is your cycle?”

“I don’t know if—”

“No matter,” Quintus sighs, “I… Have to take care of my… Situation .” He discreetly glances down and you feel like you’re going to be sick. “You want to be a good wife for me, right?”

Even though it comes out as a question, you know it is rhetorical, and so, you inhale deeply, shifting back on the chaise longue to make space for him. He is more demanding than usual, with his hands slipping underneath your tunic immediately as he straddles you, pushing his face into the crook of your neck.

“Hm, you smell nice today, (Y/n).”

Nausea creeps up on you and you swallow back bile as Quintus continues his advances, pressing a hard kiss onto your lips. You don’t melt into it, for there is no kindness behind his mouth. You fight your instincts to push him away, allowing him to have you in the way he always takes you, only chasing his own pleasure and disregarding yours altogether. You have no clue what it feels like to be properly admired by a man despite your years of marriage—

"Am I interrupting something?"

The most welcome voice tears suddenly through the silence in the room, but the compromising position you’re in makes you want to disappear.

Quintus stumbles to his feet and leaves you sprawled out on the chaise longue with a deep crimson fluster on your face. Atticus stands with widened eyes in the middle of the office, something dejected visible on his features.

"Well, you actually are, so make it snappy," Quintus slightly pants, adjusting his tunic whilst rubbing the corner of his mouth with his hand. Upon seeing Atticus’ frown, he laughs one of his signature giggles.

You wish the ground would swallow you right here and now. Thoroughly embarrassed, you sit up and tug straight your Palla , feeling tears burn behind your eyes. Atticus' gaze has not left you.

"What is it, Cohortes?"

Atticus swallows and finally manages to look away from your embarrassed form. “We’ve got a few generals coming our way.”

Quintus rolls his eyes. “Sent by Herod?”

“Pilate.”

Your husband’s jaw tenses. “When?”

“In about thirty minutes or so.”

The Praetor lets out a frustrated sound and runs a hand down his face. “This place… This place! I can’t get anything done without anyone demanding something from me! I didn’t know these people around here were so inept, Cohortes!”

“I didn’t hire these goons.” Atticus states.

Quintus sighs. “Compared to all of them, you’re decently sensible.” He turns to his documents and gazes down at them, narrowing his eyes. “Who were these men again, who are coming our way?”

“I can’t say for certain. I’m just the messenger.” Atticus adjusts his cloak and conjures a handful of nuts from his bag. You doubt you’ve ever seen him without a snack in hand, something that for some reason thoroughly amuses you.

“Right.” Quintus sighs. “Ah, I’ll need some time to prepare. Escort (Y/n) back to our house, why don’t you? Can’t have her around once they arrive here.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of Atticus’ mouth.

“Of course, Dominus.” Your heart flutters. It might be the first time you’ve heard him refer to your husband by his title. Perhaps to stroke his ego, to suppress suspicion.

Quintus turns to you and steps closer, cradling your face. “I’ll be back before nightfall,” he says. “Don’t come look for me.”

You nod - it’s not as if you would have come looking for him regardless, for you aren’t necessarily fond of spending time with him - and look over to Atticus, avoiding Quintus’ mouth as he attempts to kiss you. It falls against your cheek instead. The Cohortes watches the scene with narrowed eyes at your discomfort.

“We’ll have something to finish tonight, hm?” Quintus murmurs, as if it’s something for you to look forward to.

You hum absentmindedly and take your cloak to pull it over your Palla .

Following Atticus outside wordlessly, you shyly catch up to him. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, which causes you to flush.

“Thank you for looking out for me– I mean, for Capernaum.”

He gives you a wry smile. “Of course. It’s what I do.”

You wish for him to offer you his arm, but there is a certain distance he takes that you aren’t sure you’re agreeing with. The yearning to be close to him is stronger than the rational thought that you shouldn’t currently be too close to him.

He leads you down to the estate, gesturing towards the door.

“My lady, time for you to head inside.”

“Join me.” you immediately say without thinking about the words for another second, “I-I could maybe read you some of my poems, as you suggested?”

Atticus’ harsh features seem to melt a little. “I think I can make some time for that.”

“Good!” you breathe, “Perfect!” You rush inside with a giddy feeling tugging at your heartstrings as he follows you up the stairs to your sitting room, that has now become familiar to him. He takes a seat on the sofa whilst you head for your desk, taking your journal out of your drawer.

“Any subject that you would like to hear about?”

He scratches his neck, shifting a little to make himself more comfortable. “Perhaps something from your newest work? Something you’ve been working on recently. Your proudest work.” Atticus smiles, a sight that takes your breath away.

“Okay,” you murmur, your nose dusted pink with the knowledge that the man in front of you has been the very inspiration for your infatuated poems dripping with the sweetest words about what you feel for him. “Okay.”

You clear your throat, force your hand to stop trembling by tucking your thumb between your palm and fingers, and take a deep breath.

“Darkness ensconces me, tears me apart until you are my beacon of light, like a rope thrown down to burn the skin off my hands. Drowning in misery, the sheer notion of your love, oh my dear, clueless of your onslaught, that you and I can’t be, until it swallows me alive. Unravelled my heart lies with you, bleeding and broken, in your unhealing palm. And yet, I suffocate in my love for you, my dear, torn to shreds, until all I have left is my soul to give.”

Atticus eyes you curiously as you deliver the final line, letting out a shivering breath as you conclude it. When he doesn’t immediately respond, instead keen on observing you, you cast down your gaze in shame.

“I-I agree that it was bad,” you apologise, “I’ll read you another, and—”

“Is that how you truly feel?”

You feel your neck grow red with embarrassment. “Huh?”

Atticus stands as do you, and he tries to catch your eyes with his, but you avoid contact.

“You said that you draw inspiration from your personal experience. Is it… Is it about love? Love that is not supposed to be?”

Giving him a watery smile, you inhale sharply. “Yes,” you whisper. “It is.”

He lets out a small noise that you cannot quite place and runs a hand down his throat, adjusting the woollen drape over his shoulders, momentarily fiddling with his necklace.

“I-I apologise if I imposed on your privacy.” he promptly states.

“It’s okay,” you quickly say, letting your focus fall upon the book in your hands again, “Let me read you another one, ah…” Randomly selecting one of your earlier works, you start to read without first inspecting whether it would be appropriate.

“ When you claw at my skin, what sweeter fate could there be than death, trapped in your arms under false love, the void in your eyes no shelter. Maimed by your lies, your deceit as if I’m not my own, you growl my death sentence time and time again. I–”

A hand on your lower arm causes your words to catch inside your throat.

When you meet Atticus' gaze, there is something written in his expression that you have never seen on anyone ever before, and you have no idea what it could mean. His proximity makes your head spin as does his scent, as if you’re about to pass out.

"May I ask you something?" His tone is serious.

You hum in acknowledgement, not trusting your tight voice.

"When I... When I walked into Quintus' office earlier, did you... Were you two..."

Again, shame colours your neck. "I... We..."

"(Y/n)," he whispers. "Do you... You seemed to be enjoying it..."

Letting out a sound, you shake your head at him, and find your voice. "Atticus, do you truly think that I... That I get a choice in the matter?" You thickly swallow to fight your tears. "I have to do what I need to do in order to get by. If pleasing my husband is one of these things, I must—"

"I'll ask you again." Atticus cuts you off, "I've asked you before but you did not answer, so I will repeat myself. Do you love him?"

"No!" you immediately retort, "Of course I don't! Why would I—" You put your hand over your mouth and close your eyes in shame, your throat feeling tight, "Marrying Quintus was not something I had any say in." you whimper after a few seconds.

The Cohortes steps closer. "So you feel nothing for him?"

"Nothing but resentment." you honestly mutter, "Why would I marry a man like him ? In the end, it does not matter. All I am is a tool to please him, to be a vessel for his child. My reluctance will not change that."

"(Y/n)..." Atticus whispers. "You are so much more than that..."

With stinging eyes, you shake your head. "Don't tell me pretty lies I want to hear, Atticus. You aren't in any way obligated to take pity on me."

"It's not pity." he quickly counters. "What I'm trying to say is that... He should appreciate you more. And... And I feel that he doesn't see what a truly beautiful person he's married to."

Your cheeks feel hot and you lower your gaze to the ground. "Atticus, I'm not sure what to say, you're... You're just..." Your voice trails off.

"Telling you the truth of what I feel—”

"—Incredible."

He smiles softly, reaching out to you. His fingers come to rest under your chin, tilting it up. The cool metal of his ring makes a shiver run down your spine, as does the intensity of his gaze as he looks at you. The moment seems to last a lifetime.

Warmth seeps through you, sending your gut aflame with butterflies. His scrutiny, eventually, falls upon the side of your face, his eyes narrowing.

"Does he hit you?" Atticus' voice contains something you cannot put a finger on - it's low, dark, like velvet, but dangerous.

Automatically, your hand goes to touch the faint mark that is still under your skin from where Quintus had struck you a while ago. You hadn't even realised it was still here, until now.

"Just a... Domestic squabble."

Atticus thumbs at it gently, a gesture that makes your legs go weak. "Don't downplay it, (Y/n), he shouldn't put his hands on you."

He thickly swallows. Atticus himself shouldn't be touching you either, but, different from how you act towards Quintus, you welcome the Cohortes. Even more, you dread the moment he has to step away.

Instead, he nears you, closing the distance. Your breath hitches in your throat.

"Atticus," you whisper, and your voice must have contained something desperate, because the private investigator lets out a tiny sound and slips his palm over your cheek now, cupping it.

"(Y/n)," he murmurs, "Demand me to let go of you."

"I will not," you respond earnestly.

He rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I fear that I'll do something I'll regret. Something both of us will regret."

A response is drawn from you, but not of the verbal kind. Your hand comes to rest on his chest, slipping under his woollen cloak. His eyes shoot open to look at it, something akin to a grunt sounding from his lungs.

"(Y/n), I mean it. Push me away, now. Tell me you don’t want me, otherwise I shall no longer restrain myself."

Your eyes flutter shut at the heat of his breath on your face. "Atticus, I want..." The request is too bold, the words die on your tongue.

He watches you closely, intensely. "Let go of me lest I kiss you right here and now."

Your eyes snap open, finding his gaze, and the warmth of your fingers seeps through the linen of his tunic.

You lick your lips. It is the final nudge he needs.

“Forgive me," he mutters at last, closing the gap by allowing his mouth to meet yours.

Your breath is taken away at once. With wobbly knees, you lean up to respond to his pressure, your lips fitting against his plush ones perfectly. Your heart slams inside your chest whilst your fingers curl themselves into his cloak, his hand grabbing a gentle hold of your waist.

Even the slight scratch of his stubble is wonderful , as is the kindness behind his actions. Atticus tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his other palm cradling itself behind your jaw. You softly whimper into him, tightening your grip on his tunic. A vague thought forms somewhere in the back of your mind that you're kissing a man that is not your husband, but it melts at the heat of his breaths against your face, a dynamic so foreign yet so familiar. No kiss you have ever received before has felt this electric. Your mind whirls at the intoxicating sensation.

Slightly breathless, you pull away reluctantly. He rests his forehead against yours, lips slightly swollen from the kiss.

" Oh , Atticus, I... I..."

He chuckles, a sound that makes pleasant shivers run down your spine, his eyes tearing away from your mouth to meet your gaze, and you're certain that you must be dreaming. No man has ever looked at you with that same sparkle Atticus had. You find yourself unable to look away, feeling like your heart is going to explode.

Atticus, however, seems apologetic, as if he is unsure whether you wanted it or not upon seeing your baffled expression.

"I apologise if I've overstepped boundaries with that. But I had to do that at least once... Have been wanting to do that for a while now, actually. (Y/n), you are..." he sighs deeply, smiling, "You are... Oh, darling, you are everything ."

Your knees almost buckle under the confession as well as the soft nickname and you hold onto him tightly. "Atticus... What you mean to me..." The waver in your voice was forgein even to you, and you searched his face for regret, finding none. "You are... I have never felt this way about anyone ever before..."

He lets out an amused huff and smiles broadly. “Really? I-I mean… What honour you bestow upon me by saying that. And I can truthfully tell you that your sentiment is wholly reciprocated.”

With blushing cheeks, you finally dare to take his jaw into your palm, your fingers appearing small against his beard. A sudden lump forms in your throat as you desperately cling to him, the embrace of his arms the nicest comfort you have experienced in a long time.

Atticus inhales deeply. “I am so deeply in love with you, darling. I’ve wanted you since the moment you introduced yourself. Your husband does not deserve you, he is an absolute pig. You are… Hm, you’re exquisite, you’re just so… So beautiful on both the outside and the inside. What I’d give to be with you, to take you from his claws…”

Tears sting behind your eyes and you rapidly blink in the hopes of getting rid of them. “Atticus…” you croak with a tight throat, leaning into his touch. Searching his eyes, you catch his gaze easily. The sight causes a tear to escape. “Atticus, any woman would be so lucky to have you.”

He shushes you, taking your face into both of his hands, shaking his head slightly. “(Y/n), no, sssh , don’t cry—”

“I want you too, Atticus, but I–I–I can’t! I’m so sorry, I’d… I just-I can’t ! No matter what I feel for you, I’m married to Quintus, and… I… Oh, Atticus, what am I to do? What about my family? What about my brother?”

His deep brown eyes fill with sadness as he scrutinises you, thumbing away the silent tears that roll down your cheeks, your bottom lip trembling.

“Run away with me.”

The suggestion makes you genuinely laugh, Atticus grinning with a raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“And go where ?” you breathe, smiling, “Quintus will have both of us hunted down and killed. Then, he’ll get to my brother and his wife, and my niece.”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Hm… Maybe we shouldn’t. What I do want, however, is you , (Y/n).”

You close your eyes and lower your face, your expression falling. “I don’t really know what to say,” you murmur. “I’m not used to someone saying things like that to me.”

The marshall smirks. “You better get used to it, then. I’m planning on reminding you of that until you believe me and then countless times more.”

Something warm settles within your gut. Flustered, you dare to give him another kiss on his jaw, but he tilts his face in such a way that your mouth meets his softly. He deepens it almost immediately, something that sets your core alight in a way that it has never felt before, and you gently push him off with slight panic swelling in your chest at the sensation of his tongue attempting to ease into the snog.

He draws back, worry visible on his features, but you reassure him by giving him a playful peck. “Am I too overbearing?” he asks softly. You shake your head shyly.

“It’s just a lot at once.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m just… Not used to this .”

“I will not pressure you into rushing.”

Your eyes find his calming ones, and you drown in them immediately. “What are we going to do now?” you wonder aloud. Atticus tucks a stray bit of (h/c) hair behind your ear.

“We’ll take it easy.” he says, “No matter what happens, I’ll make sure to stop by on occasion. You can call on me whenever, if you need someone to listen to you, if you want to ask advice on your newest poems, or… or if you want to steal a kiss.” He caresses your cheek gently.

It’s a shallow description of an intimate yet fleeting relationship, something that you aren’t sure you want - you yearn for something that will last. How can you possibly hide this from Quintus? Your husband is an inquisitive man with a keen eye for detail. One wrong move and all will come to light.

You don’t want to push Atticus away either, for he’s the best thing that has ever happened to you. The idea of a world without him brings a dreadful pit to your stomach.

“(Y/n)?” he says your name when you don’t respond. You snap out of it, blinking rapidly for a second before replying.

“Sure, I mean, yes! I don’t think we can… Handle it any differently, if I’m being completely honest.”

Atticus gives you a kind look. “I promise that things will get better.”

Even though every fibre of your being wants to cling onto these words, you doubt that they will be.

Footsteps down in the hallway. Atticus kisses you swiftly before stepping away, leaving you yearning for more. He turns to the window to stare out of it as Quintus ascends the stairs, whilst you busy yourself with an unfinished line of poetry, trying to appear focused.

Your husband appears in the arch leading to your sitting room, a sour look on his face. He stares at you wordlessly with narrowed eyes. Instinctively, you rub your lips with the back of your hand, as if your sin is visible there. “I fear that I’m going to lose you, (Y/n).” Quintus sighs.

Your heart stands still inside your chest, the lovely mood you had found yourself in fading at once.

He knows, oh he knows, there is no doubting that he does. He must have seen you through the window, or a servant who was in the wrong place at the wrong time must have told him–

“I’ve spoken to Pilate’s men. Things are going to be a bit… Darker around here during the coming weeks as we all deal with these threats. I don’t want you around.”

For some reason, you feel relief that he doesn't know about the kiss, but it is soon replaced with puzzlement. You lower your pen back into the pot and Atticus clears his throat. “What do you mean by darker ? I need to be informed about this, too, it might be dangerous–”

Quintus raises his hand to silence the Cohortes and sighs. “I’m going to send you away, (Y/n). Somewhere safe. You’ll be staying at Herod’s court for a while. The men there have wives who can keep you company.”

Your face pales. “Herod’s court?”

“Machaerus.” Quintus clarifies. “It’s already been taken care of. You’ll be staying there for about… three, four months, until the dust here has settled.”

Bitterness crawls up your throat. An entire season away from your newfound affair? It takes everything in your being to not look at Atticus, who is tensing up at the window.

“Don’t you reckon that is a bit on the long side, Quintus?”

“I thought that a private investigator like you would be more than happy to agree with that timespan. It will give us more time. Even more so, I think it’s a little short , but they assured me that twelve to fifteen weeks is long enough.”

You grit your teeth and stand, running your hands down your tunic to straighten out the creases.

“Very well, if that is what you wish. When will I be—”

“Tomorrow,” your husband immediately tells you, “It will be about a three-day trip. Oh and, Atticus, you two seem to be getting along just fine so I trust that she’ll be in good hands. Do you happen to be able to escort her there? I’ll prepare you a cart with two horses.”

Your eyes widen at the suggestion. Atticus clears his throat and nods. “Of course,” he says, “That won’t be a problem.” His voice sounds neutral, but when his eyes settle on you, there lies something within them that makes your stomach melt.

“Perfect.” Quintus quips, turning to leave before giving you a thoughtful look. “Start packing already, why don’t you? The necessities, nothing more, I don’t want to pay for expensive delivery costs.”

“Certainly, Quintus.”

He brushes out of the room, leaving you and Atticus behind, both baffled at the situation.

“Well,” Atticus starts, “That’s… Going to be interesting.”

You look at him with flushed cheeks. “Three months away from…” your sentence trails off, but the marshall chuckles, stepping closer to you.

He brings his lips to your ear, his breath hot in your neck. “But three days of just you and I . We should make the most of that.” He presses a lingering kiss onto your cheek and leaves you yearning for more, your knees feeling weak as you watch him retreat.

“Atticus, I…”

He halts in his step and looks over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gives you a pearly-white smile and winks. “I’ll see you then, my lady .” The emphasis on the final two words is deeper, prompting you to plop down onto your sofa right as he disappears around the corner, for your legs give out underneath you.

The world eventful couldn’t even begin to describe today, and it precedes a night full of anxiety and excitement as you pack your belongings, apprehensive about what is to come.

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#the chosen atticus #atticus x you #atticus x reader #atticus aemilius pulcher #elijah alexander #angel studios #the chosen x reader #chosen x reader #chosen fanfiction #fanfiction #the chosen fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #the chosen #quintus #quintus x you #quintus x reader

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twobraincellkentwell · 1 year ago

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Do You See What I See?

[A Game Called Revenge]

Part Nineteen

Series Masterlist Part One.

Summary: “ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.” There is only one thing that can truly affect Clio. Darkness.

Warnings: strictly 18+ due to the nature of content in some of the chapters. Murder and death. PTSD. Flashbacks. Mentions of sex probably.

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: I want to just say my usuals, I have a favourite line so if you can find it then let me know :) reblogs, shares and comments always appreciated.

Pitch black. In a split second their sliver of the arena falls pitch black. The four careers swivel in all directions, trying to locate anything in the area, only to be disoriented when they can no longer even find each other, let alone see as far out in the direction in which they believe the beach to be.

“Clio.” She hears Cato’s voice but she can’t work out where it came from as their footsteps are hesitant trying not to think about the variety of poisonous, deadly creatures that could be in the jungle with them. Her breath catches in her throat as every rustle of leaves and distant call of unseen creatures sends a shiver down their spines. With each step, the sound seems to echo in the stillness, and their voices fall to a hush as if afraid to disturb the darkness, their laughter replaced by tension hanging in the air like a heavy veil when the segment falls silent.

“I don’t like this.” Clio says, heartbeat thundering in her chest as her eyes are lost in the dark of the faux night. “Where are you?”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?” Gloss jokes, though his voice cracks slightly with nerves.

“I am not overly fond of it, no.” She bites back.

Gloss just laughs as they move slowly. “Everyone take two steps back.”

“Gloss-” Cashmere starts.

“Two steps back.” Gloss repeats, cutting her off, “There’s no point in trying to find the beach so let’s just stand back to back and wait for it to pass.”

The jungle is eerily silent as they take two big steps back with their arms stretched behind them, jolting when they make contact. Each step causes Clio’s imagination to take hold, conjuring shadows and spectres in the corner of her vision. She lets out a breath a couple of seconds later, her fear drawing out the time. “Cato?”

“You’re fine, Clio.” He assures her, “Sit down.”

She slides to her knees, the overcasting darkness unsettling her and the loud silence sending goosebumps crawling across every area of her skin as she slips her legs out from underneath her to sit on the forest floor. She hears the sound of the others sitting nearby, the silence broken quickly by a loud gasp.

“What the fuck is that?” Gloss exclaims.

His loud words startle Clio, causing her to let out a yelp and back up because it sounded like the loudest, most deafening thing in the world in her panicked, muted state. Her back hits someone behind her and she quickly shuffles forward again; then is thrown into nervousness as she sees various red dots glowing from all angles in the depths of the jungle. Several bright red and large, others subdued in the distance

“Woah, hey, hey. It’s just me.” Cato says.

“Cato…” She croaks out.

“You’re okay. It won’t be long and we’ll be out of this part of the jungle. The lightning was quick, remember? And I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I have to get out of here.” She shuffles, the leaves rustling underneath her.

Gloss breaks into hysterics, “Oh my god, you’re actually scared.”

“Gloss-” Cashmere tries, slapping her hand against what she hopes is her brother’s leg.

“This is brilliant,” he continues, ignoring his sister’s warning. “Clio, the impenetrable defence, fearless, able to kill a man twice her size and barely bat an eyelid is reduced to tears by the dark.”

“Gloss. Shut up.” Cashmere hisses. “I know what’s in here and if you don’t shut up then we’ll all be dead.”

“What is it?” Gloss whispers.

“Not so fearless now, are we?” Cato mutters under his breath at the sudden alarm in the other man’s tone.

“Everyone just shut up.” Cashmere repeats in a low voice. “I had these mutts in my games, and they took out five tributes. They’re giant spiders with venom strong enough to paralyse your nervous system and they track you by sound. If they hear us then we’re all fucked. No one speak and no one fucking move.”

The jungle seems to close in on them, towering trees and tangled undergrowth forming an intricate maze that seems to shift and writhe with invisible, undetectable movement, feeling like it spins even in the absence of vision, images of the pitch black nights in her first arena flooding Clio’s mind. She tries to take a deep breath, but nothing enters her lungs and she clutches at her chest as she curls up on herself the best she can. Arms wrapped around her stomach she tries to force air into her lungs. Her jaw clenches as do her fingers, her arms moving to her shins as she hugs her lungs into her body. She hears her breaths start to whistle before she covers her mouth, forehead falling against her knees as she trembles silently.

Tears flood Clio’s eyes but she fights her hardest to force them back. She doesn’t want to cry and she certainly doesn’t want for the light to return and the whole of Panem to find her bawling her eyes out for no reason other than it was dark. That would be embarrassing , she thinks, careers don’t cry .

Something awful twists inside Clio’s gut, the feeling nauseating and icy - the snowstorm erupting inside her chest a stark contrast to the humidity of the air around her. The sweat on her brow opposite to the ice travelling to her mind, spreading throughout her head as she clenches her eyes shut and wills herself to think of the flashes of paranoia that are contorting the fragments of her memories. It’s too dark in this heightened atmosphere to drown away the ghosts of the various tributes in the abandoned city that have come to haunt whatever was left of her mind. Each turn of her head, each sound of a crumbling building, each fabricated sound of footsteps was a glass shard stabbing into her memory like an infinite recurring nightmare that she can’t wake up. Sometimes it was the sight of deserted streets in dim lighting, sometimes the taste of slightly rusted water from the busted pipes, sometimes the sound of a cannon blaring through the empty room, sometimes the texture of blood as it drips from her hand, sometimes the brain matter of a thirteen year old girl painting the wall of the cornucopia as multiple weapons split the bones apart.

She lays her cheek against her uncomfortable, bony knees; breathing unsteady, humid air and trying desperately not to look at the bright red dots that threaten her vision. The sound of scratching of the spiders over the leaves and branches makes her skin crawl and infiltrates her brain like a toxin, reminding her of the scurrying of the giant rats. She can see the rodents, almost, painting vivid imagery of the hoards of tribute-eating vermin, with their eyes glowing a bright orange as she scales the sides of buildings, bolting her way up sets of desolate stairwells and out onto barren rooftops; bathing her in true darkness that demanded to constrict itself around her breath. Like a snake wrapping around its prey. Like the hands of a District Ten male squeezing at the flesh of her neck until her bone threatens to shatter like glass.

There was still something inside her - something festering, something evil - and it had been so easy for the gamemakers to bring out that part of her. It had been so fucking easy for Zeus Melia to subject her to her weakness. It had been so easy for him to shatter all sense of control she felt. Her hands run through her hair, as if it would help to soothe her mind, while her movements cause her lucky pendant to fall against her collarbone underneath her wetsuit and remind her of the searing pain she felt when it was inflicted upon her.

There’s pressure on her chest as her grip tightens on her hair. I’m dying , she thinks, Please. Someone help me, please. There’s pressure on her chest as if someone has forced a spear through the front, squeezing her lungs and forcing out shaky air. “Please.” She whimpers quietly.

“Clio, you’re okay.” Cato whispers, “I’m right here, baby. You’re fine, I promise.”

“Cato!” Cashmere and Gloss reprimand him in a low hiss, quickly forcing the four of them in silence again once a few more pairs of glowing red eyes appear.

She tries to repeat the words she heard, unsure of who vocalised the words in her panic as she begins to dissociate, trying to force the words through her mind, feeling her brain rebel against them, agreeing with her throat as it begins to constrict further.

The oxygen deprivation was getting to the point in which it felt as if she would collapse, as if her head would become too heavy for the bones in her neck and send her tumbling towards the ground, and then to her impending doom. Don’t touch me , she thinks, head consumed with fragmented memories as she flinches back against her allies with a shiver, as if the ice spreading through her body was a dagger, only to be used against her own imagination. She shakes her head, huffing a painful breath as she attempts to rid her mind of the thoughts. The pain in her chest is getting heavier with every passing moment and her eyes are pained and afraid as she screws him shut against the burn of water threatening to spill down her face that she can no longer hold at bay. Resorting to shoving her head between her knees, holding herself up by her shoulder, she stares straight down at the soil, now dampening with her tears as she wordlessly begs for the darkness to lift, for her mind to think of anything but the loneliness and paranoia of that uninhabited cosmopolis. Nothing changes as she rocks back and forth slowly, in a display of failed self-soothing, it still felt deathly cold and she still couldn’t breathe; stuck in a repetitive, unsuccessful cycle for what feels like days.

The cold that eats into her body fights against the vibrancy of colour that burns in through the thick rainforest canopy as suddenly the morning sunlight flickers back around their segment of the arena. Cashmere and Gloss immediately jump to their feet, ready to leave their area of the jungle as they bring up the different types of mutts that may be in the other slivers of jungle. Various expletives pass their lips, because the idea of more mutts - even potentially in the water - was undesirable. But Cato isn’t focused on the siblings at all. He’s staring at Clio.

Clio, who remains frozen in place on the floor, face emotionless and silent. Clio is always the first one to respond to any suggestions or ideas, always the first to communicate, giving some kind of sarcastic comment after any type of experience; especially the traumatic ones. Her not saying anything is the first thing that clues Cato in to the fact that something is really wrong.

The next is her hands. Her hands, normally steady and possessing great accuracy - he’d watched her throw knives into the centre of moving targets with her eyes closed - were shaking. Badly. As if she were cold. But Cato knows full well that she can’t be cold. They’re in a tropical climate with intense humidity and burning sunlight. Clio isn’t cold. Clio is shaking, and she isn’t saying anything and he knows that he needs to find a way to snap her out of her trance-like state before their allies realise she isn’t fully present and use it as their long-awaited opportunity to remove her .

“Clio,” Cato mumbles under his breath, trying not to draw attention to her.

“Come on!” Gloss announces, “what are we waiting for? Let's move.”

The three of them come to stand around a still dazed Clio. Cashmere reaches out to catch her attention, ignoring Cato’s warning. She places her hand on the girl’s upper tricep. Reacting to the touch, Clio jumps up, grasping the blonde woman’s arm and twisting it until she yelps in pain. At the noise, Clio goes for her throat, tackling the other woman to the ground and grabbing her neck with both hands.

“Gloss!” She cries out.

Her brother reacts immediately, pulling a spear from the harness slung across his back and aiming it at the short woman who kneels above his sister. His arm flexes as he pulls it back in preparation to let the weapon fly but stops when he recognises the familiar feeling of sharp metal digging into the skin underneath his chin. He turns his head slowly. Cato watches him carefully, pressing the tip of his sword harder into his neck threateningly. “Drop the spear or I’ll take your head clean off.”

“Control your bitch man, she’s going to kill her!” Gloss shouts.

“Maybe she should have listened to my fucking warning.” Cato argues. “You can’t win without us. Now drop the fucking spear and I’ll sort it.”

Reluctantly, Gloss brings the spear down to his side and releases his grip with a roll of his eyes. At the same time, Cashmere kicks at Clio’s stomach, pushes her off of herself. Still dazed, Clio immediately rolls from her back onto her front and begins to push herself to her knees to attack again when she feels a pair of arms wrap around her body. She lets out a piercing scream, kicking and flailing at the body lifting her from the ground.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” A familiar voice rings in her head. “I’ve got you.”

Her scream cuts off abruptly as she stops kicking. Gasping for breath, the hot tears fall thick and fast down her face. Curling up over the arms she tries to stop the images flashing in her head. Tries to stop the pain in her chest, in her mind.

“Clio, angel, breathe. Please. I need you to breathe.” Cato whispers to her.

She can’t seem to get it to work. As hard as she tries, no air fills her lungs. He turns her in his hold, hands moving to rest on her face to make her look into his eyes. “Breathe. You’re okay.”

She watches as he takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to follow suit. Clio focuses on his face, watching as his eyes worry as she tries to breathe deeply, to get the vital oxygen her body was craving. Letting out the long breath, he takes in another and keeps repeating this until each of her breaths become easier and she leans her head on his chest, watching Cashmere climbing to her feet beside her brother out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “it’s okay.”

“I’m broken,” she chokes out a sarcastic laugh.

His hold tightens around her for a moment before moving one of his arms to cup her face and look down at her. She can’t meet his eyes, knowing he’d see the broken state she was in if she did but he simply brushed the stray strands of hair from her face and watched her whilst carefully taking note of what the siblings standing to the side are doing. “You’re not broken, maybe a little cracked but that’s okay, who isn’t?”

She shakes her head with a gentle laugh, “thanks for putting up with me.”

“I love you, it’s my job,” He says, placing a kiss to the top of her head. “Besides, you put up with me too.”

“I love you, so it’s my job.” She repeats quietly before shuffling back from him to look at her allies. Her friend , who probably wouldn’t be her friend for much longer. At least they’re giving us a fair chance at the fight , she thinks.

“Clio-”

“I’m sorry Cash,” she apologises. The siblings seem taken aback by her honesty so she continues to explain, “I spent a week alone in the dark. It makes me a little paranoid.”

“A little?” Gloss scoffs.

“Yes.” She shrugs at the man, focusing her gaze on Cashmere. “Can we move? I’m alright now but I don’t want to experience that again.”

“It’s fine.” Cashmere gestures, but it’s clear that the altercation has shaken her somewhat. She nods her head to one side and motions for Clio to join her as she walks through the jungle, moving upwards to gain some ground.

“Hold on-” Gloss objects, but is interrupted by Cato walking closer. He doesn’t stop until he is inches away from the other man’s face.

“If you ever talk about her like that again.” He spits. “I will fucking skin you alive.”

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jakey-beefed-it · 2 years ago

Photo

So before I get into it, let me say, I unironically enjoy this artwork and think it does a good job of capturing Warhammer 40k. Because 40k is... kinda silly.

So we got:

He ass too big for he gotdamn throne

Everyone is constipated

Especially Guilliman (maybe he needs a bigger ‘throne’)

Despite being nearly half again as big as anyone else even out of his armor, Guilliman’s head is the same size as everyone else’s

I get that he’d wear his armor for this apparently Important Ceremony honoring one of his honor guard there but someone someday please paint the man in his ‘casual Friday’ toga, it probably makes it much easier to sit on a chair at least

Oh, neat, you can apparently turn the Emperor’s Sword fire effect ‘off’ which is probably lots more convenient for storage

The techpriest applying incense and scanning the Emperor’s Sword like ‘it’s over 9000!’

9000 what? Roentgen, probably.

The techpriestess leaning in with a very ‘why are you painting me in this I’m just here to serve the machine spirit in this bolter gauntlet attached to some important guy I guess idk I’m just here for the machines’

Techmarine is just happy to be here in a 'Look, Gary, there I am!’ kind of way

Ortan ‘did I leave my stove on?’ Cassius

Tigurius looks like someone took his favorite parking spot at the Elk’s Lodge

Cato ‘Did you know that I’m THE Cato Sicarius?’ Sicarius

Everyone’s personal name plastered over their power armor and/or back banner just in case you somehow missed that this is the goddamn Primarch and top brass of the Ultramarines

Which is entirely accurate to the models

Primarch’s Court

by Ilya Gurenko

#silliness #Jake plays Warhammer 40k

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beepbeepbeepjeep · 1 year ago

Text

previous / next

[cw: suicide attempt, implied child abuse/neglect, family member death, brief descriptions of blood and injuries]

/— 4: Doctor, Doctor —/

After staring at the blinding white for far too long, Cato turns back to the driver. “You still haven’t explained the rules.”

“That is true.” Its head rotates back to face the windshield. “However, I believe that because they are so simple, you will all understand them as we go.”

“That doesn’t strike me as very fair.”

The mannequin doesn’t respond. Instead, the light floods the jeep before fading away to reveal a sunny neighborhood, with all its white picket fences and evenly mowed lawns.

The jeep parks next to a blue house that would be rather dull if it weren’t for the tree in the front yard. Its branches cradle a small home, where a child around the size of a fifth grader sits, legs dangling over the platform just outside it.

The mannequin begins to speak, taking on the tone of a game show host. “Cato Linn, born August 28th. Virgo: the practical nature.”

It turns back to the contestants. “You may step outside the vehicle now.”

One by one, they get off the jeep, taking in their surroundings and realizing that the kid in the treehouse bears a striking resemblance to the current player.

“Oh my God, it’s so weird seeing Grandpa so… tiny.” Ascot giggles.

Cato doesn’t respond; he’s too fixated on what looks to be a younger version of himself. His face is tense, as if there’s something he’s dreading.

“Why are we here?”

“Well, it’s your life. We’re judging if it’s worth returning to.”

His eyes noticeably widen at that.

“Can anyone see us?” Liza asks.

“No. You also cannot interact with your surroundings in any way.”

Sure enough, the kid hasn’t noticed the jeep or any of its passengers. At least, if he has, he’s great at hiding it. It feels almost as if he’s staring right through them. His eyes are devoid of any of the joy and warmth that a kid his age should have.

Cato—the older, deader one—quickly returns to his corner in the jeep.

“I should warn you,” the driver states, bringing back the mechanical sympathy, “these trips down memory lane may get intense.”

“Intense—?”

Just as Liza says that, the kid throws himself off the platform. Cato winces at the sharp crack sound made on impact. Everyone else is frozen with shock.

Over the next few seconds, his cries emerge from the silence.

“Hm, well, considering what just happened, I’m not sure why you were so focused on winning this game, Mr. Linn.”

Ascot lets out an incredulous laugh. “Wow. ‘Far from heartless,’ it says. Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I am far from heartless. I am simply questioning him.”

“No. No, no, no, this isn’t even funny!”

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to ‘make light of a bad situation’ earlier?” Cato speaks up, back to usual, seemingly unaffected by what he just witnessed.

“Are you seriously siding with it?” Ascot cries out. “This is about you!”

Their conversation is cut short by a scream.

Everyone turns to see an adult dropped on the ground next to the child. With tears, they take him into their arms.

“Help,” he breathes, voice weak from the fall.

A woman, likely Cato’s mother, follows soon after. “Oh God. How did this happen? Did you do this?” She doesn’t seem worried— rather, she looks more inconvenienced.

The child’s silence seems to be enough of a response for her.

“Of course you did. Stop your crying, you did this to yourself. What, are you sad you didn’t succeed?”

“Would you just call an ambulance already?” the other parent yells.

The mother does call one eventually. Everyone’s too stunned to say anything at first. In the silence waiting for the ambulance to arrive, Beau speaks. “Man, how were you that fucked up at… like, what, 10?"

Cato looks at him, replies, “11,” and says nothing else.

Beau tries to relieve the tension, “Uh, I mean, I was pretty fucked up at 11, too.”

He doesn’t have to struggle anymore because a wailing siren catches everyone’s attention. Paramedics haul the child into the ambulance. The family is informed that Cato has a broken hip.

The ambulance drives away. “Well, aren’t we going to follow him?” the mannequin says. “Get in.”

They follow, climbing in the jeep one by one. Cato seems to retreat even farther into his corner.

They start to move—well, they should be moving, but they aren’t getting anywhere. It’s as if the jeepney is pushing against an invisible wall, force steadily building up.

“You might want to hold on to something.”

Then the jeep breaks through the solid air, and all of a sudden it’s shooting through space, thrusting the passengers backward. Outside the windows, the world speeds past in a dizzying blur, glowing white like before.

And just like that, the ride stops, leaving everyone seeing stars. The white melts away to reveal the sterile, similarly-colored walls of a hospital hallway.

“Jesus,” Tauny mumbles. Looking out the window, his face scrunches up in confusion. “How the fuck are we inside?”

“Magic. Besides, I’m sure we’ve all seen stranger things. And, no, once again, Mr. Hep, I am not Jesus.”

Tauny just rolls his eyes.

Flashback Cato is in the hall, sitting up straight on a bench outside one of the rooms. He’s much older now, and more worn out, but he still has that same thousand-yard stare. Around him, staff and patients hurry in and out of rooms. The coughing, the low rumble of wheels, and the sad attempts at comfort build up walls of noise.

A doctor walks over to him and repeatedly attempts to get his attention. “Excuse me— sir—”

He snaps out of his haze. “Sorry, yes?”

The doctor’s face twists into an apologetic smile. “There’s no easy way to say this, but your mother, she… well, she just passed away.”

Cato doesn’t say anything; he just lets out a soft “Oh.” He holds his fists a little tighter, but his face betrays no emotion. The world’s a little fuzzy.

“Yeah, um.” Even with years of experience, this doctor still seems to be unaccustomed to this part of the job. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing else we could do.”

The most Cato could muster is a small nod, sending the doctor off to deliver more bad news, probably.

He looks around the hall. How many people take their final breaths behind these closed doors? How many of these staff members exit preparing condolences? How bad do they really feel? They don’t seem too bothered about it. They say sorry, then move on to the next family; just the regular workplace routine. These people are just their patients, much like that newly reaped soul was just his mother’s. To her, his fall from the treehouse was a waste of time and money. She wished he’d succeeded.

So why, when she finally gets what he always felt she deserves, does it feel like his lungs are one breath away from bursting? Why does he want to claw them out of his chest? Why does this genuinely hurt?

He wishes he could have the doctors’ indifference as he makes the long walk back to his car in the parking lot.

He makes two phone calls. It's unknown whom he calls, but his responses are short and fast, like just he wants to get this over with.

After that he just stays in the driver’s seat, not going anywhere. His grip on the steering wheel is so strong that he could tear it off. From a distance, it’s hard to tell, but he’s trembling.

When the jeepney followed him here, the trip was a lot shorter than the last one. Present Cato is in a similar state to his flashback counterpart, all lost and spaced out. Everyone’s a little uneasy, as if the tension in the parking lot’s air is potent enough to be contagious.

“Hey, man. If it’s any help, you can talk to us. We’ll listen. And. Uh.” Beau starts, but trails off when Cato remains unresponsive, his breathing quicker and leg bouncing all jittery.

Beau backpedals. “Shit, um— you don’t have to talk now! I get that. It’s,” He pauses, looking for a good word, “difficult to open up.”

“He’s right.” Savannah adds. “You can take your time.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ve got quite a bit of it, considering—” He glances at Liza, and promptly clears his throat. “Well. Considering.”

Savannah frowns. She can’t tell how helpful they’re really being right now. They wish they could be as comforting to Cato as he was to them, but they just don’t have his experience.

She tries to place a hand on his shoulder, but he tensed at the touch as if a shock of electricity passed through her fingers. He’s arched over himself, face hidden from view, and he’s shaking a lot more now. The stark white lights above flicker anxiously.

Savannah shifts a foot away from him. “Maybe… he just needs some space right now—?”

The parking lot plunges into darkness. It’s as if the sun were switched off. Even more panicking ensues.

“Mr. Driver, I swear to God, can your timing be any worse?”

“I assure you, Mx. Mosbirm, my timing is quite alright. And, though I wish I could take credit for this display, sadly none of it is my doing.”

“Oh, boohoo. Who else could it be?! Last I checked you’re the only one with creepy magic space powers!”

“Well, you see—“

The lights fade back in, revealing everyone to be all shaken up—except for Cato. He’s sat in his corner, much calmer now, doing his breathing exercise. Outside, Flashback Cato drives away.

Liza is the first to speak up, voice still a little wobbly. “What just happened? Was that real? Was there a blackout, or-?”

“No. There was no blackout. No nothing.” Cato answers stiffly. “Can we move on?”

“Wait, but-… what was it then?”

“I may have a theory,” the driver responds, but Cato cuts him off.

“I said, can we move on?” He says, louder this time. “After this, I drove back home.”

The mannequin hums in suspicion (it sounds like a printer whirring), but it faces forward, says, “Alright,” and transports the jeepney back to the neighborhood.

Everyone waits for something to happen, but minutes go by and the house curtains stay drawn shut with no way to peek in.

“This is boring.” Tauny groans. “Hey, war vet, do you actually do anything here?”

“Research.”

Tauny makes a face like that’s the strangest thing he’s heard the whole time. “Fucking research?”

Cato seems just as confused. “Yes? I had to study to prepare for the next school year.”

“But your mom just—”

“You know what she was like.”

“… Okay, fair, I guess.” He turns to the driver. “Can’t we just, like, speed through this?”

“Mr. Hep does have a point. I don’t see a use for this part. Let’s speed it up.”

If it weren’t for the sun rising and setting each half-minute, no one would be able to tell that time’s really passing by. Cato’s parent occasionally leaves the house. Sometimes, even when the sun is right above the house, the world goes black just like before. The flickering gets more and more frequent with each day, until, finally, two people step out onto the porch. The world slows down to its regular pace.

Flashback Cato has already made it down the porch stairs when he turns around to his parent, who hasn’t moved past the doorway.

“What is it?” he asks.

His parent looks down with a sigh, and when they turn back up, there’s a sad smile drawn across their face. “Sorry, it’s just— I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“What do you mean? I’m always at home.”

“Yes, but you almost never leave your room.”

Slowly but steadily, they walk toward their son. They’re just an inch shorter than him.

“You were much smaller the last time we all properly spent time together.” Their smile trembles a bit. “You’ve changed so much since then.”

“That’s just how life works.”

“I guess.” They hesitate before adding, “Can I hug you?… Is that alright?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just gives a fraction of a nod, and they pull him in. His hands are placed stiff over their back, as if he doesn’t know how to hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Oh.”

They laugh weakly. “Thanks for coming out here. I know that she… wasn’t the best.”

He frowns but they don’t see it.

“But,” they continue, “I think she’ll appreciate the visit.”

The world turns dark again, blinking tiredly.

They bring him out of the embrace. “We’ll get some flowers before going to the cemetery. How does that sound?”

“Alright.”

“Thank you again,” they whisper, taking his arm and walking out of the front yard. The two walk past the jeepney, never noticing its presence.

Liza is teary-eyed at the scene. “Aw… How was the visit?”

Cato’s crossed arms press into himself some more. “That was today. As in the day we—you said we can’t say it.”

“Oh.” Her heart can almost be heard breaking. “The… accident… didn’t happen after the visit, at the very least?”

“No.”

“I’m so sorry.” She sounds much sadder than Cato about all this.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I know.” Liza’s eyes widen. “Wait—are they okay? Your parent? If you were both on the jeep, then…”

“No, we didn’t board it.”

After a second of collective confusion, it clicked. Only five of the six were actually inside.

The jeepney parks close to the scene of the crash. It’s unsettling: all the passengers are in one piece here, but the grim reality is just down the street at the crossroads.

On one side is a quaint flower shop. On the other, the gates to the cemetery. In between lies the scene of the accident.

People are everywhere: bystanders, reporters, firefighters, medical staff. The jeepney is on its side, up in flames that are quickly being put out. The driver survived the crash, but just barely. The staff couldn’t work fast enough, and so he bleeds out on a stretcher. Inside the jeep, five bodies are covered with white sheets like bloodied Halloween ghosts. There was also a car involved, but its driver seems fine—distressed, but still uninjured.

A team tries to lift the jeep to retrieve the person trapped underneath. Cato’s parent cries in horror at the sight of their son’s body crushed beyond recognition. The medical staff pull him out and immediately blanket him with a sheet. Cato looks down at himself and back at his shrouded corpse, as if he were trying to imagine himself split open like that.

Almost all of the people in the crowd are adults, but there’s one child in the midst. Her light brown hair is tied in space buns and her dull blue cloak hangs loose off her small frame. They don’t look any older than 10. She’s sobbing, overwhelmed by the disaster.

Cato’s parent notices and kneels down to her level. They wipe away the tears from under their eyes and muster the kindest smile they could. “Hey, kid.”

She looks at them and takes a step away.

“What’s your name?” they ask.

The little girl responds so quietly that only they could hear her.

“That’s a lovely name.” They sigh. “Listen, I know it’s scary right now, but… they’ll be in a better place now. All of them.”

She’s a little more audible when she says, “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” It sounds just as much, if not even more, like they’re trying to reassure themself.

She starts crying again. “What if they won’t?”

Their smile falters, and they fiddle a bit with their thumbs. “I guess we’ll never know.” There’s a pause, and then they continue: “It’s okay, just let it all out. Do you want a hug? Is that alright with you?”

“Yes.”

They hold her as she wails. They shed tears too. All the while they whisper words of comfort: “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

previous / next

#now i know my ABCs

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dandelionlovesyou · 2 years ago

Text

It’s You 2

Peeta gets stood up on his wedding day.

This is a short drabble between best friend!Everlark.

I hope you like it!

The other story on this collection of unplanned weddings is here

AO3 FFN

"Peeta?" Katniss calls peering through the front door. She's supposed to pick up her best friend and drive him to the wedding reception at Sae's Mountainside Resort. Duly reminded by Finnick, the best man, to ensure that the groom was not late for his wedding, she came to Peeta's house three hours earlier than expected.

Letting herself in, she drops her set of keys inside her purple purse. It's not her choice of accessory, nor color, but for Peeta, she went along with Clove's theme selection. The mirror beside the door makes her wince as she sees herself in the off-shoulder violet and pink bridesmaid's gown. With a huff, she resigns to her fate. This day is the worst day of her life, and her dress is the least of her worries. She dreads the sight of her best friend for twenty-plus years, saying "I do" to another woman on the altar.

She’d rather that it be her.

"Hey, what are you still doing on your chair? You're about to get married in four hours." Peeta looks nowhere ready for his wedding. Looking at him, she highly doubts that he even took a bath this morning. He also needs a shave.

“Tsk … That’s not going to happen now,” Peeta scorns, leaning back slightly on his wheelchair. The pain in his eyes and the look of total defeat are like needle pricks to her heart. She hates seeing him like this, so out of life after his return from the war. She couldn’t blame him. Having both his legs amputated below the knee is heartbreaking. Every night she wishes she could have protected him from the IED that rid him of his legs.

“What do you mean?” she asks, mustering the courage to remain strong for him. If she plummets down with him, where would they be?

"No way! That crazy bi…," she screams when the realization hits her. A letter left open on the bedside table says it all. Clove is leaving him. Left him. Worst, she went with Marvel -- Peeta's physical therapist. That bitch indeed.

"Katniss now's not the time," Peeta dismisses, waving his hand with complete resignation.

Long silence spreads between them. Heaviness sets in.

“So, what are you going to do?” Katniss finally breaks the quiet. Shakily, she sits on the edge of his bed, debating whether to rip the letter into shreds or start a search party to locate Clove so she could rip her into shreds.

Nothing will come out of it, though. She's mad as hell that Clove left Peeta like this but getting back to her will not mend his heart.

“Marry me?” she says instead. It’s just above a whisper, and she chews the insides of her bottom lip, unbelieving that she let those words escape her lips. She winces before looking at her best friend.

Nothing. Peeta just blinks while staring out the window.

"I'm serious, Peeta," she follows, picking herself up and kneeling in front of him. Where this courage is coming from, she doesn't know. All these years, she has kept her feelings for him a well-kept secret. Unsure whether Peeta could love him the same way. She pined away year after year, girlfriend after girlfriend, watching the love of his life fall into someone else's arms.

"I don't need your pity, Katniss. I'll move on," Peeta finally answers. He sounded mad, and it hurt her.

“I don’t pity you, Peeta.”

"I'm half a person, Katniss. Have you seen my legs? Oh, wait, no, because they're gone!"

She shrinks at his volume. Instantly, Peeta regrets his tone, but there's so much vile rushing out of his stomach that he continues on his self-loathing. He couldn't stop his volcano of emotions.

“I’m half a man, Katniss! Heck, I don’t even know what I am at this point …”

“Peeta …,” she coos and shifts to touch him. But he backs away, rolling his wheelchair away from her until he hits the edge of the bed frame behind him with a loud thud.

"Just leave me alone, okay! And call off the wedding! Tell Cato and the crew they could have my cake and drinks … take everything they want! I don't care! They might as well have their own fun!" he explodes like a loose cannonball.

“Would you just stop!” Katniss bellows out, heat rising and making her skin warm. “Listen to me, Peeta!”

“Just leave me alone, Katniss! Let me be! I’m going out of my mind here! … Just leave me alone!”

Peeta tries to maneuver his wheelchair to exit the bedroom, but something from under the bed frame is stuck on his chair, and he can't get it to budge. He huffs and groans in elevated frustration, punching the armrest multiple times with closed fists before gripping the wheel and hand rim to push himself forward again.

He tries and tries again, gritting his teeth as he pushes the wheel.

Nothing. Peeta's wheelchair doesn't move.

“Fuuu***!!!!!”

This is not him, Katniss screams inside her head.

In a heartbeat, her lips crash into his. It’s a long shot, it’s friendship suicide maybe, but she did the only thing she could think of at that moment.

Kissing him full on the mouth, his whole body starts shuddering, but she keeps her lips pressed to his until she has to come up for air. Her hands slide up his wrists to clasp his, letting him go only when his muscles loosen up.

"Now, that shut you up," she says with a smirk. She's shaking, though, and her skin and lips tingle with prickly heat. "You're so stubborn, you know?"

Peeta just looks at her. Mesmerized as if it was the first time he had seen her all his life.

"I mean it," Katniss adds before brushing her lips on her shoulders shyly. "I love you, Peeta. I always have. Ever since we were little children. Remember when we used to swim in the lake in our undies? We were so young then, but somehow I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."

“Katniss, please …,” Peeta whispers as she kneels down on the carpeted floor.

"Would you just shut up?" she stops him. "I'm not mad, okay? I just … It's just … you know? … hard for me to speak this way, so just give me time, okay? I have a point to get to."

Peeta releases a puff of air, all seriousness, and gentleness back on his face. Now, this is her Peeta looking at her.

"You've been my best friend all my life. I'm closer to you than anyone else I know, even Prim. You've always been there for me, and I'd like to think that I've been there for you too … for the most part, that is. You know I would have joined you overseas, but I couldn't leave Prim behind to join the military."

"Katniss, you don't have to explain that to me. You don't owe me anything."

"I know, but I could have protected you."

“No one could have, Katniss. It’s a war.”

"Now that you're here, I don't want to let you go …," she continues. "So how about it, Peeta? I'm already kneeling, see?"

Peeta laughs, and it's the good kind. The kind that brews her insides with fluttering air.

“You don’t have to do that. You’re always so sweet to me. Now, come and stand up. Please …”

He extends both his hands to her. They're not as steady as they used to be, but they're still strong and perfect on her palms.

“I disagree,” Katniss replies, squeezing his palms whilst refusing to stand. She gives him a mischievous smile.

"Okay, maybe not all the time. But this is very sweet of you. And you look very pretty in that dress. You don't want to ruin it."

“I hate this dress,” she says flatly. “I only wore it because it’s your wedding.”

“Which is not going to happen anymore.”

"Unless you accept my proposal?"

"Katniss, I'm no good for you." He cups her right cheek and rubs his thumb over her skin for a moment before putting it back on his thighs. "I need physical therapy three times a week. I can't do many things on my own yet, and I'm grumpy most of the time because of it. I won't be able to keep up with you. I can't go to the lake like we used to or even help you with the groceries. You don't want me. I'll only make things harder for you. You deserve someone whole, not another burden like me."

“But you’re not, Peeta ...”

“Yes, I am. It’s the truth.”

"Okay, you are," she chirps, but it's only to placate him. She could never think of Peeta Mellark as a burden.

“Thank you,” is his clip response.

“But why can Clove marry you and I can’t?”

“Clove’s different.”

Katniss scoffs bitterly. “How?”

“Katniss, she’s been my girlfriend since junior college …”

“And I’ve been your best friend since what?”

“Kindergarten.”

"Maybe even before conception, you know? That is if you believe all that karma and reincarnation stuff Uncle Haymitch keeps telling us. Sometimes, he actually begins to have a point."

“Katniss …”

“I’m serious. Why am I so different?” Katniss retreats to herself, insecure all of a sudden. She’s always been one of the boys, liking the woods and sports.

"I know, I'm not pretty. I don't dress, walk, or get dolled up like Delly or Glimmer, or Clove. Or any of your ex-girlfriends for that matter … but I'll take care of you."

"Hey now," Peeta coos and takes both her hands between his. "I know you would. You do ... Katniss, don't be like that."

“I’m sorry, Peeta. I think I just made a mistake here.” Katniss pulls her hands away, hesitant and embarrassed all of a sudden. “I’m sorry, I’m not good enough for you, Peeta. Just forget this all happened. I’ll go now. I’ll take care of everything at the reception.”

“Wait, Katniss, no.” He reaches her forearm and holds her in place. “It’s not that at all.”

He nudges her gently, turning her body towards him. "Katniss, please look at me," he murmurs.

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Peeta Mellark.”

“I promise, I’m not. Cross my heart, hope to die.” He gives her a lopsided smile. He doesn’t know the effect he has on her. Quickly, the atmosphere lightens.

"It's just, you deserve someone better than me, that's all," he says sincerely. "I'll never be better, Katniss. I'll never get out of this chair. This is a life sentence for me. And even if I get prosthetic legs, I will never be the same. You can't possibly want me, or even if you do, I think you deserve someone whole. Not someone like me."

“You’re not different.”

“I don’t feel the same.”

"Because you just returned from war, Peeta! … … … Give it time."

“A long time.”

"You know, you're not at all that different." Katniss fixes Peeta's chair, freeing him so he can roll to face the bed. She sits on the edge of the cushion, playing with the thin blanket she remembers gifting Peeta last Christmas. "You're still the same guy who gives me bread whenever I have a bad day. The same person who showers Prim with cookies and flowers on her birthday. The same son who goes to the bakery to help out his father because he believes in the heritage of their family and doesn't want it to die out. The same friend who knows how to lighten up the mood and make everybody feel that they have a role to play, no matter how little it is. You're still my best friend ..."

“Katniss …”

"The same one who wrote to me every day overseas even though I'm so bad at writing back. I'm just not good with words, you know that. You're still the same best friend who always goes with me to my parents' grave and holds my hand in silence. I could never have done anything after my parents' accident without you."

“You’re so much stronger than you think.”

“I know. And you’re part of my strength.”

"Hey, that's not entirely true. You're so strong, Katniss."

"Thank you."

"Plus, I have flaws."

“Yeah, like putting ketchup on your cereals even though it’s the most disgusting thing in the whole world. Or overcooking pasta, which I still could not fathom because you’re such a great cook.”

"Pasta and I have a love-hate relationship."

Katniss snorts, remembering the mush of a lasagna he served three nights ago at the dinner party with Clove's parents.

“You’re still you, Peeta ... You can paint, cook, bake, beat Uncle Haymitch in chess, wash the dishes, water the garden, … and make me smile. If you think about it, you’re really not at all that different to me.”

“You really want to do this?” Peeta asks after a minute, rubbing her knees over the soft fabric of her dress. “You’re still serious with your proposal?”

"Yes," she says surely, eyes all glassy as she looks at him in the eyes.

"You don't find it weird?" he jokes, and the twinkle in his expression matches hers.

“Only if you do, really … … I liked kissing you ...”

"It was nice, actually," he says, recalling their first kiss earlier. It was abrupt, maybe a little rough, but he quite enjoyed it. There was just something about it that settled deep down in his heart. Comforting.

Real.

She smiles at his wistful expression.

“I can’t believe I’ve never tried kissing you before. You’d think I was blind or stupid or something.”

“Well, Delly and Glimmer did have pretty big breasts,” Katniss chuckles, putting her hands in front of her sizing up Glimmer and Delly’s curvy blessings. “They could easily obstruct your view, you know?”

Peeta snickers and rolls his chair just a little bit closer to Katniss until their knees bump together. The air now feels different. It's fluffy and warm -- even electric.

“Or maybe they put some love potion in your drink? Remember when Clove spiked your drink to get your attention at the pep rally? You ended up noticing her then. Must have some Slytherin blood running through her.”

"Nah," he laughs as he slowly settles his palms on her thighs. The pressure of his hands weighs heavily on her muscles, and they feel incredibly hot where they touch. "I think, I'm just a total idiot all these years. Never seeing the real pearl in front of me."

"Well, I don't sparkle as Glimmer does," she banters. Her breath comes out unsteadily, her whole body coming alive at Peeta's proximity and contact.

“No, you don’t. That’s true.” He pulls her down to him by the waist and has her slowly sit on his lap. She pauses, thinking she might hurt him. “You weigh like nothing, Katniss,” he assures her.

"You know, I've never been fond of too much bling," he tells her once she's seated. His left hand wraps around her waist, cupping her slight curve perfectly. His right hand entwines with her left hand, and a feeling of security and ease washes over her.

"Glimmer was often too shiny and elegant, and I look like a barnacle beside her."

“You’re not a barnacle.” It’s too easy defending him. Katniss would never let anyone mock Peeta.

“No, I am not … I’m going to kiss you now, Katniss. Is that okay?”

Her brows shoot up, and she schools them quickly. The blush on her cheeks, however, can't be undone. She wets her lips as he pulls her down to him.

“Okay.”

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The Wedding

A collective gasp filled the room when Katniss walked down the aisle in the outdoor reception area. The crowd was informed of the change in bride three hours ago, but nothing prepared them for how beautiful the new bride was.

Prim and Uncle Haymitch unearthed Mrs. Everdeen's wedding dress. Their good family friend, Cinna, did a quick retouch to make it fit Katniss' petite form. Aunty Effie got the bridesmaids' gowns tweaked, removing the pink accents and replacing them with evergreen ones. With additional flowers on their hair, they all looked like fairies from the forest. Thank goodness the bridesmaids and groomsmen were all Peeta's friends, avoiding any drama. The maid of honor easily gave up her role to Prim and wished Katniss and Peeta well in their future together.

The dilemma of the wedding ring was quickly resolved with a trip to the candy store. Katniss and Peeta loved Ripper's sweet shop, visiting it even as adults. They loved Nerds, Gobstoppers, Razzles, Air Heads, and gummy bears. Finnick, the best man, was given of honor and responsibility of getting the rings. In just the nick of time, he bought them orange and green Ring Pops. The plastic ring with its big diamond-shaped hard candy center was the perfect and nostalgic choice. Everyone was swooning when the ring bearer brought out the brightly colored wedding gems.

It was a beautiful wedding. One filled with so much love, joy, and hearty wishes. The guests whistled and cheered when Katniss and Peeta kissed on the altar. Quite a few were teary-eyed and crying with joy. The whole town apparently was just waiting for Katniss and Peeta to stop being idiots with each other and to just fall in love already.

-- The End --

#It's You 2 #unplanned weddings #I wrote something again #everlark #thg #bestfriend!everlark #dandelionlovesyou writes #ring pops

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alderaani · 4 years ago

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hi, could you do 34 from the '50 ways to say i love you' with rex please? i love your writing with all my heart, have a nice day ❤️

Hello anon, thank you so much, I hope you are having the best day! This is a somewhat loose interpretation of your prompt, but I really hope you like it! It’s 1:30 on a work day where I am, so this is rough af and unbeta’d, but I had great fun writing it!

“Mending an item of their clothing that was ripped” - from here

“Fives,” you hissed into your commlink. “What’s your status?”

The line crackled a little bit, like Fives had pulled his comm out of his sleeve. “This is Shriek-Hawk 1 to Squad Leader. Target is still in medical, I bribed Kix three bags of kavasa sweets to perform another concussion check.”

“Three? Fives, I told you I only have two!”

“Yeah, well, he told me to stick that up my shebs. I had to barter him down from five.”

You sighed and went to scrub a hand over your face before remembering the oil smeared across it. You were going to have to pull in a lot of favours to make this work. Like, so many. Maybe it was their upbringing on nutritional paste or just something inherent to Fett genes, but you hadn’t met a single trooper who didn’t have a raging sweet tooth. Trying to separate them from their contraband was about as easy as making a deal with a Sith.

“Hey don’t sweat it,” Echo said from the floor, tongue poking out just the tiniest bit as he fiddled with the inner wiring of the helmet wedged between his knees. “Risk still owes me big for that last mission on Cato Nemoidia. I can get us a bag for his royal highness and a bag to split, no problem.”

“Excellent, Shriek-Hawk 2. See? Nothin’ to worry about.”

Echo rolled his eyes. “Why do I gotta be Shriek-Hawk 2? I was decanted first.”

“Cause I’m takin’ point, di’kut. You nearly done over there? The Captain sounds like he’s gonna climb the walls.”

You scoffed at that. “That’s nothing new, he’s been halfway up ‘em for days.”

There had been an odd, hushed silence when Torrent had come back off the surface of Pijal, the weird kind that always meant someone important wasn’t coming back the same way they left. Your stomach had sunk when you’d seen a familiar blond head on a stretcher; Rex’s face had been pale, and he’d been so small and still. It had lasted for all of five minutes, of course. The second he’d woken up and gotten his bearings he’d been trying to persuade you to ‘break him out of the brig’. You’d threatened to sit on him. Gallingly, he’d been more upset about his ruined helmet than the fact that he’d nearly ruined his own head.

At first, you’d just been mad at him. But he’d looked so desperately disappointed when he’d seen the cracked and twisted remains of his old bucket, so lovingly modified, that despite your best efforts you’d been suckered. Again.

Gods, you were so pathetically gone on him. The biggest hit to your ego was that it was news to literally nobody except for General Skywalker, who wouldn’t have noticed a brick hitting him in the face unless it looked like Senator Amidala. It was one of the galaxy’s greatest mysteries, how he could be so damn good on a battlefield, but so damn oblivious. The only person more oblivious was the stupid object of your affections himself.

“Say, how did you even get these parts, anyway? I haven’t seen a Phase 1 bucket around here for months. Thought they’d all been recalled.”

You grunted, pushing up off the wall you’d been leaning on and dropping down next to Echo as he deftly screwed up the last wiring panel.

“The mechies are hoarders, trust me, you ever want a trip down memory lane you just go look in one of their footlockers.”

“You say that like you’re not one of ‘em.” Echo pointed out, putting down the screwdriver and flexing his fingers. He passed the helmet to you, finished now apart from the infamous visor that Rex had so painstakingly welded onto his last bucket himself. The new parts were all laid out carefully on your bench, freshly separated from the old Phase 1 shell and ready to go.

“Good job Shriek-Hawk 2,” you said, smoothing your hands admiringly over the sleek plastoid. Echo really did know his stuff. “And yeah, I’m just as bad. I actually had most of the parts already, was just the visor that was the problem. Did you know Rex is a bit of a celebrity these days? Makes these bad boys a bit of a commodity, Tirin bled me dry.”

Echo winced. “How bad?”

You sighed gustily and stood up to pop the bucket on the bench, connecting up your welding gear with a series of quick, familiar clicks. “Pretty awful. He cleared out my engine brew stash and I had to trade to nights for the next month.”

There was a sympathetic noise from over the comms. “Damn, you go to all this trouble to seduce the man and you won’t even get to reap the rewards.”

You made a mournful noise of agreement and flipped your face shield down, then paused just before you flicked the flame on.

“Hey Echo, you might wanna face the wall. The light can cause eye damage if you look it straight on.”

It was quick work to weld the old Phase 1 visor to the new helmet, the familiar form coming into being under your steady hands. All it was missing now was the paint, but you knew how important it was to the clones to do that bit themselves, and the whole of Torrent would want to touch up theirs together, to reassure themselves that Rex was really okay.

Just as you flicked the torch off, there was a crackle over the comm again and then Fives’ frantic voice.

“Shriek-Hawk 1 to Squad leader. The Starbird is landing, I repeat, the Starbird is –”

Fives let out a squeak, your only warning before Rex’s rumbling voice was turning you into jelly.

“- the kriff are you talking about, Fives?”

You grinned, putting the torch down and inspecting your handiwork. It was some of your best, if you did say so yourself, and in a mechanic’s language, it was practically a love letter. The seams were so neat you might as well have carved I am burning hot for you directly into the plastoid.

“Hey Captain! Come to the storage cupboard on the third floor. Me’n Echo have got a surprise for you.”

There was an uncertain pause before Rex said your name.

You rolled your eyes, then remembered he couldn’t see it. “Who else? Just come on. It’ll be good, promise.”

“Trust me Captain, you don’t wanna miss this one.”

There was another pause, before Rex said, wryly. “Your endorsement doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, Fives. But sure, I’ll bite, stay there.”

You looked at Echo, matching his blinding grin with one of your own. The look on his face was going to be beautiful. You both paced the small space together impatiently, tossing tools and little twists of metal into your open bag as you waited for Rex to arrive.

Finally there were voices outside, one eager, one bewildered. The storage cupboard door hissed open, and there Rex was, tall and whole and armoured and beautiful.

“Hey Rex, think fast!” You chucked the helmet at him, ignoring Echo’s shriek of distress.

Rex fumbled, caught it, then stared down at the new helmet in his hands. Over his shoulder, Fives beamed at you. The look of slow joy breaking over Rex’s face like a sunrise made all the bartering worth it.

“You okay, Captain?”

For the first time (but definitely not the last), you’d made him speechless.

#captain rex x reader #captain rex #arc trooper fives #arc trooper echo #the clone wars #star wars #alderwrites

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ihatebnha · 3 years ago

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Cato!!!! How are u doing!!! friendly reminder that u are loved n cherished dearly n you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself all the time! remember to eat/drink something as well ik you’re busy! and make time for yourself and take it easy if u can <3

lm not always on here since I’m busy w grad school and kinda left the fandom, but randomly throughout the day I’ll think of u like “….man i wonder how Catie’s doin,,,,hope she’s doin okay n not too bad,” LOL I hope that’s not too weird 😭 sending u good vibes and happy thots bb! im not always on here but I am cheering u on from the sidelines! 💕

this is... this... this is truly one of the nicest things i've ever recieved EVER, good lord, and i'm forcing myself to sit here and read it word for word because reading even just the first sentence makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry.

i just... afdjkfaskdfkj... i just. i wanna kiss and hug you so badly LOOOL (to put it... berry. berry shortly) but i'm doing... okay!!!! tbh... lot of ups and downs recently, though i'm sure you know how that feels because it's just been that kind of season, i think.

since i assume you were here way back when, im gonna say something i ALWAYS say which is like. it's hard to be nice to myself when i just want to be nice to people like YOU, you know??? even if i am on my snack and water shit (and i hope you are too).

i hope graduate school isn't beating ur ass too badly tho!!! i totally understand the need to drop fandom just because it can be exhausting to keep up with... still ur literally the sweetest EVER (ever ever ever ever) for still thinking of me/all of us here!!! i adore u actually BUT. makes me sorta glad that i'm still around too for if/when you ever need it!!!

but i also hope ur able to get (back) into something (new) soon, too, if u want! for your sake. even if it's not anime (elmfaooooo). i know grad school is ROUGH so you deserve a little break however it comes to you since i know you're working hard TOO. u deserve just as many if not MORE naps and good things and snacks and hydratious drinks.

anyway i'll shut up now LOL but just know i love u SO much and even if u never hop on here again i'll always be grateful for both you and this + will be wishing all the same good for you.

kisses forever and good luck with school! i know u got this!!!

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years ago

Text

Eccentricity [Chapter 14: Love Keeps The Monsters From Our Door] [Series Finale]

A/N: Thank you for your encouragement, enthusiasm, laughter, rants, screeches of anguish, and unapologetic thirsting for “sexy undead Italian man” Joseph Francis Mazzello. I hope you love this conclusion more than Baby Swan loves pineapple pizza. 💜

Series Summary: Potentially a better love story than Twilight?

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. (The #1 song I associate with this fic!)

Chapter Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 7.7k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs

Mercy

We have to stay in the Vladivostok palace until her transformation is complete, and I hate it.

The floors are cold and sterile and every clang of noise ricochets off them like a bullet. The earth outside is stripped bare and hibernal. There is no green to interrupt the bleakness of the sky, the cruel absence of color: no spruces or hemlocks or bigleaf maples, no evergreen forests, no verdant fields, only a grey that bleeds from the sky in sheets of hail and driving rain. This land is a stranger. So many of the faces, too, are strangers, although they try. Honora sits with me—her large dark eyes, like mirrors of mine, polished and wet with aching pity—and braids my hair. Morana invites me to bake homemade bread with her. Austin tries to make me smile. Cato visits me as much as he can, because he feels responsible; or maybe he would do it anyway, maybe lessening suffering is as instinctual to him as bloodshed is to so many of our kind. And when Cato is with me, I do feel a little better, like my story might belong to somebody else, like it’s a name I can’t quite remember, like it’s a transitory moment of déjà vu I can catch glimpses of but never touch. And yet, still, I send him away.

I don’t want to be with Cato. It’s painful for him to be around me, I can see that. It’s painful for Rami, and for Ben, and for Joe, and for Lucy and Scarlett. It’s even painful for the Irish Wolfhounds that Cato found locked up for safekeeping in Larkin’s study; they skulk around the palace vigilantly but leave great swaths of uninterrupted space around me like open water. So I conjure up a mask of brave, hopeful acceptance and wear it everywhere I go.

Joe says very little, never leaves the girl he calls Baby Swan’s side, dabs her scorching skin with washcloths soaked in ice water and murmurs in sympathy when she screams through the unconsciousness, from beneath the ocean of fire we all know so well. He nods off sometimes, snatching minutes of sleep like fireflies in a jar, before jolting awake to make sure her heart is still beating. When Ben isn’t checking on them, he’s with Cato, helping to draw up plans for the future, reminiscing about the past with slick eyes and clinking midnight glasses of whiskey. Scarlett sprawls across the desk in what was once Larkin’s study and spends hours on the phone with Archer as she gazes up at the ceiling, telling him how to care for the farm animals and the garden, reassuring him that we’ll be home soon, whispering things to him that I try not to hear; and I know she wouldn’t want me to anyway. Lucy weeps delicate, ceaseless tears as she perches on the staircase landing and Rami entombs her in his arms, never having to ask what she needs from him. And I wander meaninglessly through the echoing, unfamiliar hallways like a moon without a planet.

I know what they all think about me, perhaps even Rami, for I keep it buried as deep as all skeletons should be: that I’m irrevocably kind, effortlessly forgiving. That I’m as incapable of bitterness as I am of aging. But they’re wrong. It’s a choice, and it always has been, ever since a late-November dusk in 1864 when madness eclipsed mercy. Every day I choose whether to surrender to the beckoning, malignant hatred that lurks in the back of my bedroom closet, in the dusty and ill-lit loft of the barn roped with cobwebs, in the twilight tree line of the western hemlocks crawling with shadows that whisper through fanged teeth. Every day I decide whether to become a monster. And it has never been harder to remember why I don’t.

My future is unimaginable. The nights are endless. I feel black, razored seeds of what I am horrified must be bitterness burrowing beneath my skin and taking root there. I am consumed by infected, fruitless questions that I can’t silence: Why Gwilym? Why Arthur? Why Eliza and Charlotte? Why is it always fire?

The first words that Gwilym ever spoke to me, as I unraveled from unconsciousness under a grove of sycamore trees with smoke still clinging to my unscarred skin, rattle around in my skull like windchimes beneath thunderous skies. His voice was colored with an accent I couldn’t place, and yet it sounded like home: You’re in a dark place right now. But you don’t have to stay there.

That might have been true once. That might have been true in the ruinous autumn of 1864. But now I can’t find my way out.

Seventy-three hours after our arrival in this barren corner of the world, Charlie Swan’s daughter wakes up as a vampire. Her heart is perfectly still, her skin faultless, her senses sharp, her mind as impenetrable as ever; at least, that’s what Lucy says when she finds me. And Lucy tugs at my hand, wearing her first smile in days, insisting that I have to come meet the newest member of our coven, to welcome her. I don’t know how to tell Lucy that I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to love this girl, that I don’t have it in me to love anyone but ghosts. And yet—compliantly, yieldingly, expecting nothing but disappointment in the monster I have become—I follow her.

The door is already open to the Swan girl’s room; chattering, beaming vampires flood in and out like the tides. I step inside. And I see the way that Joe looks at her, the way that Ben does; and all those seeds that I had feared might be bitterness blossom into nothing but open air.

It’s Not A Fucking Wedding (A.K.A. 13.5 Months Later)

The ocean is a universe. Its arms are not ever-expanding, spiraling galaxies of suns and planets and nebulae and black holes, this is true; its belly is not a vacuum of inhospitable oblivion, its bones are not invisible strings of gravity, its language is not a silence older than starlight, older than eternity. But the ocean is a universe nonetheless, its borders tucked neatly around the seven continents, slumbering there until the next hurricane or tsunami or ice age comes conquering; and inevitably equilibrium is restored—like defibrillator paddles to a heart, like naloxone to an addict’s blood—and our two worlds can coexist side by side once again.

The ocean’s arms are sighing waves, bubbling and brisk, grasping and retreating in the same breath. Its belly is swollen with life from immense blue whales down to swarming clouds of single-celled, sun-hungry phytoplankton. Its language is ancient whispers; not parched and blistering and brittle sounds like the desert’s but cool, serene, supple, engulfing. And I can hear them all, if I listen closely enough. I can hear the sentient whistling of orcas, the breaking of waves against rocks, the scrabbling of sand crabs beneath the earth, the gruff distant barks of sea lions, the rustling of evergreen pine needles in the breeze. And I understand now why it was always so easy for vampires to be introspective, to lapse into thoughtful, unhurried silences. I could imagine spending decades just sitting here with my knees tucked to my chest and my hair whipping in the brackish wind, watching the seasons roll by like a wheel.

Joe was coming back from the gravel parking lot. I turned to watch him: red U Chicago hoodie, messy dark auburn-ish hair, a pizza box clasped in his hands. The GrubHub delivery driver was returning to his car with the toothiest of grins.

“Buon appetito!” Joe announced, dramatically presenting me with the pizza box. It had become our post-finals tradition each semester: pizza at La Push beach, half-pepperoni, half-pineapple.

“Grazie, sexy undead Italian man. Your accent is getting so good!”

“I know, right?! I’m on a twelve-day Duolingo streak. I can’t let that little green owl dude down.”

“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. I gotta brush up on my Welsh. Why’s the GrubHub driver so cheery?”

“I tipped him $500.”

I smiled, opening the box and lifting out a semi-warm slice of pineapple pizza. Elastic strands of mozzarella cheese stretched like rubber bands until they snapped. “Aww, really?”

Joe plopped down onto the cool, damp sand beside me. “No. I lied. We’re actually having a torrid love affair.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “How could you possibly have time for all that?” Between school, business ventures, family activities, and me, Joe was very rarely unoccupied. And he preferred it that way.

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m very speedy, if you recall. And that’s just one of the exclusive services I offer. I am a man of many talents. I make people’s wildest dreams come true. Who am I to deny the GrubHub delivery man the wonderland that is my spindly, annoying body?”

“You are the fastest,” I said, winking.

“Oh shut up! I mean, uh, uhhh, silenzio!” He pointed his slice of pepperoni pizza at me reproachfully. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not the fastest at everything.”

“Whatever you say, mob guy.”

He lunged for me, pinned me down in the crumbling sand, both of us laughing wildly as the crusts of our pizza slices bounded off and were snatched up by diving, screeching seagulls. He growled with mock savagery, braced his hips against mine, kissed his way from the corner of my jaw to my lips. That oh-so-familiar commanding, craving ache for him came roaring to the surface; and now there was no bittersweet edge to it, no inescapable backdrop of lambent numbers ticking down from five or ten or fifteen years to zero. Now there was only the calm, unurgent promise of forever.

“Joe—!”

“You have besmirched my honor, Baby Swan. I am left with no recourse but to refresh your clearly flawed memory and prove you wrong.”

“Public indecency? That’s illegal, sir.”

“Okay, you gotta stop stealing my catchphrases. It’s extremely difficult for me to come up with new ones. I’m almost a hundred years old, you know.”

“Alright, I guess you’re not bad in bed for a basically-centenarian.”

He smiled down at me, his dark eyes alight, the wind tearing through his hair, one palm resting on my forehead, uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” I asked, worried.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just really glad we’re a thing.”

“You better be. You’re kind of stuck with me now. You’ve stolen my virtue, you’ve made me fall in love with your entire demented family, you’ve forced your torturous immortality upon me. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you ever stop funding my pineapple pizza addiction, of course.”

Joe chuckled as he climbed off me and took my hand in his, pulling me upright. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, by the way. Your insistence on being a sort-of vegetarian. It’s embarrassing. You’re the wimpiest vampire ever. You’re a disgrace to the coven.”

“I eat animals!” I objected.

“Yeah, when you have to.” And Joe was right: I steered clear of flesh outside of the two or three times a week when I hunted. For environmental sustainability reasons, I mostly consumed deer or rabbits; although the very occasional shark was my guilty pleasure. Joe gnawed on his second slice of pizza and peered out into the overcast, dusky horizon, wiping crumbs from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. “We only have one more of these left,” he said at last, a little sadly. “One more finals season at Calawah University. One more celebratory dinner at La Push.”

“We’ll just have to get used to a new view. Pizza by the Chicago River, maybe.”

Joe looked over at me, thoughtful again, smiling. He had received his acceptance letter to the University of Chicago three weeks ago. I got mine eight days later. “It won’t be hard for you to leave Forks?”

“It will be. Once upon a time I didn’t think that was possible, but I will miss Forks. And not just because of Charlie and Archer and Jessica and Angela and all the Lees. But it was hard to leave Phoenix, and I’m sure one day it will be hard to leave Chicago. Just because change is hard doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do.”

Joe nodded introspectively. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

“Don’t quote classic rock songs at me, mixtapes boy.”

“You love my mixtapes,” he teased, circling his left arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, touching his lips to my forehead. Mint and pine and starlight sank into my lungs like an anchor through the surf. “And that saying actually goes all the way back to Seneca, my dear.”

“Don’t tell me he’s still philosophizing in some cloudy corner of the world somewhere.”

“Not to my knowledge. Although that’s an intriguing thought. We need more famous vampires. Caligula would have made for very interesting conversation. Lincoln, Napoleon, Cleopatra, Shakespeare, Dante...I guess it’s possible that anyone is still around. Maybe we should turn Meat Loaf. You know, for the good of posterity.”

“Is it not enough that they’re already cursed with student debt and global warming?”

Joe cackled, took my face in his palms, kissed each of my cheeks one after the other, then nudged my nose with his. “You ready to go, Baby Swan? I suspect we’re expected to participate in some holiday festivities tonight.”

“I’m ready,” I agreed. We threw our leftover pizza to the seagulls, disposed of the grease-spotted cardboard box, and walked back to my 1999 Honda Accord with our pulseless hands intertwined.

The evergreen trees along Routh 110 fled by beneath a sky freckling with stars. Sharp winter air poured in through the open windows. And I could feel that it was cold, in the same way that I could feel the warmth on Forks’ rare sweltering days; but there was no discomfort that accompanied that knowledge. Pain only came when the sky was unincumbered by thick clouds churning in off the Pacific, and then it felt something like staring into the sun had as a human. Sunglasses helped, but the surest remedy was avoidance, was surrender. And what an inconsequential price to pay for forever.

“Wait,” I said, spying the mailbox that marked the start of the Lees’ driveway. “They still deliver mail on Christmas Eve, right?”

“Uh, I think so, why...?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yeah, let’s check!”

I pulled up beside the mailbox and Joe leaned out, returning to his seat with a mountain of Christmas cards and business correspondence and advertisements from Costco and Sephora. He sifted through them until he found a single white envelope from the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine. It was addressed to a Mr. Benjamin August Hardy. Joe held it up to show me as we drove down the driveway, the Lee house coming into view and ornamented with a frankly excessive amount of multicolored string lights and inflatable reindeer.

“Oh my god!” I squealed, drumming the steering wheel.

“You want to be the one to give it to him?”

“Are you serious?! Yeah, can I?”

Joe passed the envelope to me as I parked my geriatric Honda, which Archer had pledged to keep alive as long as physically possible. In return, Ben let him and Scarlett borrow the Aston Martin Vantage no less than once a week. I dashed out of the car, up the steps of the front porch, and into the house that bubbled over with the sounds of metallic kitchen clashes and frenetic voices and Wham!’s Last Christmas.

“Ben?!” I shouted.

“Hi, honey!” Mercy called from the living room, where she and Lucy were putting the final touches on Scarlett’s gown. Scarlett was playing the part of semi-willing victim, wearing gold heels and an impatient smirk and her hair out of the way in a milkmaid braid; her train of vivid red lace billowed across the hardwood floor. From the couch, Archer and Rami were playing Mario Kart on the big-screen tv and nibbling their way through a tray of homemade gingerbread cookies.

“Oh wow,” I said, clutching the envelope to my chest, mesmerized. I kept waiting for Scarlett to start looking like a normal person to me, and it never happened. Tonight, in the glow of the flameless candles and kaleidoscopic Christmas lights and draped in lace the color of pomegranate seeds, she was Persephone: a goddess of resurrection, a face that death himself could not pass by unscathed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy. Seriously.”

“One day I’m going to get you out of those thrift shop sweaters,” Lucy threatened me, placing a pin in the fabric at Scarlett’s waist.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know when that shows up in one of your visions.”

“Bitch,” Lucy flung back, snickering, knowing how improbable that was. I still appeared in her visions extremely infrequently, and then only when I happened to be standing next to whoever the premonition was actually about.

“Language, dear,” Mercy tutted, inspecting the hem of Scarlett’s gown.

Joe arrived beside me, his arms still full of mail. “ScarJo, I almost didn’t recognize you! Why do you have, like, no cleavage or fishnets or thigh slits?”

“Why do you have like no eyelashes?” Scarlett replied. “See, I can ask unnecessary and invasive questions too.”

Joe frowned, wounded. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Lucy, darling, I think it’s just a tad uneven on this side,” Mercy said, showing her. “Maybe by half an inch...?”

“No, seriously, what’s wrong with my eyelashes?!”

Mercy replied distractedly: “Nothing, honey, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Mom!” Joe groaned.

“It really is gorgeous,” Mercy marveled as Lucy flitted around her to investigate the hem situation. “And so Christmasy. So perfect for the season. Scarlett, dear, you were right after all, and I’m so sorry for doubting you. I’d just never heard of a red wedding dress before.”

“Mom, it’s not a fucking wedding!” Scarlett exclaimed, for probably the thirtieth time since Thanksgiving. “It’s a nonbinding, informal celebration of an egalitarian romantic partnership. Will somebody please inform this woman that it’s not a wedding?!”

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mercy conceded dreamily.

Joe pointed to Archer. “Isn’t he supposed to not see the dress until the day of or something?”

“What a great question!” Archer replied, still deeply invested in Mario Kart. “You see, that would be the case if this was a wedding. However, I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that it is most definitely not.”

Scarlett grinned triumphantly at Joe. “There you have it.”

She might snap petulantly, and she might complain, but Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t want to; we were all intimately familiar with the futility of trying to force Scarlett into anything. The not-wedding, as improbable as it seemed, had been her idea from the start. And she wasn’t doing it for herself. She wasn’t even doing it for Archer. Scarlett was doing it for her mother.

The first six months had been hell for Mercy. She didn’t resent me, as I had feared she might; Mercy made that clear, and Rami confirmed it. But she was gutted. She wouldn’t speak of Gwil, wouldn’t listen to us talk about him, locked every photograph of him away in dark drawers, wandered around with a remote, uncanny, unseeing smile until she walked straight into walls; and then she would blink inanely up at them, as if they had dropped out of the sky rather than been built by her own hands. She baked hundreds of cakes and almost never slept. She told us she was fine every time we asked, which was more or less constantly. But on the very rare occasions when she was left alone, Mercy would unfailingly end up in the field behind the Lee house, gazing out into the forest of western hemlock trees with tears snaking silently down her cheeks, the muted light of the cloud-covered setting sun flickering red and furious on her face like wildfire.

And then one afternoon, a package had arrived from Arviat, Canada, where Cato and the rest of the surviving Draghi had relocated shortly after the rebellion at Vladivostok. It was five feet tall and another three wide, and what we found after carefully peeling away all those layers of foam padding and packing tape was a portrait of Gwilym so skillfully painted that it could have been mistaken for a photograph. Mercy had stared at it for a long time—ignoring Lucy’s attempts to guide her away, deaf to any of our concerns—until she at last picked up the portrait herself and said, quite evenly: “I think we should hang it in the living room, don’t you?”

Things had been better since then—very, very gradually, and yet unmistakably—and Gwil’s portrait remained mounted above the living room couch like a watchman, his eyes sparkling and blue, his faint smile stoic and fond and omniscient. But even in the wake of Mercy’s continued improvement, none of us kids were about to risk another agonizingly despondent Christmas. So the solution was obvious. We would keep Mercy preoccupied with what thrilled her more than absolutely anything else: the pseudo-weddings of her children. Rami and Lucy had already secretly volunteered to go next year...and after that, who knew? And there was one other thing that was making Mercy’s burden a little lighter these days.

Charlie sauntered into the living room, wearing an apron covered in cartwheeling Santas and wiping white dust like snow—powdered sugar? flour? baking soda?—from his ungainly hands. He was palpably proud. “The sugar cookies are officially in the oven. And I managed to fit them all on one baking sheet, isn’t that great?! Cuts down on dishes!”

“Why, yes, I suppose it does!” Mercy said, alarm dawning in her eyes. Had my beloved father placed the globs of dough too close together? Would we end up with one hideous, giant monster-cookie? Only time would tell. Providentially, Archer and Joe could be counted on to eat just about anything.

Joe sniffed the air, his forehead crinkling. “What’s burning?”

“Nothing should be burning,” Mercy replied, almost defensive, forever protective of Charlie and all of his profound, incurably human imperfections. Sometimes I thought that she preferred him that way, that he was a link to a simpler world in the same way I had once been, that he was a puddle of memory she could drop into, that maybe he wasn’t so unlike her first husband Arthur. “Not yet, anyway. The cookies need at least ten to twelve minutes at 350.”

“Wait, 350?!” Charlie exclaimed, horrorstruck. “I thought you said 450!”

“Oh, this is tragic,” Scarlett said.

“I can fix it!” Mercy trilled buoyantly, breezing off to the kitchen as Charlie followed after her with a fountain of apologies. She shushed them away affectionately, patting his chest with her soft plump hands, chuckling about how luckily they had fire extinguishers stowed away in almost every closet just in case. And there were other reasons for that besides Charlie’s perilous baking attempts, but he didn’t know them. Now the record player was belting out Queen’s Thank God It’s Christmas.

Archer lost another round in Mario Kart and exhaled a great, mournful sigh. “Hey, Baby Swanpire, can you do something about this guy?” He nodded to Rami. “This is criminal. It’s nowhere near a fair fight. He knows every freaking time I’m about to toss a banana peel.”

Rami smirked guiltily up at me from the couch, not bothering to deny it.

“Do you mind?” I asked him.

“Not at all,” Rami replied. “I want to show this loser I can beat him even without the benefit of mega-cool extrasensory superpowers.”

“Rude!” Archer cried.

“So rude,” Scarlett agreed, smiling.

“Okay, here we go.” I sat down beside Rami, still holding Ben’s envelope in my right hand, and laid my left against Rami’s cheek. And I felt a fistful of numbness—like instant peace, like milk-white Novocain—pass from my skin into his, rolling into his skull, deadening whatever telepathic livewires had been ignited there in the August of 1916. The effect would last anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours; and it worked on every vampire I’d met so far.

“Whoa, trippy,” Rami murmured. “It’s still weird, every single time.” He peered drowsily around the room. “It’s...so...quiet?! You guys really live like this? No one is constantly bombarding you with sexual fantasies or romantic pining or depressive inner monologues? How do you function?! Now I’m alone with my own thoughts, that’s actually worse!”

“Hurry up and beat him while he’s all freaked out and vulnerable,” Scarlett told Archer.

Archer laughed, picking up his Nintendo 64 controller, radiant with the promise of vengeance. “Yes ma’am.”

“Any good mail?” Lucy asked Joe.

“Yeah. Coupons and a ton of Christmas cards from random people. The vet sent us one with alpacas on it, so that’s cute. Oh, and here’s one from our favorite Canadians.”

Joe held up the card so we could all see. The picture on the front showed Cato and Honora sitting on a large velvet, forest green couch with a hulking Christmas tree illuminated in the background. The others were arranged around them: Austin, Max, Ksenia, Charity, Araminta, Akari, Morana, Phelan, Aruna, Adair, Zora, Sahel, and a few new faces I couldn’t name yet. They were all wearing matching turtleneck sweaters. And every single one of them was smiling.

Joe cleared his throat theatrically and read the text on the inside of the card:

“Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

(Oh, and Scarlett, congratulations on your not-marriage.)

- Cato Douglass Freeman”

“That bastard,” Scarlett muttered.

Rami offered me his controller. He had just slipped on a banana peel and rocketed off a cliff. “You want a turn?”

“No, thanks though. I have to talk to Ben. Is he around?”

Rami shrugged ruefully. “I would help, but my brain is temporarily broken.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, taking a gingerbread cookie from the tray and biting into it as Lucy batted crumbs from the red lace dress, exasperated. “I think he’s out in the hot tub.”

“Cool. I shall return.”

Joe took my spot on the couch as I departed, shoveling cookies into his mouth, seizing Rami’s controller and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

I opened the door to the back porch, and frigid December air rushed in like an uninvited guest. The field was coated with a thin layer of snow, the animals safe and warm in the barn, the garden slumbering. And in the spring and summer, when blossoms of a dozen different varieties came open beneath the drizzling grey skies, Mercy’s calla lilies didn’t bother my allergies at all. Nothing did anymore. Ben was indeed in the hot tub, puffing on his vape pen, wearing only a beanie hat and swim trunks.

“What flavor is that cartridge?” I asked as I approached. “Gummy bear?”

“Close. Strawberry doughnut.”

“Ohhhh, yum!” Ben passed me the vape pen, and I took a drag as I kicked off my boots and sat near him on the rim of the hot tub, slipping my bare feet beneath the steaming, roiling water. Then I handed his vape pen back. “So. Guess what I have for you.”

“Uh.” He glanced at the envelope. “Jury duty.”

“Better.”

“Someone I hate has jury duty.”

I flipped the envelope around so he could see the University of Chicago logo on the front.

“Oh god,” Ben moaned.

“Don’t you want to see what it says?”

“Not really,” he admitted, grimacing.

“Come on, Ben. Open it.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?!”

Ben sighed. “Look, if I open it and it’s bad news, it’s gonna make Christmas weird. Rami will know. They’ll all know. They’ll all feel bad for me and it’ll be pathetic and depressing and awkward. You can look if you want to, just don’t tell anyone else yet.”

“It’s not going to be bad news,” I said, tugging at the floppy top of his beanie hat. He swatted my hand away, but he was smiling grudgingly.

“You have positively no way of knowing that. Unless Lucy’s had a vision I’m unaware of.”

“She hasn’t. You know she never sees anything important.”

“She saw you coming,” Ben countered.

“She saw human-me and Joe in love and gobbling down pretzels at a Cubs game. So I’d say there were at least a few minor details missing.”

“There’s no way I got in,” Ben said, his green eyes slick and fearful and now fixed on the envelope. “We can’t all be geniuses like you.”

“That’s an unfair accusation. I’m far from genius. I’m just obsessed with the ocean.” I’d written my senior thesis on the feeding habits of Pacific angelsharks, and my advisor was still trying to figure out how I, an amateur scuba diver at best, had managed to get so many quality photographs with my underwater camera. The secret, of course, was superhuman agility and not needing to breathe.

“I fucking hate calculus. The MCAT wrecked me. I got a 517.”

“And their median score is a 519, so I’d say you still have a fighting chance. Plus you have like eight million volunteer hours.” Ben had spent the vast majority of the past year either in class or at the hospital. The psychiatrist-in-chief, Dr. Siegel, had been more than happy to take one of Gwil’s foster children under her wing. Every human in Forks except Archer believed that Dr. Gwilym Lee had drowned in a tragic boating accident while he and Mercy were on vacation in Southern California, and that his body had never been recovered. The town had held a wonderful remembrance ceremony and dedicated a free clinic at the hospital in his honor. “Now open it.”

“You do it,” Ben relented finally. “My hands are wet. Go ahead, open it up and tell me what it says. And then kindly euthanize me to end my immortal shame.”

“That wouldn’t work,” I pointed out, tearing open the envelope. I pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper inside, flattened it against my thighs, and read the typed black text.

“...Well?” Ben pressed, vaping frantically.

I looked up and smiled at him.

“No way,” he whispered.

“I hope you like pretzels and bear-themed baseball teams, grandpa.”

And for a second, I thought he might bolt up out of the hot tub, hooting victoriously, splashing water all over the back porch as he danced around bellowing that he’d gotten into one of the best medical schools in the world, that he would be following me and Joe to Chicago. But that wasn’t Ben. Instead, a slow smile rippled across his face: it was small, but perfectly genuine. Pure, even.

“Goddamn,” he said, watching me. Venom doesn’t just resurrect or ruin; it forms a bond that is simultaneously intangible and yet immense. It’s an evolutionary adaptation, a way to facilitate stability and the building of covens in an often violent and ruleless world. And now that he had turned me, Ben had family here in Forks in more ways than one.

“Gwil would be so proud of you, Ben.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

The back door of the house opened, and Joe stepped outside. He studied Ben for a moment, and that was all it took for him to know. “Benny!” he shouted, elated.

“I know, I know. Fortunately, I look amazing in red. Thanks, supermodel genes.”

“This is going to be so fun!” Joe said, sprinting over to wrap Ben—who was characteristically lukewarm on this whole physical displays of affection business—in a hug from just outside the hot tub. “We’re going to go furniture shopping, and eat deep-dish pizza, and find apartments right next to each other, and mail home Chicago-themed care packages, and get you hooked up with some gorgeous Italian woman...or whatever you like, I guess I shouldn’t assume. Women. Men. Gang members. Marine mammals. Jessicas. Whatever. There are options.”

Ben laughed as he playfully shoved Joe away. “Sounds like a plan, pagliaccio.”

“Oh my god, stop learning Italian without me! You realize you have to tell Mom now.”

“I will,” Ben agreed, with some trepidation. “I’ll wait until after Christmas.”

“It’ll be hard for her,” I said. “But she knows it’s what you want. She knows it’s what’s best for you. So she’ll get through it. I think it would be worse for her if you didn’t get in, if she had to see you unhappy.”

Ben nodded, exhaling strawberry-doughnut-flavored vapor, gazing up at the stars, Orion and Auriga and Lynx and Perseus reflected in his thoughtful jade eyes. “She’ll still have Rami and Lucy and Scarlett here with her. And Archer. And Charlie.”

“Especially Charlie,” Joe said, grinning.

Mercy would have to leave Forks eventually, of course. The Lees had already been here for nearly four years; they could stay another ten, perhaps fifteen at the absolute maximum. And there had been a time when ten or fifteen years seemed like quite a while to me, but now it felt like I could doze off one afternoon and wake up on the other side of it, like swimming a lap in the sun-drenched public pool back in Phoenix. We would find a new home somewhere after Joe and I finished our PhDs, after Ben finished medical school, maybe Vancouver or Buffalo or Amsterdam or Edinburgh or Dublin or Reykjavik. Wherever we went, I hoped it wouldn’t be far from the sea. But Mercy couldn’t bear to leave Forks yet. It was the last home she had shared with Gwil, the last house they would ever build together, and leaving it would make his loss all the more irrevocable. She would be ready to leave someday, but not today.

In the meantime, there would still be visits for breaks and holidays. Scarlett and Archer had the shop to keep them busy, a brand new eight-car garage that held a virtual monopoly on both the Forks and Quileute communities. Lucy had opened a bohemian-style clothing boutique downtown, which confounded most of the locals but attracted more adventurous customers from as far away as Seattle. Rami was interning for a local immigration lawyer and entertaining the possibility of applying to U Chicago’s law school in another few years. And Mercy had the farm; and she had Charlie. He had asked her for cooking lessons to try to help rouse her a few months after Gwil’s death, and it had grown from there. If it wasn’t romantic just yet, I believed it would be soon. And there were moments when I thought my father might have figured something out, when his eyes narrowed and lingered on me just a little too long, when his brow knitted into suspicious, searching lines, when the hairs rose on the back of his neck and some innate insight whispered that we weren’t like him and never could be again. But then he would chuckle, shake his head, and say: “You’ve gotten weird, my gorgeous, brilliant progeny. But Forks looks pretty good on you.”

“Can I talk to you upstairs?” Joe asked me suddenly; and did I see restless nerves flicker in his dark eyes? I thought I did.

“Sure,” I replied, climbing down from the hot tub. “Ben, are you coming inside? My dad is trying to bake Christmas cookies and failing miserably. It’s pretty hilarious. Not that you should be the one to critique other people’s kitchen-related accidents.”

“I do enjoy your company a lot more now that I don’t want to murder you and slurp you down like a Chick-fil-A milkshake,” Ben said. “Yeah, give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.” And as Joe and I headed into the house, I saw Ben pick up the acceptance letter that I’d left on the rim of the hot tub and read it for himself with incredulous eyes, grappling with the irrefutable fact that it was his name on the opening line, that he had somewhere along the way become the sort of man who dedicated his immortality to saving lives rather than ending them.

In the living room, Scarlett was back in her yoga pants and absolutely brutalizing Archer in Mario Kart. Rami and Lucy were entwined together on the loveseat, murmuring, giggling, feeding each other pieces of gingerbread cookies. In the kitchen, Charlie was leading Mercy in a clumsy waltz to Meat Loaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love, and each time he fumbled his steps or mortifyingly trod on her feet she would cry out in a peal of laughter brighter than the sun she had learned to live without. Joe spirited me up the staircase, into his bedroom—which, honestly, was more like our bedroom now, in the same way that my room in Charlie’s house had become Joe’s as well—and closed the door.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “Your dad totally ruined our song. Now I can’t hear it without thinking about some moustached guy in plaid trying to seduce my mom.”

“It’s the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for. Meat Loaf is vanquished. Oh, just so you’re aware, Renee and Paul are getting an Airbnb and coming up for New Years.”

“Cool. Do they still think I have a super embarrassing sunlight allergy and will break into hives and asphyxiate and that’s why we can’t visit them in Florida?”

“Yup.”

“Spectacular. Also, can you please tell me what’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“They’re just a little sparse, amore. But I still like you.”

“Well, I am only moderately attractive, you know.” Then Joe steeled himself, taking a deep breath. Uh oh. He was definitely nervous. I still couldn’t believe I had the power to make him that way, but here we were. “So I get that we’re doing presents with the whole family tomorrow morning, and you do have some under the tree, so don’t worry about that. But there’s one I wanted to give to you alone. You know. With just us. Without an audience. Or whatever.”

“...Okay...?” A secret gift? A naughty gift? “I hope it’s a new vibrator.”

“Shut up,” Joe begged, laughing. “Here.” He reached into the drawer of his nightstand—our nightstand—and produced a small blue box topped with a turquoise bow. It wasn’t a ring, I was sure of that; I didn’t feel especially attached to the idea of marriage, and neither did Joe to my knowledge. How could rings or papers seal commitment when you already had eternity? I was right: the mysterious present was not a ring. When I removed the lid and emptied the box into my palm, what appeared there was a small plastic airplane.

“What is this?” I asked, amused but puzzled.

“Are you not college educated? It’s a plane.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that. But it’s also like two inches long.” I scrutinized the plane. “Are you magically transforming me into a tiny, tiny, little plastic person? Is that my gift? Because I actually got you something good.” And I really did: there was a collection of vintage Chicago Cubs photographs from the 1910s and 20s downstairs under the Christmas tree, packaged in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer wrapping paper.

“We’re going on a trip,” Joe said, grinning. “The day after Christmas. It’s just a short trip, nothing huge, don’t get too excited, we’re not going to Mt. Everest or Antarctica or anything. I think you’ll still like it. But I don’t want you to know where we’re going until we’re there.”

“How will that work? Considering the tickets and signage and pilot announcements and obnoxiously noisy other passengers and all.”

“ScarJo’s going to fly us.”

“Really?!” We were taking the jet. We almost never used the jet. “What’s in it for Scarlett?”

“She found out that Archer’s never had In-N-Out Burger before and is very much looking forward to initiating him into the cult of deliciousness.”

“Oh nice. I could go for a vanilla milkshake myself, now that Ben mentioned them.”

“Obviously I’m gonna buy you all the milkshakes and animal-style fries you want. Bankrupt me, bitch. But we have to get one other thing taken care of first.”

“So it’s somewhere they have In-N-Out Burger...” I pondered aloud. California? Texas? Las Vegas? I felt a brief but unambiguous pang of homesickness for Phoenix. But there was nothing there for me anymore.

“Stop,” Joe pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much. Please forget that. Get a traumatic brain injury or oxygen deprivation or something.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m rather indestructible at the moment.”

He smiled wistfully. “I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”

There was laughter downstairs in the living room. I could detect the aroma of a fresh batch of sugar cookies baking in the kitchen, mingling with the cold night air and pine trees and peppermint candy canes. I loved Christmas. The entire world smelled like Joe. The U Chicago décor, classic rock posters, and Italian flag were now interspersed with National Geographic pages and photos of the two of us together. The Official Whatever You Want Pass hung in a small, square picture frame on the wall above Joe’s bed. Our bed.

“How real is it, Joe?” I asked quietly. I climbed onto my tiptoes, linking my hands around the back of his neck with the tiny plane still tucked between my fingers. “Seriously. The wishes thing.”

“The world may never know. Akari never met me as a human, so she wouldn’t be able to say. But if I had to place a bet...” He shrugged, grinning craftily. “Kinda real. Kinda not real. Just like vampires, I guess.”

“I am alarmingly glad that you’re real, mob guy,” I said, abruptly somber. “I never thought I’d meet someone who saw me as remarkable, who could make me see myself that way. And it’s miraculous. And it’s terrifying too, honestly. Being a thing with you. Falling for someone you could have for centuries and lose in a second.”

“It’s the scariest thing there is,” Joe concurred, taking my hand to lead me back downstairs.

Joseph

Scarlett looks like a goddess, and she knows it. But she’s not one of those magnanimous, fragile, harp-plucking, pastel-colored goddesses. She’s ferocity and wildness and crimson like blood, and that’s exactly why Archer loves her. And as they stand in front of the Christmas tree with their hands clasped together—ivory on bronze, snow on sun—with matching sprigs of holly in Scarlett’s hair and pinned to the jacket of Archer’s suit, reciting truths but no promises, I can’t help but watch the other faces in the room: Rami, Lucy, Ben, Charlie, Mom with her beaming smile and shining eyes, the woman I met sixteen months ago and now can’t fathom life without. And it occurs to me for the first time that love, in its cleanest form, isn’t something that changes people as much as it allows them to become who they truly are.

On the evening of December 26th, as soon as the sun dips beneath the western horizon, we board the jet in the Forks Airport hangar. It’s much easier for Scarlett to fly at night; otherwise she has to wear two or three pairs of sunglasses on top of each other, and even then it’s still painful, it still feels like blinding needles burrowing into the jelly of her retinas. That’s not a wrench in my plans or anything. It needs to be night where we’re going, too.

Vampire hyper-acuity notwithstanding, FAA regulations require Scarlett to have a copilot, so Archer joins her in the flight deck with his newly-minted license and spends most of the journey flipping through the latest issue of Motor Trend. As we begin our descent, he peeks back at us and teases: “It’ll be your turn eventually, guys. Scarlett and I did our time. Rami and Lucy can go next year. And after that...unless Ben happens to find someone worthy of a not-wedding...” He wiggles his black eyebrows.

“Bring it on,” I reply casually. “Fake wedding are my jam. It’ll be ocean themed. Or Roaring ‘20s themed. And we’ll all do the Cha-Cha Slide in the living room and shame Ben as a bonding activity.”

“Mercy can set up a mashed potatoes bar,” Baby Swan adds.

“Yeah. With pineapple.”

“No. Not on potatoes.”

“Yes on potatoes.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Too late,” I tell her, touching my lips to the knuckles of her cool, steady hand.

We touch down at a small noncommercial airport just outside the city, and Scarlett and Archer stay back to secure the plane as Baby Swan follows me outside. And she realizes where we are as soon as the wind hits her, as soon as her eyes soak up the sand and cacti and cloudless night sky like rain swallowed up by parched earth.

“Phoenix,” she whispers, smiling like a child.

“But wait, there’s more!” I announce in my best Billy Mays voice. I take the little glass bottle from my pocket, walk across the runway to the naked desert, crouch down when I find a suitable spot, and fill the bottle with dry, sandy earth that crumbles in my palms. Then I seal the bottle with a tiny cork and bring it back to give it to her.

“I know what it’s like to have to leave home,” I say. “You’ve had to say goodbye to Phoenix, and soon you’ll have to say goodbye to Forks, and next will be Chicago, on and on forever. You’ll always be leaving the places you learn to call home. Every five or ten or fifteen years, we start over again. Like a snake shedding its skin, like a hermit crab swapping shells. Like the water that travels from rain to seawater to mist and then back again. But now you can always have a little piece of home with you, and maybe that will make it easier.”

She takes the glass bottle and shakes her head in disbelief, in wonder. Because this is exactly what she wanted, what she needed, even if she didn’t know it yet. “Joe...how did you...?”

“What’d I tell ya? I’m a talented guy. Now you have to dance with me.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Hard pass. I don’t dance.”

“When we’re alone in my bedroom you do. So just pretend we’re alone now. In, like, a really really spacious, sandy bedroom. With probably some lizards.”

“Fine. But only because I’m willing to degrade myself for milkshakes.”

She slides the glass bottle of Arizona earth into her pocket and takes my hands. She’s still a pretty terrible dancer, honestly. She hasn’t lost that. And I love that about her. I love damn near everything about her. And it took me a long time to figure out what exactly her subtle yet peerless cocktail of fragrance is, because it wasn’t somewhere I’d ever been. The scent that drifts from her pores—the scent that now lives in my bedsheets like a shadow or a ghost—is sunlight and heat and clarity and resilience and wisdom older than the pyramids. Her scent is the desert.

Now she’s mischievous, her eyes gleaming with the reflections of the Milky Way and the full moon and the stars that are dead and yet eternal, just like us. “So what, you think you’re Vampire Boyfriend Of The Year material now or what? Some dirt and In-N-Out Burger? That’s the height of your game? Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my perpetual existence? I totally should have pursued that polyamorous triad with Scarlett and Archer when I had the chance—”

“Yeah,” I say, very softly, smiling, tilting up her chin to kiss her beneath the universe and all its eccentricities. “I love you too.”

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