#each one of the thirteen has something that makes her stand out from the rest

[pergaminaa]

Idk I honestly believe that Thea Blackbeak gives these really amazing hugs

[zarnzarn]

the angsty prequel to this (ik there's plotholes now but shh I'll fix it in a bit) that i accidentally made after getting possessed and writing for 3 hours straight for what was supposed to be a short hc post jfc. angst ahead (brain damage talk, temporary mcd), but there's a happy ending!

-

zeus saying he's going to make athena's "kingdom fall" doesn't make sense unless you consider. the lightning bolt she takes to the face gives her brain damage.

no one notices at first. Athena brushes it all off, goes to odysseus, oversees their long-awaited reunion. stays in their house after- because it's not like they'll be around forever, after all. and she can do her work just as well from down here- there's no need, to be honest, to go back to Mount Olympus. anyone who needs her comes to Ithaka, and she's content, for the first time in a very, very long time.

and then one day odysseus comes across her seizing on the floor.

she doesn't know the details of what happened- only remembers the first terrified scream of horror, remembers warm hands on her face and being carried to a bed, remembers Penelope's voice shaking as she drags a wet cloth across her forehead. comes to confused and mute minutes later, wandering around and stumbling into walls, unresponsive to the voices begging her to stop, to rest.

finally, she reaches a familiar room with a familiar face, and she touches Telemachus on the cheek lightly before collapsing onto the nearest chair. panicked voices chatter above her and calloused palms lift her face up to meet her own grey eyes, worried and scared, and it finally dawns on her that something has gone terribly wrong.

(later she will find out odysseus held her and sobbed the whole night, knowing more than anyone else what had happened to her and what it meant; he'd taken the throne at thirteen for the same reason, after all)

(later she will find out that penelope wrote to every ally they had within the hour for healers and literature; letting more than half their cleverly planned schemes fall through in exchange for it as she begged)

(later, she will find out that telemachus went running barefoot through the market, banging on doors and shouting for the healers and making the alarmed roused villagers sing prayers for her even though it was the middle of the night)

she recovers under the attention; court abandoned in favour of emergency, odysseus proclaims when he bullies her into placing her head in his lap so he can massage her aching head, not having left her side for six straight days in a row. penelope comes in every few hours, feeding her the olives from the wedding bed she lies in, unable to move, and brushes out her hair. telemachus barely shows during the days, but he comes in every evening without fail, curling up by her side and hugging her tight.

but it happens again. and again and again, and each time she regains consciousness in one of the royal family's arms, no matter where she was at the time. she never remembers it, only has the disgusting taste in her mouth and dried spit on her chin and tears in the eyes of those around her to know it happened.

she loses time as well- has no idea how long it's been happening until she becomes aware of the sound of Odysseus' calm, steady voice dragging her out of a trance, gentle fingers tracing her palm as they stand next to an unassuming tapestry. she'll be walking one moment and be lost to everything around her the next, staring at nothing.

Odysseus has done this all before, she realises one day, when he seamlessly pulls her out of another relapse and ropes her into a cheerful, easy conversation about goats that Athena keeps having stilted replies to.

"Do you know how to do this because-" She murmurs, and his eyes go wide and then grieving.

"Yes," He murmurs sadly, and Athena feels guilt settle in her belly at making him go through this again. He massages at her temples, and she closes her eyes, listening to the smile in his voice. "But there is no hardship, Pallas Athena. The sadness is that you have to go through this, not for the taking care of a cherished one."

"And anyways, Laertes suffered madness in the wake of a terrible fever and the stress of a famine," Penelope says without looking up from the newest scrolls they'd received. Athena feels the guilt worsen at the sleep bags under her eyes, when she knew the reason and just didn't have the courage to- "Your sudden collapses could be due to this one witch curse we found, or perhaps a-"

"It was Zeus."

The room falls silent as two heads slowly turn to look at her.

"What?" Odysseus says quietly, with barely withheld rage.

Athena takes a shuddering breath. "I am sorry, my Penelope, that I didn't have the courage to tell you before." Penelope leaves the desk to cross the room to her, and Athena feels tears prick at her eyes as the queen takes her hand. "But when I petitioned the court of Olympus, Zeus did not take kindly to everyone agreeing to me over him- and such was his punishment. To make-"

Her breath hitches in a sob and she notes with surprise that she's crying. Penelope and Odysseus are both crying with her, staring down in horror.

"To make my kingdom fall, he said," Athena whispers, shoulders jerking oddly as she forces it out, acknowledges what he'd done. "But my kingdom is the mind and-"

Odysseus lets out an animal cry of sorrow and descends on her, pulling her to his chest as she breaks down into shivering tears, the fear running through her as she realises the scale, the enormity of the consequences. Penelope stands by the bed and trembles with anger for a full minute, before she crumples too, crawling into their bed and pressing Athena tight between them.

"I forget things," She confesses in a whisper, shaking. "I blank out during fights, cannot recall certain strategies- I- I do not know how much worse-"

"Easy, darling, easy," Penelope whispers in a rush, stroking her face. Odysseus really is so lucky to have her as a wife, she thinks disjointedly, pressing into the gentleness. "Don't say that. It won't get worse."

"And even if it does," Odysseus continues, pressing a kiss to her cheek, where the lichtenberg scars cross her right eye, to her brow. "We will write down everything you know, copy it a hundred times and keep it safe. So you will never forget."

"And we will find you a Lytrakas owl, to keep you safe when we are no longer here to do it," Penelope murmurs, lips brushing Athena's neck as she speaks. She relaxes finally under the combined reassurances, at the solutions and possibilities that would work, finding a content she has never achieved before in their embrace. "We will keep you safe, our goddess."

And they do. When she teaches the children of Ithaka sparring, at least one of them is there, ready to intervene smoothly if they sense something wrong. They make the books they promised her, and she sends it to her realm, so she doesn't lose them. They cannot come with her when she has to travel- she wouldn't ask it of any of them- but Telemachus is always humming a hymn when she's away so she remembers where to return. When she dissociates in the middle of talking, Penelope guides her over to the loom so she can weave until she feels better, muscle memory kicking in enough for it to help the gradual lift of the fog.

Odysseus always somehow knows when she's about to have a seizure, in the forty years after that they spend together. In all her time in Ithaka, she never woke up from one without the familiar gravely cadence of Odysseus singing under his breath above her, head in his lap and Telemachus perched on her thighs or Penelope by her shoulders.

-

But it can't last forever.

Odysseus kicks her out of the room when he dies, Penelope's breath already slowing on the bed behind him, peaceful in the way that means she won't survive the night. They all know Odysseus will go with her, and Athena feels herself tremble as Odysseus gently guides her outside.

"You are not watching us pass," He tells her firmly, as she opens her mouth to scream at him. He's an old man now, but his eyes are the same, and the different versions of him flash in front of her eyes as he gives her a crooked smile. "I will not have you watch, are you crazy?"

"Odysseus," She chokes out, gripping tight onto her spear.

"My beautiful, wonderful goddess," Odysseus murmurs adoringly, leaning up to press their foreheads together. She sobs. "Thank you. For everything. And know-" His breath hitches. "-know that, for the rest of your existence, remember it- that you were loved."

"How can I ever forget?" She smiles back through the tears. "I will never be the same."

"My Athene," He whispers, swaying them back and forth. She closes her eyes, trembling, and pulls him into their last embrace, last touch.

"You will always be my favourite," She confesses, half-laugh, half-sob.

Odysseus smirks at that, a trace of smugness, then turns to a sobbing, chuckling Telemachus, who's also been kicked out, pulls them both in a hug. "We will meet again, my son," he murmurs. "But Penelope is waiting for me now. Goodnight."

He closes the door, two bright last flashes of smiles aimed at them as it shuts and Athena and Telemachus both fall to pieces.

Telemachus takes twice the care of her than his parents did, somehow juggling ruling the kingdom and spending as much time as he can with her as he can. His wife is sly and mischievous, more fox than owl- but Athena loves her too, just as she loves their children. Telemachus goes with a smile on his face and an arrow in his heart, having taken an arrow for someone else, holding Athena's hand as he laughs for the last time.

It is horrible and she wanders around desolately for days, grieving. But then she sees bright eyes spying on her from behind a bush, carefully watching her to see if she's alright and Athena smiles and goes back to continue the legacy.

-

For 500 years, Ithaka does not fall- when it does, she makes sure the grey-eyed children all make it off the island, scattering on the mainland as at last, her job is done.

Which means there is nothing left for her here, and it is time to go back to Mount Olympus.

She's met with teasing quips and pointed comments, but general ignorance, no one bothering to ask where she was. After almost six hundred years of care, it feels untethering and strange, but the grief of losing Ithaka makes her relieved for it, even if she has to lie down sometimes, press her face into the roots of the olive tree scattered about in her realm and pretend there are three sets of hands in her hair, a familiar voice humming above her.

How did you do it, she wants to ask Penelope. How did you survive knowing what you were missing, she wants to ask Odysseus. Will you sit with me one last time, she wants to ask Telemachus.

Eventually, she can no longer bear the quiet, and one evening she sets out and crosses the pantheon floor to go gently sit down in Apollo's room.

Artemis is there, slouched on the floor with mud in her hair and an arrow in her eye as Apollo chides her. They both look up when she comes in, bowing and worriedly asking if something was wrong.

"Nothing," she says, ignoring the pang of sadness that that would be the only reason she was here. But the idea of leaving back to the books written in Odysseus' horrible chickenscratch penmanship is worse, and she takes a tentative seat in the corner. "Continue your work."

They do so hesitantly, conversation slower and interspersed with bouts of asking her if she wanted ambrosia or a new dish or something while she was here. She declines.

She feels awkwardness radiating off all three of them as she leaves an hour later, but it doesn't stop her from coming back again, stubborn. She will hold a conversation this time- it has been two decades since Ithaka, but that is nothing to her, and she cannot have forgotten how so soon.

Apollo seems to have prepared for the same thing this time, lighting up with a pleased grin like he wasn't sure she would come. "Enter!" He says cheerfully. "Come here, give me your wisdom on this piece I've been composing- I know, I know, owls are not songbirds, but just see if you can help, it's driving me mad-"

Athena closes her mouth and listens to the melody quietly. Thinks about how Telemachus' third daughter would have spun it, added her Ithakan folk style to it, interspersed the perfection with carefree, imperfect beats.

"May I?" She asks, holding her hands out, and Apollo's mouth drops, even as he scrambles to hand her the lyre. She concentrates, trying to pull the melody out from the strings. "Here," she says, manifesting her spear and shield and handing it to an increasingly wild-eyed Apollo. "Bang them together. Create a tempo."

They create something of a passing song in the next few hours until Athena's headache makes its way to the forefront and she has to retreat. Apollo accompanies her across the floor to her room, pressing herbs onto her even as he chatters a mile a minute, excitedly going on and on about new ideas and begging Athena to come by again. She smiles, briefly, and promises to return when she is free, going back to her pallet under the olive trees.

(She cannot bear to sleep anywhere else.)

The next day, Apollo is busy creating new songs and she knows better than to disturb him. She turns and goes to his twin's realm instead, shedding her armour for bark and a bow. Artemis and her women look as equally terrified as Apollo did at the start, looking at her like she's lost her mind, but they all straighten up when Athena raises an eyebrow and silently descend on the night.

"You must teach me!" Artemis enthuses at the end of it. She does not do anything other than scowl often, but she looks more like her twin than ever now, as she beams up at her. "I never knew there were so many strategies, how much smoother-"

"Peace," Athena chuckles, amused. "I will teach you, sister. Next fortnight?"

"Aye," Artemis says, hair matted and covered in filth, eyes sparkling.

"Here," Athena says, taking out her own ribbon- one of the many she has from Penelope, braided in her hair from all those years ago- and turns Artemis around to tie her mess of a mane out of her eyes. "Do not impede your vision in the name of wildness."

"Okay," Artemis squeaks quietly, and Athena snorts and squeezes her shoulder as she departs.

She sits in Aephastus' forge next, watching him create weapon after weapon, with the best of each round being blessed onto a blacksmith in the mortal world.

"Come to see if my work is up to par, Pallas Athena?" Aephastus says self-deprecatingly, a flash of resigned hurt in his eyes.

"No. I wish to learn," Athena decides suddenly, pushing herself up and removing her helmet at the blast of heat that comes from the forge as she nears. "It is shameful, I think, that I know not how my own tools are made."

Aephastus stares at her with surprise, then his kind eyes crinkle into a smile. "Only if you let me replace that," He nods to her admittedly rather dented helmet. "I have been wanting to fix your armour to something respectable for centuries."

Athena laughs.

Of course, once it is done, she has to use it. It fills her with excitement she had almost forgotten, the idea of a good, difficult spar, and she barges into Aphrodite's realm and bangs on the edge of the bed with her new spear, making the occupants screech and jump in fright.

"Good evening," She nods at Aphrodite, who looks to the side and then back at her as if she'll find an explanation somehow, stunned. She turns to her brother, and tries on a grin. "Ares, my brother. Would you care to spar? Aephastus has gifted me this new set and I find myself eager to test it out."

"...Are you fucking possessed?" Ares asks her, flabbergasted, and she clicks her tongue and smacks him upside the head.

"Yes or no?" She says, crossing her hands.

"Y- yes, yes!" Ares blurts out, straightening up. He looks something approaching disbelieving excitement, a small, tentative grin appearing on his face. "You are... not joking, right?"

"Do I look like I joke?" Athena jokes, smiling. Ruffles his hair in a bout of fondness. "You are the only one who will actually give me a good fight, as erratic as you are. I look forward to it."

"What did I FUCKING MISS?" Aphrodite shrieks after her as she goes. "Wha- Athena, get back here, you better have not fallen in love while I wasn't looking-!"

But Athena's not ready to face Aphrodite just yet, so she takes advantage of their height difference and strides back to her realm as her sister chases her, shouting.

The next day, they meet in the arena, and Athena feels herself freeze up as soon as she steps in. Sees the lightning scorch marks on the ground she had almost forgotten, and cannot move.

"ATHENA!" Ares booms, snapping her out of it. "TODAY YOU WILL MEET YOUR DEFEAT AT MY HANDS AT LAST!"

"WHY ARE YOU SO ANNOYING," She shouts back automatically, and Ares bursts out in a peal of laughter, surprised out of him. She knows he has three aspects- the boyish glory-seeker, the soldier filled with bloodlust, the hardened warrior- but Athena thinks the first one suits him best.

He readjusts his grip on his sword and grins. "Begin!"

-

She continues this, finding a strange happiness she never had before in meeting all the other gods, major and minor. She'd never known how intimidated they all were by her, but they open up readily enough, bringing her peace for a little while as she sits with them.

(She avoids Aphrodite, who is getting increasingly more frazzled by the day as she fails to find a hidden lover that does not exist and then switches to trying to find Athena a companion when it is clear that there is no one, in a comic game of chase around the realms that is a great source of amusement to everyone else.

She avoids Hermes too, because it hurts too much to see him. But she leaves him a book of riddles once in a while, when he's away, and he always takes it.)

Hera walks in her room one day, with her train of peacocks and attendants.

"God-Queen," Athena bows, setting her weaving down.

"Athena," Hera nods back. "I hear you have been visiting your siblings."

Athena nods, confused. "Yes?"

Hera studies her and Athena shifts, wondering what she's seeing. "The Pantheon is no longer silent, you know. The Olympians meet in the court almost every day, sharing their gifts with each other. Something I have found out is because of you."

Athena has no idea where this is going.

Hera shifts closer, opening her mouth to say something, then her eyes catch on the weaving, widening in shock. "What is that?"

Athena looks down, also unaware of what exactly she'd made. Then her heart skips a beat in fear.

"No, no, no, no," Athena snaps to her feet, shaking her hands out in dismissal, trying to stop the impending damage. "This is not what you think it is."

Hera's eyes are getting wider and wider, a manic grin on her face. "Athena! A wedding veil? Do you-"

"No!" Athena interrupts. "No, Hera, it's nothing like that, please-"

"Nonsense!" Hera says, grabbing it from her and holding it to the light, grinning wider than Athena has seen from her in years. "You must have made it for a reason. Do not worry daughter, I know you are shy, I will handle it all."

"Hera, it really is not like that!" She pleads. "I was simply weaving- I made a fisherman's garb the other day as well, it does not mean I want to get out into the sea!"

"Have you made the rest of the outfit as well?" Hera says excitedly, ignoring her as she moves to the wardrobe to rifle through. "Oh, Athena, how beautiful! Is this what you would like to wear?"

She pulls out a men's wedding outfit and Athena stops protesting to stare in disbelief. When had she made that?

"I must go announce this to the others," Hera squeals, bangles jangling. "Oh, I had almost given up on you, dear, but you have made me so happy today! I would have arranged something for you so long ago, why didn't you tell me you were interested?"

"Because I am not," She groans, pulling her hands down over her face. "Hera, please, I do not even have anyone-"

"Easily remedied," Hera dismisses her with the wave of a hand as she strides off. "Oh Aphrodite, you won't believe what I just found in your sister's closet! Look!"

A deafening din rises from the crowd there and Athena is forced to tackle Hera to the ground.

She laughs, surprisingly, and tosses the outfit over to Aphrodite, who snatches it up with a scream of excitement. Athena is immediately flanked by a crowd of screaming gods, each talking over the other, and Athena has to bellow at them all for two hours before the misunderstanding is cleared.

"Oh, but you really have outdone yourself with this one," Aphrodite gushes appreciatively as she lands next to a panting Athena. She turns it back and forth. "So soft, and such patterns! The Ithakan style, yes?"

Then her smile drops like a stone as she hears her own words and freezes, and Athena's stomach swoops, heart skipping a beat as she stops breathing. Aphrodite turns to her slowly, cold horror in her eyes, realisation solidifying at the terrified, raw, pained expression on Athena's face.

"The Ithakan style," She repeats in a whisper, horrified grief creeping into her voice. "Athena-"

Athena snatches the outfit from her and closes herself off in her realm, breathing hard in the dim blue light of the olive tree orchard. She suddenly realises she's holding the robes against her chest and unfolds it hurriedly to look at them.

It is the Ithakan style. It is, in fact, a mix of Penelope's and Odysseus' wedding outfits, in her size.

She throws it into a trunk and screams.

-

She does not know if Aphrodite tells Hera, but the latter does not stop coming by every day to pester her for details of an imaginary wedding.

So now she has three gods to avoid.

-

But of course, the effects of her affliction cannot be hidden forever. She gets up one day from the Pantheon floor to retrieve the threads from her room to be used in the game they are playing, and feels the room swim in a familiar, hated manner, and she only has a moment to feel dread before she tilts sideways and falls.

When she regains consciousness, she feels for a moment the delicate hands on her cheeks, the weight of a young man on her belly, the gravely singing above her- and then it dissipates and she becomes aware of shouting all around her.

"Can you hear me? Athena, can you hear me?" Hera says, shaking her. "WILL SOMEONE FIND APOLLO?"

Athena moans and pushes off the hands on her body, bruising in their panic. She pushes herself up, ignoring the dizziness. "Do not bother."

"Athena, what on Gaia was that?" Ares demands, ashen. "Have I injured you? What-"

"It is of no concern," Athena snaps, getting to her feet and glaring at them, mortification blazing through her. "All I need is rest. Goodnight."

They shout after her, but she's already at her room, closing the shields back up. It nearly knocks her out again to do so, and she barely drags herself to her bed before she collapses.

"What are you staring at?" Hypnos asks her the next day, confused. Athena blinks and realizes she's standing between the thrones, facing an odd patch of wall and losing time.

"Nothing," She sighs, and hefts her spear and walks away.

She fends off all other questions, curt and snapping, and the others uneasily let it go. She has not forgotten her purpose, after all, and will not do anything less than a perfect job, even with this impediment.

Yet-

"Athena," Aphrodite shakes her, and Athena blinks as she comes to herself. It is night, Pantheon bathed in blue and both of them in their nightclothes. Aphrodite is crying and Athena's face is wet.

"What-?" She murmurs.

"You were calling out for Odysseus," Aphrodite whispers, sounding stricken. "Asking him to stop hiding from training. Then laughing with nothing and telling Penelope to stop tormenting your allies."

It hits her straight in the sternum, making her gasp with grief that hits her so hard it feels new, and oh, she misses them, she misses them, she misses them so.

She sobs, and Aphrodite brings her close, holding her as she shakes.

"What is happening, sister? Why is this happening? Please, tell us," Aphrodite pleads. "We only want to help." She pushes her back to stare at her. "It cannot be just for them- something else happened to you."

Athena cannot reply for weeping, and Aphrodite's face crumples on seeing her tears. "You loved them." She says, her own voice catching tears. "You loved them so much, didn't you? That's who the dress was for. Them."

Athena sobs louder and doesn't reply.

-

Zeus' eldest daughter has not talked to him for over eight hundred years.

He still burns with anger some days, on remembering her insolence, her disrespect for his orders. Yet, now it has cooled off and he rather misses her quiet presence, her wit. She is angry with him in turn, cold and formal when they talk, never meeting his eyes.

"How fares Athena?" He asks casually one day. Hera stops removing her earrings and looks up at him sharply- she's been frosty with him since that day as well, disapproving of his actions. "I have not seen her in quite some time."

"That is of your own design," Hera replies blandly. "She spends time often with her siblings now. I am quite proud of her for it, actually- it is no mean a feat to get the entire Pantheon to sit down and indulge in few games without bloodshed."

"Games?" Zeus frowns. "With the others? Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?"

"Well, if you left your realm ever, you would know." Hera says distractedly, shrugging as she takes off her necklace. "They gather in the courtroom, usually."

The wind blows in, blows out.

Zeus ponders on this in silence, thinking of what to do next. Perhaps he should extend the first hand, since she had followed all the rules. He remembers her on the ground, beaten and burning, one hand extended to beg him to let that insolent hero she had pinned all her hopes on leave Ogygia. Frowns again in discomfort at the memory.

Her gamble paid off. Even as the Greek Pantheon declined in power, the story of her hero persisted to give the gods power, to keep them remembered.

Wise Athena, he thinks fondly. Smarter than him, he can admit now.

Zeus is just about to ask Hera if Athena would appreciate a spar when the rustle of fabric past the door of their realm catches his attention.

"Who is there?" He calls out, and Hera turns as well to look. No one enters and they both look to each other with a frown.

Quick footsteps sound out and both of them push themselves to their feet immediately, armed and tense as they rush to the door.

"Athena?" Hera calls out, confused, as they look down over the empty courtroom, Athena pacing erratically silently alone in the middle, no lights on. She does not reply. "Athena!"

Zeus feels foreboding creep up on him as they carefully walk down. "What are you doing up, Athena?" He calls out, voice authoritative. Hera glares at him, and he amends his tone, gentling it. "Is something the matter?"

Athena does not stop walking, at that same hurried pace, turning around at the end of the hall and continuing back towards them, ignoring his words. Zeus feels irritation spark, but the sudden glimpse of his daughter's eyes makes the words die on his tongue, unseeing and glazed over. She does not have her armour on, and her hair is tangled and open, he suddenly realises, along with the growing certainty that something is wrong.

And then Athena drops to the ground and starts seizing.

"ATHENA!" They scream as one, and all the gods of the Pantheon come awake, lamps catching fire as they all come stumbling out of their rooms and realms. Zeus reaches out and holds her hands down as she starts clawing at herself, drawing blood. The others start shouting and crying around them, Athena's head snapping back and forth gruesomely, eyes bleeding ichor. "Athena, gather yourself!" He shouts at her. "Cease this- cease this at once, you are stronger than this!"

"She cannot hear you!" Hera cries, falling to her other side, trying to straighten Athena out from the fetal position she is curling into with painful, stuff jerks. "She never does- she doesn't-"

"This has happened before?" Zeus bellows, outraged. His answer comes in the form of Ares pulling her weapons off her body, the ones who can't help holding onto each other and hiding their faces in each other's shoulders or staring at Athena with fear as they sob.

Her arm slips Zeus' grip and swings at him erratically before he can grab it again. It nearly knocks him down, so powerful in its animal madness that he actually feels his aspect waver to half its size for a moment- but he is her father and he pulls himself together enough to stay standing, pinning her down again.

"No, let her go!" Apollo shouts as he sits down besides them in his night robes, flipping through an old book of some kind, barely holding in his own panic and fear. "Don't hold her down, give her space."

Zeus grimaces but lets her go, feeling nausea and fear rise within him as she writhes and twists, unhearing of Hera's desperate sobs for her to stop. "What is happening to her?" He demands, unable to watch. He is furious, lightning blazing in his hands as he itches to find the culprit, to find who dared to do this. "Who did this to her?"

"I do not know," Apollo says horrifically, lips pressed thin, eyes flicking up to her and then back down to the book. "But I found this in her realm- she apparently is aware of it, this is some sort of book of instructions on the affliction-"

"Give me that," Zeus growls, snatching it away, and flipping through it. "Go get a bed," He instructs, the other Olympians springing up to do so immediately, desperate to help. "Olive- olive branches, she wakes to branches. Get water- no, get ambrosia, get a cloth to wipe her face. A change of clothes. A cold compress, if she has fever. It will stop on its own, let it run its course- Muses, what is this?"

"A lullaby," Euterpe says, pulling the book down to scan it. "From old Ithaka, if I'm not mistaken."

The gods all stop and stare at her. "Ithaka?" Zeus repeats, flipping to the front of the book. "Who has written this-"

"PENELOPE!" Athena screams suddenly, making them all jump in fright. Her back arches to a painful degree, spit running down the side of her mouth as her eyes roll back in her head. "PENELOPE, TELEMACHUS-"

Aphrodite puts her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut, just as Athena takes a deep breath in and screams louder than before, "ODYSSEUS!"

(In life, he had only failed her once. But now he is dead, and cannot come.)

"Odysseus, please," She moans, in the old Greek that has not been used in decades. "You promised to help, please- Penelope, where are- where is- Telemachus, please-"

Zeus feels his heart break as proud, strong Athena breaks down on the floor, calling for mortals clearly much dearer to her than they thought. But it's not the end of it- he flips through the book again, desperately searching for something to stop this, a cause, an enemy- and then he sees his own name.

Curse proud Zeus, may his life never be happy, may his legacy forever be tainted, Odysseus has written, the letters harsh and burning with fury, even though the curse means nothing from a mortal, even though he risked the ire of the gods writing it. Below it, in what must be Penelope's neat handwriting, an equally furious and clipped diagnosis is penned- brain damage, extensive but occasional, caused by a lightning bolt to the face, that targeted her realm's power and left her with seizures, memory loss and dissociation.

A lightning bolt to the face.

Zeus stands there numbly, as the Pantheon scrambles and chatters worriedly around him, hesitantly singing along to the lullaby in the book as Athena continues to shake, unresponsive. His fault. It is his fault that she is like this, that she is left reduced to calling for dead mortals, crying blood over her siblings' feet.

He did not mean to, he thinks, feeling small and pathetic and monstrous. He did not mean for this to happen- only wanted to teach her a lesson, keep his pride; had not meant for her realm to sustain damage for so long. He thought she'd healed. He thought she hadn't been hurt, past the scar on her face that he'd felt vaguely guilty about, from time to time.

How stupid he was.

"Athena," He whispers, aching to reach out, but she screams again and it's drowned out completely. His daughter. All his own, no longer his- because she was never angry at all, these past years; she simply no longer saw him as her father. And why should she, when he has done the unforgivable, when he has done what no other had managed to do, and broken her.

What has he done?

"We are here," Hera says desperately, taking Athena's head in her lap. Ares sings creakily next to her, offtune and shaking. "We are here, love."

"Odysseus," Athena wails, unseeing. "Penelope, Telemachus."

Zeus steps back to let the others rush in, each providing their own solutions, some calling to Athena entreatingly to guide her back to herself. He is not needed here- he does not deserve it, and knows not what more damage he will wreak.

I am sorry, he wants to tell her, as froth escapes her mouth like a rabid dog. I am so sorry, I beg forgiveness, my daughter, please let me fix it.

But she cannot hear him and Zeus raises his head to look for Hermes instead. The messenger god is standing at the very back, well out of view, with a blank face as he meets Zeus' gaze. He feels a surge of fury at the lack of caring, before he remembers that Athena's hero and his son were descendants of Hermes- and sees past the facade to see the other's gods multiplied distress at that fact, unable to come forward to help without possibly making it worse with the likeness.

Zeus inclines his head and then tilts it towards Hades pointedly. Hermes twitches in surprise, then nods determinedly, running off.

Zeus exhales and looks back at Athena as she finally calms, breathing hard. Shoulders slump in relief, frightened muttering taking its place- this wasn't supposed to happen to gods, to Olympians.

Zeus steps forward and brushes her hair out of her eyes as Athena loses consciousness, as they pull her onto a makeshift palanquin and prepare to take her to her room.

"I am sorry," He whispers to her, but it is far, far too late.

[ilguna]

Could I please get #1 from the 2nd list with finnick? Maybe it could be him leaving his SO in 13 while he goes to the capitol but this time he lives?

☼ broken promise (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death, death mention, ehh gore, gun use.

wc; 2.6k

prompt; 1. "Just close your eyes. I will be here when you open them again."

—

A scream lodges in your throat, waking you, rocketing you into an upright position so that you can breathe. With one hand, you grab your throat, gasping for the air that’s been deprived of you, heart beating wildly in your chest. The other is reaching out to his side of the bed to make sure that he’s still there, that he hasn’t left you like the nightmare led you to believe.

Your fingers come into contact with his thigh, you slide your hand over his skin, fingers slowly digging in. You close your eyes, and try to remind yourself that it wasn’t real, and Finnick’s not going to slip through your fingers. He’s here, he’s right next to you.

“(Y/n)?” 

You look over at Finnick, finding his eyes on you. His head is turned over his shoulder, one eye closed and the other one barely open to keep himself awake. You loosen your grip on his leg, most likely the cause of his wake.

“Sorry, Finn.” You murmur.

“What’s the matter?” He mumbles, beginning to roll over to face you.

“I’m fine.” You brush his hair out of his face. It’s getting long, he hasn’t cut it since the reaping. 

��You’re not.” He says, voice raspy but sounding more awake. He grabs your arm, tugging at it slightly. “Come here.”

“It was just a nightmare, Finnick.” You tell him. 

“I don’t care.” He says, pulling again. 

You sigh, but scoot down in the bed, anyway. Finnick lifts the blanket up, arms out to make it easier for you to lay in them. He’s got his eyes closed, waiting for you. As soon as you’re as close as humanly possible, he drops the blanket and pulls you closer, chin on top of your head.

He’s warm, the exhaustion returns to your body slowly. It’s one of the curses of sleeping in the same bed as him. There will be times where he’s tired and needs a nap, but you’re fully rested. He’ll force you to cuddle him, and the next thing you know, the whole day has been wasted away because his body heat has made you drowsy.

However, this time, it’s different. It doesn’t take long for you to get to the brink of sleep, yet you never fall over the edge fully. Each time Finnick adjusts, you’re jolted awake. There’s something keeping you from reaching bliss, and you know exactly what it is.

How are you supposed to sleep when you’re afraid that Finnick’s going to join that stupid Capitol mission? You heard him talking about it with Haymitch a few days ago, and when you asked about it, Finnick told you that it was nothing to worry about. Except, you’re not that stupid. 

You might have been caught up in your own problems here in District Thirteen, but that doesn’t mean you hadn’t noticed his schedule changed a couple weeks ago. He’s not where he’s supposed to be during the day. You did a little prying, some sneaking around, collected the clues and had it put together by his own best friend.

Johanna admitted to you that they had been training the entire time. They found out about a rebel mission to storm the Capitol and seize President Snow’s mansion. It turns out that Finnick isn’t the only one that has been getting ready for this. Katniss, Johanna and Gale have been, too.

Only, Johanna can’t go because she failed the final test. Finnick passed.

You didn’t know how to react to the information she told you, besides standing there and staring into her eyes. She knows how much Finnick means to you—what the two of you have been through to get to this point. She didn’t think, throughout all these weeks, that it might’ve been smart to give you a head’s up that your fiance would be leaving on a suicide mission?

Is he ever going to tell you, himself?

Johanna knew you were mad, and she didn’t have any defense. She simply told you that she had advised Finnick to let you in on it, but the conversation never went on any further than that. Since then, you’ve been waiting for him to tell you. Especially since the hovercraft should be leaving any day now.

“You’re not sleeping.” Finnick suddenly mutters, you jerk slightly at the sound of his voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it, my love?”

You press your lips together. “Promise me you’re not going to leave me, Finnick.”

“What makes you think that I’d leave you?” He asks, pulling you closer into his body. “I would never want that.”

“That’s not what I mean.” You whisper. “I want you to promise that you’re not going to leave this bunker to go on that mission, Finnick. And then I want you to keep it.”

“I promise I’m not going to go on the mission.” He says without hesitating. You can feel his fingers combing through your hair. “Just close your eyes, baby. I will be here when you open them again.”

The heavy feeling in your chest keeps you from believing him.

–

You cross your arms over your chest, teeth tightly grit together to keep from saying anything that might get you in trouble. Although, no words need to be said. The hard glare you’re giving Haymitch speaks a thousand words.

“Oh, (Y/n), what a pleasure.” Plutarch says, coming through an adjacent door. Behind him is President Coin, hair neatly straightened, eyes landing on you when Plutarch moves out of the way. “How are you?”

You give him a sarcastic smile. “The pleasure is all mine, Plutarch, really. It’s always fantastic to be around you. You simply have the best and most charming personality in this entire cement coffin, you know that?” 

“(Y/n).” Haymitch warns.

“And I’m doing great, actually. I would be doing better if someone explained to me why the hell my fiance was allowed to get on a hovercraft to District Two.” 

“I don’t believe you have clearance to be in here.” Coin says, coming down the steps.

“I should.” You tell her. “I don’t see a reason why you’d want to keep me out of here. Oh right, how else would you then go behind my back after everything I’ve done for you?”

“Who let you in this room?” Coin asks.

“I did.” Haymitch says. “She’s got a point. Why was Finnick allowed to train and she wasn’t?”

“That’s because Katniss and Johanna found out about the program we have, and then told Finnick about it. We didn’t have anything to do with him joining.” Coin stops a few feet away from you. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Miss (L/n).”

“And it didn’t occur to you once to let me in on something like that?” You ask her, not moving from where your feet are planted.

“If it helps any, Peeta wasn’t allowed to, either.” Plutarch says.

You press your lips together into an angry smile. “No, that doesn’t help.”

“We can’t do anything for you.” Coin has her hand outstretched toward the door.

Your jaw goes slack. “Is that right?” She doesn’t say anything. “Get Finnick Odair on the next hovercraft back here, now.”

“That’s not possible, (Y/n), and there’s no need to.” Plutarch tells you. “Finnick is part of a group called the Star Squad. They’ve already traveled to the main camp outside of the Capitol, it’ll take a full day for him to get back to District Two. Their jobs aren’t to fight, though, they’ll be traveling behind the main rebel lines. They won’t be put into any direct danger.”

“You better hope not.” You tell Plutarch. “If anything happens to him, I’ll make sure it haunts you for the rest of your fucking life.”

—

“Let me see!” You shout, slamming through the Command room’s doors. “I want to see it for myself!”

Several heads swivel in your direction, daring to remove their eyes from the screen in front of them to see who’s intruding. When they’re met with you, they look away, uninterested.

No one makes a move to escort you out of the room, despite the fact that Coin made it very clear that you weren’t going to be allowed into Command ever again. The doors swing shut behind you, locking you inside.

You drag your feet forward a couple of steps, watching a replay of what’s just taken place in the Capitol. It’s a video of the Star Squad, the group that you were told wouldn’t be put into any danger. There’s a voiceover from the Capitol, explaining to you what’s happening.

They had been trying to film a propo, when they set off a bomb in the middle of the colorful apartment’s courtyard. It blows off the squad leader’s legs, and you watch as they all scramble to regroup, and descend into chaos when black gel shoots from the street.

They make a run for it, trying to get into an apartment before the oil gets to them. A previously level-headed Peeta turns rabid, trying to kill Katniss. One of the trained squad members tries to save her, and in return, he gets kicked into another pod, where barbed wire strings him up above the street.

From there, it takes two people to get a hold of Peeta, where they drag him inside. You catch sight of Finnick, carrying someone over his shoulder, alive. Then, everyone else files in, except for Gale, who tries to shoot the soldier down from the wire. This is the last glimpse you get of the situation, before the camera goes black.

The Capitol reporter is able to identify Gale, Finnick, Peeta, Cressida, Katniss and a man named Boggs, by first name.

You watch in horror as the next clip begins to play. Peacekeepers line up on the roof of the building across from the one the squad ran into. Bombs are launched into the row of apartments, setting off a chain of explosions, and then the building collapses in on itself.

You can feel your heart drop.

It cuts away to a reporter, standing on the same roof the Peacekeepers were. Behind her, the apartment building is aflame. The firefighters work hard to control the flames. The reporter pronounces each person that was inside of that building, dead.

“Oh my god.” You breathe, hand clutching at your chest, beginning to hyperventilate.

They play this scene over and over, proud of their victory. The only time they stop is when a montage of Katniss begins. They talk of her rise to rebel power, and then proceed to tear her down, claiming that she deserved such a violent end.

The room begins to spin around you, an icy feeling spreads from your head down your chest and back, reaching for your legs. You try to hold back the tears that build in your eyes, but once the first one falls, it’s over. A loud sob escapes you as you take a step forward toward the screen.

You quickly change direction, stumbling to a desk with a computer and keyboard on it. You’re barely able to pull the trash can out from underneath it, before you’re vomiting up your entire breakfast and lunch. You can’t breathe. Between the hyperventilating, the tears, and the puke, you struggle to get more than a breath of air in you at a single time.

You sink to your knees, hands coming into contact with the cold cement. You cry for a few seconds, until it dissolves into a coughing fit, that has you gagging. 

He’s dead. Your fiance is dead, and it’s been less than a week since he left for the Capitol.

The doors to Command open behind you. The sounds of boots scuffing on the ground is hardly audible over your sniffling. You tilt your head back, letting the tears roll down your chin, to your neck. 

“(Y/n).” Someone says, coming to crouch next to you. A hand is placed on your back, between your shoulders, rubbing gently. You think it’s Haymitch. “You have to get out before Coin gets here.”

“I don’t care.” You whimper, “Let her. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters to me without him.”

—

Finnick survived. 

He’s in the Capitol, waiting for your hovercraft to land so that he can be the first person you see when you step off. From what you’ve heard, he’s not even significantly hurt from his time navigating the streets and the sewers. 

When they had first told you that he wasn’t dead and he’d successfully made it to the mansion alongside Katniss, about twelve hours ago, you thought they were playing a cruel joke on you. It wasn’t until they pulled up pictures of him in the aftermath, helping navigate the wounded around him, did you believe them. 

There was no question about it, Coin didn’t even bother to put up a fight against you. You, Johanna and Haymitch were put on the first hovercraft that would be traveling to the Capitol. And you haven’t been able to sit still in your seat the entire time. It’s driven Johanna crazy enough to have Haymitch switch seats with her.

You reach for your engagement ring, twisting it on your finger. You should be landing any minute now. It’s only been a week or so since Finnick left you in Thirteen, but it’s felt like months. You went from having him, to losing him, and getting him back only a couple days later.

The hovercraft jerks suddenly as you land. Your fingers fly to the belt they advised for you to have on during the landing. You pull it off, getting to your feet. The pilots shout for you to stay back while they open the rear door. Nothing happens for the longest second, and then the door begins to creak and groan, sunlight flooding in through the cracks.

You start forward, eyes adjusting to the sunlight. When it’s about halfway down, you’re able to get your first glimpse of the hovercraft runway, and the people coming toward you. His bronze hair is shining in the sunlight, and he’s changed into street clothes, instead of wearing the bulky armor that he’d been pictured in.

The second the door touches the concrete, and the pilots tell you it’s safe to leave, you’re out the door and running in his direction. The people he’s with move away, expecting a large impact, while Finnick opens his arms widely, ready to embrace everything you have for him.

You slam into his body, feeling his arms wrap around you, pulling you against him so tightly, that you’re sure you’ll become one person. Finnick presses kisses on your forehead, temple, cheek, neck—anywhere he can touch skin. When you tilt your head back, he seizes your lips in a long kiss, that you have to force yourself to break apart from.

His face twists, eyebrows drawn in, about to ask you why you’ve pulled away like that, but you’ve already grabbed a hold of the front of his shirt, beginning to shake him. He grabs your arms, eyes widening.

“If you ever do that to me again, Finnick, I’ll leave you!” You shout at him, jerking his shoulders. “Do you understand? I will leave and never come back!” 

“I’m so sorry, (Y/n).” Finnick says, holding onto you. “I’m so—”

“How could you do that to me?” You sob, “You could’ve died!”

“I know.” He tells you, “It won’t happen again, honey. I promise you. And I’m going to keep it this time.”

You cup his face, pressing your lips to his. 

[pen-guin-writez]

Panicfrog cuddling for the panicfrog writing prompts thing :) you can decide the rest but I just want them to cuddle at some point ^w^

YAYYY TYTY

fic below the cut!!

Another day that Fear just so happened to be on Dream Duty.

Fear didn't like Dream Duty. It's just... so...boring, man. So cliche, it's just the same thing over and over again. He'll admit, however, there are times nightmares do give him a good scare. But a lot of the time he finds himself staring blankly at the screen.

THUD!

Fear falls out of the chair.

Ow...

"Oh my gosh--- are you okay? Sorry, I didn't mean to--- I--- Oh god...."

Initially, Fear didn't recognize the emotion hovering over him. He slides the chair in front of him to peek behind it shakily and...

"Oh, uh, Anxiety. Hi!"

The 'hi' was more enthusiastic than he wanted it to be, but forget that, he liked her.

"Hi... are you okay?" She asks again, "Sorry."

Fear's eyes dart, before immediately springing into a straight, standing position.

"Do- don't apologize, you're fine," for a split second, he smiles, before faltering and tilting his head, "wait, why are you still up?"

The question seemed to make Anxiety, more... anxious, if that's even possible.

"Listen I'm sorry, I-I tried, but I'm just too worked up about Riley's Spanish test, we- we haven't studied enough--- it's just--- it's not enough, what if we fail? And then Mom and Dad get mad at us? And they ground us, and we never get to play hockey again, and---"

And she goes into an unfiltered, messy rant about Riley, proceeding to lean her head on his shoulder. And Fear just froze for a moment.

Now, normally, Fear would jump in an instant and run away screaming, but there was something oddly comforting about this.

Maybe it was because... she trusted him? For some reason?? At least, she trusted him enough to rant about all her problems and lean in like this. And this time Fear wasn't scared, even though... that's his job, but he was more... endearingly charmed.

Fear suddenly shakes his head, stepping aside from Anxiety.

"Hey, uh, Anxiety?" he stammers, "Uh, listen, okay? I know it's hard. I mean, Riley's thirteen now. That's some scary stuff. I should know, I literally embody all of her fears."

She giggled at that. See, Disgust was wrong, Fear can be funny. Bonus points for sort of impressing a cute girl.

"But you wanna know what's worse? Studying so long you don't get any sleep. And if you don't get any sleep, you'll fall asleep in school. And that's like, one of the worst possible outcomes of studying! Just imagining it makes my skin crawl!"

Fear shakes Anxiety with a playful intent.

"HEY, QUIT IT!!!"

"Oh- oh, I'm sorry, I didn't---"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong. You're just trying to help, it's just... sleeping's always been hard for me, there's just so much on my mind, no matter how hard I try." Anxiety curls up, looking to the side, and Fear really can't help feeling bad for her.

"O-oh, Anxiety... I'm sorry, I wish I could help, but..." Fear pauses in thought. He thinks about what helps him feel better when he's scared.

He smiles gently, "Do you wanna stay here?"

"W-What?"

"Yeah, stay here and... I brought my teddy bear. You can hold him, or me, or--- I mean--- whatever will help you." Fear felt the strand of his hair curl up, his face going all red.

"Really?" Her eyes gleam.

"Ye-yeah. I mean, it's not like this dream here's keeping me occupied, I mean, look at this! Ha!"

It was a dream Fear had seen many times before, the classic not-wearing-pants and everyone-making-fun-of-you type of thing. Except instead of a bunch of eleven year olds laugh at him

"Heh, are you seein' this? Are the directors even tryi---"

Fear felt a squeeze, and his eyes narrowed down to see Anxiety hugging him, her teeth chattering and all. Instead of running off and screaming about germs or something, however, he just cautiously lets his hand reach her hair, slowly, and carefully and...

For once, neither of them run off screaming. At all. They found comfort in each other, and Fear couldn't help but sigh.

Which is exactly what woke Anxiety up.

"Oh my gosh- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to---"

They looked at each other. No one else was around.

"Do you still wanna..?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

Anxiety cuddles up against fear arm as he strokes the back of her head, leaning on her. His fingers were entangled with hers, and it felt like nothing else in the world felt safer than this moment.

And of course, when the morning comes, they'll start screaming and panicking to the other emotions' annoyance.

But Fear needed this moment. Hey, he said he would change her!

[anna-scribbles]

can you share some of your writing/planning process for thirteen? i adore the non-linear format - how do you decide what scenes to put where?

ahh thank you!! idk how much of a defined process I have, but there's definitely a lot of planning that goes into it and i can show you some of that.

i keep all the chapters in one doc organized by month, and then i plan everything out in bullet points in a timeline at the beginning. here i just have october and november as examples bc after december things started to get more detailed/messy

all of the scenes (especially at the beginning) set the stage for things i’ve planned to happen later, or establish something that feels relevant to adrien’s character by the time we meet him in canon. the task of condensing an entire month into about 2-3 scenes has been a bit difficult; i’ve found out that i’m a very present-moment kind of writer so it’s harder for me to describe the passage of, like, weeks of time. so i’ve been pinpointing specific threads of adrien’s story that i want to be sure to tell and choosing scenes from each month that build on that.

i’ve had the idea for this fic in the back of my mind since about 2021 so i’ve had several scenes cemented in my mind, ways i’ve decided things played out, etc. some of the writing process has been building the narrative around those things or figuring out how we get there. that’s what i love about prequels in general, honestly - it’s inevitable where we’re going to end up, but how do we get there?

adrien’s situation, at the moment we meet him in origins, is SO endlessly fascinating to me. he is in the process of doing something reckless and rebellious and bold - running away - against the will of his father, a man he spends the rest of the series struggling with his compulsion to submit to. we find out, via the rest of the show, exactly how difficult it is for adrien to stand up to his father. and yet, in his very first appearance, adrien is running away from him.

how did he get here? what, exactly, pushed him to this point? was this the final escalation of a steady build of rebellious behaviors, or an impulsive breakthrough after one awful day too many? what has this small boy been through in the last year, and why does public school seem to be his only fathomable escape?

and WHY, if his circumstances are so dire as to compell him to rebel so boldly in the first place, does he still throw it away to help the old man in the road? what makes him so kind, when he has everything to lose? what happened? how did he get here?

i’m interested, obviously, in the character of émilie. i think that the hole she leaves in the narrative is a compelling silhouette and i’ve been having a blast trying to pencil in its details. it’s obvious that adrien loved her deeply and had a stronger connection to her than with gabriel. but also, adrien was still shut off from the world while she was alive. he was still, presumably, an exploited child star while she was alive. she was an actress and a mother and died by broken magic and never told her son the truth about any of it. figuring out who i think she was and then how to show that through young adrien’s eyes has been a huge part of planning this story for me.

as far as the twenty three year old adrien sections, those have been less involved as far as planning goes. i only recently mapped out which areas of the house i want him to visit during the different months. i wanted his sections to line up at least thematically, if not physically, where thirteen year old adrien is at in his story. for example, in december twenty three year old adrien cleans out the dining room where thirteen year old adrien was having terrible christmas dinner. and in january they’re both in the garden, etc.

it’s a bit harder to map out twenty three adrien just because it has to also make sense geographically - i can’t have him running back and forth up and down the stairs, let’s be real he doesn’t have the energy for that. i’ve also opened up the agreste mansion page on the miraculous wiki so many times while trying to map this out 💔💔 did you know that apparently there’s a third floor we never see in the show. yeah i have to figure out what to do with that now

ANYWAY long story short: the planning process for thirteen is kind of a mess, but the whole story is built around some central plot points that i knew i wanted to hit from the beginning. the details change a lot (as you can see from the outline above - it’s not quite right) but i keep the end in mind. just have to figure out how we get there.

thank you for asking!! mwah<3

[clintashaotp]

Authors note/summary: I have not been on this account for several years, but I've recently been finally getting back into writing and wanted to get back on the site! I hope the Marvel fandom is still out there, feel free to send prompts or requests :)

No Such Thing as Easy Missions

1433 Words

...

Steve should know by now that there’s no such thing as an easy mission. Even though Fury swears this one should be simple, just an in-and-out hostage rescue situation, he should have known that there was a catch. There always seems to be. And right now, the catch is a room full of young girls handcuffed to their bedframes, and the stone-faced, silent redhead assassin to his right.

“Are these the hostages?” Tony asks, rather unhelpfully. The girls are silent, watching, waiting. They don’t seem to be able to understand them, but they don’t look afraid, even though four of the six avengers just burst through the locked door to their – what is this, a bedroom? There are probably thirty girls, the oldest no older than twelve or thirteen, each sitting up in their beds and watching the group attentively.

“теперь ты в безопасности.” You’re safe now. The girls all snap to attention at Natasha’s words, who has snapped out of barely hidden shock and starts to unhook the chains of the girl nearest her.

“Right, Russian. That makes sense.” Tony goes for the next row of beds, and Clint and Steve quickly follow suit.

Steve kneels next to the bed, where a little girl in ragged clothes watches him with eyes that seem much too old for her face. When he glances over his shoulder, Natasha is still working on the chains of the girls in the first row of beds. She’s always been hard to read, but Steve has tried his best over the years to learn her tells as well as her triggers, and right now they’re in a remote Red Room facility with no warning. She doesn’t look shaken, but he knows she must be, and as the group continues to release the girls from their beds, he keeps an eye on her. Clint follows her closely, putting a hand on her shoulder that she shrugs off, eyes dark and dull. They exchange a few words in low voices that Steve can’t make out, but he doesn’t try to eaves drop. Tony is also uncharacteristically quiet – something about the gravity of the situation seems to register with him, and Steve is grateful that Tony was able to pull himself together and stay on track.

After Natasha’s words in Russian, the girls all seem to flock to her with much more comfort than with her teammates – though Steve can’t say he’s surprised about it, seeing as Natasha is also the only woman in a room full of tall, foreign men. Natasha keeps reassuring the girls in soft Russian as they walk through the maze of hallways, destroyed by hammer blows and the footprints of a monster much bigger than a man (the wielders of both weapons who currently wait in the jet half a mile away).

“I called extraction, Hill’s got a jet for the hostages out front,” Tony supplies helpfully, and all Natasha does is give him a nod, her eyes not leaving the faces of the girls. She’s pale, and Steve notices her tighten her hands into fists to hide her shaking. Clint walks alongside her, keeping a subtle eye on her that doesn’t go unnoticed by Steve and Tony, who exchange a cautious glance.

The hostages load into the sleek black jet Hill has parked outside of the facility, marching diligently into the hanger. As Natasha turns away with the rest of the group, one of the girls tugs on her hand gently, and Natasha whirls around, kneeling to reach the girl’s level. She can’t be more than eight years old, and her hair is in dark knotted braids, her lips chapped. Steve watches Natasha whisper quietly to the girl, who gives Natasha a shy hug before following the rest of the group to the jet. Natasha stands there for a moment, watching the girl go, and the group stops with her, waiting.

“We good to go?” Tony asks carefully.

“Yep.” Natasha turns suddenly and brushes past them, heading for their jet. She’s walking so fast they can barely keep up with her.

“Clint --” Steve starts, but the archer cuts him off.

“I know. She’s…I know.”

When they reach the jet, Natasha’s already gone into the back compartment to change. Banner and Thor sit in the main bay, looking confused as the rest walk in.

“What happened?” Banner asks quietly, glancing behind him where Natasha disappeared to.

“Red Room,” Steve doesn’t need to elaborate. Banner winces.  

“Ah. Fuck.” 

“What do we do?” Tony, surprisingly thoughtful, turns to Clint for help.

“I’ll handle it. I’ll – she’ll be fine. Let’s fly.”

“Roger that,” Tony shrugs, offering a half-assed salute.

The jet takes off smoothly, the team waiting apprehensively for Natasha. She comes out a good ten minutes after takeoff, having changed into more comfortable clothes. She doesn’t look at the group, instead opting to pull a book out of her mission duffle and curl up in the corner away from them. There’s a heavy silence in the room, broken only by the crisp turning of pages as Natasha pointedly ignores the group. Her hands are shaking.

“Nat?” Tony asks, softly, tentatively. She doesn’t look up.

“What?”

“That was…was that the Red Room?” he tries. Her shoulders tense, the only sign that she’s even listening.

“Part of it,” is the only response she gives.

“Do you want –”

“This isn’t a press conference, Stark,” she snaps sharply, finally looking up and closing her book swiftly. “Yes, that’s how I was raised. Is that what you want to know?”

“No, I—”

“It’s no one’s business what my childhood was like. I’ve done my best to keep it under wraps, so of fucking course that’s where we get sent for extraction,” she swears, and alarmingly to both her and the team, her eyes burn with unshed tears. She stands on shaking legs, and Steve reaches out a hand and grabs her elbow to steady her. She wrenches out of his grasp, taking a few steps back.

“No one’s judging you,” Steve offers quietly, and she scoffs, but it’s much less controlled than her demeanor a few moments ago.

“Of course not, Super Soldier,” she laughs. It’s a barked, panicked sort of sound, and Clint turns around from the controls to see what’s happening. Thor’s on his feet now, looking uneasy, and Bruce has shrunk into a corner, trying to remain as out of the line of verbal fire as possible.

“Natasha, we –”

“Save it, Stark,” she barks. “You and your fancy supercomputer already know everything, or close enough.” Her voice is higher, and it cracks at the top, and Clint quickly flips the jet to autopilot to join them all in the back.

“Nat.” He’s firm, and she turns to face him. It’s then that he sees how truly rattled she was by the sight of all those little girls chained to their beds.

He knew, of course he knew – the nights that he caught her chaining herself to the bedframe so she could sleep, the times he held her as she screamed and writhed from nightmares, the tears he wiped off her face in the rarest moments of vulnerability. She’s panicking now, her pupils are pinpricks, her hands trembling, her face pale. She’s staring into his eyes and even though her demeanor is threatening rather than threatened, he knows how to read her better than anyone.

“Copilot with me,” he offers. She holds his gaze for a moment. Tony and Steve exchange a look, Thor shifting uneasily on his feet. There’s a moment where Clint thinks she might refuse him, throw her book at his head and run to the back of the jet, or pull one of her many knives out of the hidden pockets in her clothes, but she doesn’t. She just nods, once, and follows him up to the front of the plane. She could sit in the copilot’s chair, but of course she doesn’t. She squeezes in with him into the main chair, sitting half on the chair, half on his lap, leaning subtly against his chest. He puts a hand on the back of her neck gently, offering a small squeeze of reassurance. He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t have to. They listen to the sounds of Steve, Tony, and Thor settling into their seats again, and Clint ventures a careful look at the spy once more. Her eyes look straight ahead, blank and tired. She’ll be sleeping with the handcuffs again tonight, he knows it already, but they’ll work it out. They’ve figured it out before, they can do it again.

[hyuuukais]

.・゜-: ✧ :- FICTIONAL REALITY .・゜-: ✧ :-

pairing • bang chan x fem reader

synopsis • fiction or reality? y/n preferred the former, escaping into another world, escaping her problems. so what happens when reality takes that away from her; wiping her own story-in-progress off both her laptop and beloved usb? and what happens when she opens the door in the middle of a crisis to none other then the love interest of her novel... and he's holding her usb?

warnings • general, blood, descriptions of wounds, ivs

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

CHAPTER THIRTEEN • BACK INSIDE (2K)

Dark, cold, alone.

The only sound to be heard is his wheezing, a strong hand still clutching his chest. Phlegm coats his throat, attempting to clear it several times before he can breathe normally again.

Where is he?

A soft light comes up from the edge of the floor he's sitting on, up to his waist completely soaked. His hands lie underneath the surface, but he can't see them in the dark, murky water. Slowly, he pushes himself up, frozen joints groaning, a new sensation for him. His back hits something as he stands, stumbling forward and getting a face full of water. Panic jolts him up and out, using whatever hit him as support.

It's firm, leathery, worn. He drags his fingers over it, feeling the angles and cold metal bits, dangling wires brushing against his right arm. It feels like some kind of chair or upright bed, his eyes straining to make out the edges in the dark.

Dull pain radiates down his neck as he looks around, taking in his surroundings. Bringing a hand up, he can feel circular wounds about the size of a quarter, three on each side. They're still slick with blood, and he notices the dangling wires left a similar substance on his arm. He grabs one, examining the end covered in what he's concluded is, in fact, his own blood, with small hooks at the end all broken. He must have ripped them out before passing out on the floor.

Now, where's the exit?

The light is broken for about three feet of the wall, which has to be the door. Minho sloshes toward it, weariness dragging at his bones. He stops, hand outstretched to open the door, and looks back at the chair. Wouldn't it be better to just lay down, rest a while first? He's so tired.

"No," he croaks. "No, I can't."

There's a reason he's here.

Keep going.

"Hello?" His hand slips away from the door, backing up against it. "Who was that?"

Silence. Cold, cold silence thick and suffocating until he just about rips the door off the hinges to get out.

Light blinds him, shielding his eyes with his forearm. He attempts to find and shut the door, but behind him is open space, not even a wall. Bright, white curved walls surround him, now standing in the middle of the room. There's a mirror directly in front of him.

"Holy shit."

Dried blood has trailed down his neck, soaking his white shirt almost completely. No wonder I passed out. His skin is ghostly pale, lips dry and chapped, skin around his nose and on his hands not much better. Dark purple circles line his eyes. Veins pop in his arms, surely from dehydration with the way his mouth feels full of sand. Hunger starts setting in, a sharp pain in his stomach. Where was he supposed to find food and water in a place like this? Especially when, looking around, there's no exit.

"No, no, no, no." Minho jogs away from the mirror, ignoring the pain flashing in his knees, the cramps forming in his abdomen. "Let me out!"

Shouting, fists hitting the wall, leaving specks of red behind. In the moment he should be thinking of his own survival, he thinks of Y/n; how scared she was, and no doubt still is. He thinks of her hands on him as he walks the perimeter, thinks of her words of comfort she once offered. Thinks of her bravery, her resilience, as he crumbles to the floor, back in front of the mirror. Minho stares, empty, at his reflection; who is he?

You're still in there, a voice comes from behind him, but no one appears in the mirror.

Find yourself. Now, it's comes from above.

Who you were before Y/n left, it speaks from all around, from every inch of the room. When you were happy. Before you lost yourself in finding her.

"I can't."

You can.

"He's gone," his voice is quiet. "I don't know him anymore. I don't know how to be him anymore."

You don't have to be him, just don't forget him, the voice turns softer. Don't leave him behind.

•

"Shit," you groan, eyes squeezing in pain, a wave of nausea running through you.

The last thing you remember is getting in your car. How you ended up back in this place is beyond you, but you knew you needed to find the person who helped you leave before. If you could find them.

Looking down, you see the wire- no, IV- taped to your arm, connecting you with the young man sitting in an identical chair across from you. Like the main characters in movies you've seen, you claw the IV from your forearm, dark red blood spurting out. You quickly slap your hand over the wound, but the blood continues to spill out through your fingers and onto your stark white clothes. Your only option is to try and rip part of your shirt to use as a bandage, but the material is thick and you're too weak.

Screw it then. You'll just walk around bleeding out. Not like you haven't before.

You snort at your thoughts, swinging your legs over the edge and hopping off the chair. The wires that should have been in your neck hang in the air, not yet attached. Whoever is overseeing this must have figured you wouldn't be awake so soon.

Yeonjun lies unmoving, and you approach him with a tired smile. Did removing the IV from your arm affect him? There's no way of knowing. Maybe he's bleeding out in the comfort of your shared apartment, wondering what the hell is going on. Or maybe he's getting ready for the night, arm intact. You hope it's the former.

Just like Chan, his skin is near translucent, with blue and green veins prominent in his arms and neck. You cup his jaw, tracing his dry lips with your thumb. This man who you loved, this man who hurt you, completely at your mercy. His face is relaxed like he's dreaming, mouth parting when you remove your hand, letting it fall to his neck. The thick wires there are hot, working hard at whatever their purpose is.

You wrap a hand around one, giving a light tug. It's tough, and the movement causes Yeonjun's head to roll to the side. Another tug and you can feel it budge. Placing a hand around the entrance, you pull as hard as you can.

The wire comes out easier than you expected, making you stumble back slightly. Blood shoots out, lines of it decorating your shirt, slowing down to a trickle out of the hole you've created.

His eyes fly open.

This was a bad idea.

•

Minho's phone rings on the bedside table, lighting up the dim room and effectively waking up Chan. The name and number are blurry to Chan's freshly opened eyes, barely making out the contact name of the local police department-

What?

Chan scrambles for the phone; there's no way they should have his number unless- "H-hello?"

"Am I speaking to Lee Minho?" A gruff voice on the other side asks.

"No, he's-" Chan looks down at his unconscious body. "He's, erm. Unavailable at the moment."

"Can I ask why you're answering for him?"

"Yes, yes, of course." He clears sleep out of his throat, sitting up in his chair, pulled from the kitchen table. "You see when the police are phoning your friend, you assume it's important. And since he can't answer for himself right now, I figured my answering would be better than letting it go to voice mail."

"Okay... we're calling on behalf of L/n Y/n. She's been in an accident"

"That's impossible- she's- she should still be home?" Chan talks as he walks to your room, opening the door roughly.

"Well she must have left and didn't say anything."

You're not in bed like he thought, and he sees the empty spot where your car used to be through the window. His heart plummets, mind rushing to everything that could have happened to you.

"She's okay for now, mostly bumps and bruises," the man is becoming irritated, Chan can tell. "Bad hit to the head though. She's at Yellow Wood Health Centre. Goodbye now."

"Wait- seriously?"

It takes everything in him not to run outside, get in his car, and go, instead going into your office where Jeongin has nodded off on the couch. The bruise on his face has darkened, purples and red and blues decorating his left cheek and temple. Up close there's a small split in the skin Chan hadn't noticed before, the redness blending into his painted cheek.

"Jeongin?" He stirs, eyes opening just barely.

"Mmmh?"

"Y/n is hurt, she's in the hospital." At this, he sits up, catching the arm of the couch to steady himself with the sudden dizziness. "I'm going to check on her-"

"Let me go with you."

"No," Chan says firmly. "No, you have to stay with Minho, okay? We can't leave them both unprotected."

"But-"

"No buts." Chan puts an arm on Jeongin's shoulder. "I'll keep you updated."

Leaving no room to debate, he exits the room swiftly. The thought of you in pain, all by yourself, has Chan moving at the speed of light. His chest heaves, exhaustion seeping through his skin as he runs out the door and into his car. Vision still blurry, but he can't risk you being alone for so long. Chan's head pounds, a splitting headache awakening underneath his brow bone.

It's not long before he has to pull over, still far from your location. Pulling out his phone, he searches for Jeongin in his contacts.

"You're there already? Didn't you just leave?"

"About that." Chan leans his head back, seeing black dots enter the edge of his sight. "I'm gonna pass out. Can you drive?"

•

They arrive at the hospital in record time.

"Do you need me to get you a wheelchair?"

"What?" Chan gives the kid a confused look, then remembers the whole reason he's here. "Oh, no. I don't want to draw attention. Let's just go."

"But- aaand you're leaving the car." Jeongin rolls his eyes, exiting the driver's side. "Are you gonna be stumbling like that the whole way in? Because that will draw attention."

He watches Chan steady himself against the wall. "I'll be fine."

Of course, Jeongin doesn't believe him, but getting to you before anyone else can is more important than a few missteps. It doesn't take long to locate the front desk of the small hospital, Chan posing as your boyfriend and only family to gain access to your room. It shouldn't be so easy, and that worries Jeongin, no doubt worrying Chan as well.

They enter your room, closing the blinds immediately. Chan swallows, leaning over your body with a delicate hand tracing your bruised jaw. There are bandages on your nose and wrapped around your head, a cast on your right wrist.

"She doesn't look as bad as I thought she would." Jeongin takes a place on the chair next to your bed.

Something feels like it's covering you, the air thick around your body. If he looks close enough, he can see the edges of the bubble keeping you down. Keeping you asleep.

Keeping you inside.

"You've got to be kidding me," he groans, pushing Chan's hand away from you to place his own on your cheek.

"What are you-"

"Shh." He closes his eyes. "I need to focus."

Darkness swirls, difficult to penetrate. There's the faintest light, and Jeongin focuses hard on that, assuming it must be you. The light grows bigger, more blinding by the second.

"I think I see her... there's a white room." Jeongin knows he's overexerting his ability, blood trickling down his lips. "So close..."

And the pain is gone, leaving him standing in a white room in front of a mirror dressed in plain white clothes to match. There's someone behind him, facing away from the reflection, but it isn't you.

He turns around, startled by the appearance of another human. "Jeongin? Kid, what the hell are you doing here?"

●

notes • sorry for no update last week! i hope you enjoy this switch of pov though :)

taglist • @yongbbokkie @chaeryred @tenebrisirae @toplinelix @chansdoll @amaranth-writing @3rachachoo @linosjureumi @thebrownemo @tfshouldidohere @channie-143 @frogieeheart @kangaracharacha @skzswife @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad

TAGLIST CLOSED ^^^blue means i can't tag you

[majesty-madness]

A Past Encounter - Bucky Barnes x reader (nsfw)

Summary: Being in a relationship with Bucky, Y/N prided herself on knowing him quite well but when she’s accidentally teleported back to 1940, Y/N discovers that there is a whole other Bucky that she has yet to meet. The sweet flirt that had everything going for him before his unfortunate capture by HYDRA.

Word Count: 5800+

Warnings: modern Steve & Bucky, 40’s in general, 40’s Bucky & Steve, 40’s Bucky, small 40’s Steve, cursing, angst, crying, comfort, a bit of lying, real info on 1941 (I'll put a note at the bottom), fluff, night date, dancing, 40's music

a/n: not proofread. I highly recommend listening to the song below as you read this chapter or if you wait for a special part (you'll probably know when it happens) so it'll be even better! Though I'm sorry it's a link to a YouTube video, I don't have anything else to link to.

Since the author's note below is a little long I'm gonna tag people up here. Tagged - @honeyrydernot @spn-obession @tinyminxie @fluffybunnyu @saintmagx @hopelessromantic423 @marygoddessofmischief @theeleggymeggy @lethallyprotected

Commissions are available so don't forget to check that out!

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Chapter Thirteen

The boom of door handles hitting the wall behind them made a resounding thunder throughout the large living room. 

“Buck, come on…” Steve pleaded softly, hot on his heels. 

“No! All that time, all that effort only for them to turn us down! They already had an answer, they were just jerking us around. What are we supposed to do?!” Bucky snapped back, nearly ripping off his black button up jacket then slamming it down onto the nearest couch. It was then that the rest of the team flitted in from outside. 

Steve raised his hands in mock surrender, “For now, we need to stay focused on the problem at hand. Y/N is gone, stuck in 1941 and we need to bring her back.”

Bucky scoffed, “Were you not listening back there? I know that we have to get her back, but what can I do? They’ve made their decision. And if I push the issue, the past that I’ve tried so hard to leave behind will come back and punish me the way I deserve.” 

“You don’t deserve to be punished, not then, not now. Whatever happens, you are not alone and we’ll fix this. And we’ll keep trying, until she’s home.” Steve reassured him, standing strong before his friend as a pillar of support. 

The others who were silently listening from the kitchen, finally spoke to each other. “I know that Steve says we need to keep trying but if the court turned us down once, it’s not very likely that they will agree if we try it again.” Natasha reasoned sadly, arms crossed over her chest. 

“I don’t think they’d agree to another hearing anyway.” Sam admitted as he sat down at the nearby kitchen counter, his face sporting a deep frown. 

Bucky, who resided to sitting on the couch, leaving Steve to face his back, sat quietly with eyes dark as the gray clouded sky outside with the beginnings of a heavy rain. He could hear the distant thunder making its way over the compound, and for a moment related to the chaotic weather separated by a layer of plaster and glass.

________

It’s been a few days since Y/N came to the realization that she wasn’t going anywhere. 

When Y/N had returned to the apartment later that evening, she saw the look of immediate worry on Bucky and Steve’s faces. And when she only gave one word answers to their concerned questions, it was obvious to them something was wrong and she didn’t want to talk about it. 

Neither one of them prodded her for the truth. Not at first. Instead the two left her be to sort out whatever was going on in her head. They figured, maybe in a day or two she’d be okay and things would go back to normal. But they didn’t. 

In fact, she seemed to be doing worse with each passing day. Her lackluster attitude demonstrated that this was more than a mere tiff, so as much as he didn’t want to tip over the apple cart, Bucky decided to confront her. 

He sat at the dining table, fidgeting with his thumbs as he looked up to Steve who simply leaned against the kitchen counter, hands dipped into his pockets. The two kept staring at each other until Steve silently motioned toward Y/N with a jerk of his head before looking back to Bucky. 

Bucky mouthed a fine, then stood up from the table to where Y/N stood beside the couch, folding laundry. 

“Hey Y/N?”

Without looking, Y/N simply hummed in response. 

“Uh..How’re you doing?”

She stopped in the middle of folding a towel, the fabric pressed against her torso as she was attempting to line up the edges. “I’m fine.” 

Bucky anxiously turned to Steve who shook his head at Y/N’s answer. The brunette took a deep breath in preparation. “Are you sure?” 

Finishing folding the towel in her arms, Y/N scoffed. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Of course it matters.” Bucky rebuked, caught off guard by the sudden deprecating statement. 

Tossing the towel onto the coffee table with the others, Y/N half haphazardly ripped another one out of the laundry basket to fold. “No, it doesn’t. Besides, what's the point? I mean we all know I’m not supposed to be here in the first place and the last thing I need to do is throw my baggage onto people who don’t deserve it; least of all you two.”

She began to frantically ramble, hands now trembling with anxiety that started to soak into her nerves, breathes coming in heavier and thicker almost like she forgot how to breathe. 

Bucky, growing up with a mother, knew the tall-tell signs of when a woman was on the cusp of a breakdown so like he’d seen his father do, he grasped both of her arms and gently turned her to face him. “Hey, hey now…”

At first, Y/N tried to resist the way he guided her to him but under his warm hands, she found it difficult to shake off the familiar sensation especially when he was touching her so softly. The moment she turned all the way around, her eyes immediately dipped to stare at his collar rather than his eyes for fear he would see the tears caused by her despair and his tenderness. 

“Look at me, Y/N. Please.” He whispered between the two of them. 

Albeit hesitant, she looked up at him and her heart stuttered with grief at the affection swimming in his eyes. It was a familiar expression, one she’s seen on a multitude of occasions and seeing it here, now, made the beginnings of a sob rush up her already aching throat. 

“Oh doll…Come here.” Bucky brought her into a hug without any objection, letting her stuff her face into his shirt as she cried. 

Steve took a few steps forward out of sympathy, eventually coming to stand just a few feet from his friends. His eyes raked over Y/N’s buried face then to Bucky who offered a tight lipped smile with no joy behind it. 

Bucky, keeping one hand on Y/N’s lower back, used his other one to rub comfortingly up and down the expanse of her back. He continued this action as Y/N sobbed in his shirt, clutching the fabric into her palms to anchor herself to him. Not that he minded, whatever she needed, he’d do it for her. 

Minutes upon minutes stacked up until her wrenching sobs turned to soft whimpers and her tears were starting to dry onto the supple skin of her cheeks. Bucky took the chance to speak again. 

“What’s wrong, doll?”

He gave her all the time she needed to respond when she pulled away from his chest, eyes feeling heavy and swollen. Bucky peered down at her, finger coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“Do you…remember when I said I was just visiting New York?” She finally spoke. Both the boys nodded. 

She sighed, “Well that wasn’t exactly the truth.” 

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, urging her to continue. 

“The truth is that…I was forced to leave my home.” 

Steve shifted uncomfortably in his spot as her words sank in. “Someone made you leave?”

Y/N’s eyes glanced over to Steve who mirrored Bucky’s confusion. She nodded to him. 

“Who?” Both Steve and Bucky questioned. 

Y/N genuinely thought about what she was going to say because the man who was responsible for her being here would require the explanation that she was from a different time where she already knew them two, and they were Avengers fighting superhumans and aliens on occasion. In her opinion it’d be best that they didn’t know the truth, not the whole truth anyway, since they most certainly would think she’d lost her mind. 

After giving it some thought, she said what came to mind. “There was this man, causing problems for my…family so I confronted him. Me confronting him led to a lot of grief and in not so many words, it became obvious if I didn’t leave then my family wouldn’t be safe.” 

She inwardly cringed as each word left her mouth, wishing she could pull them back and swallow them down silently. It was a lie, no matter the double meaning those words had for her, it wasn’t the truth.

Though they seemed to believe her rightly enough as the boys nodded. 

“So you can’t go back?” Steve asked somewhat rhetorically, but left the open air quiet in case she wanted to say anything else. 

All Y/N did was shake her head in a distinct no.

“Listen to me,” Bucky started, hands sliding across her upper arms in a gesture of reassurance. “Like we’ve said, you can stay with us as long as you need. No one's gonna rush you out or give you a time limit. Whatever you need, whoever you need to talk to; we’ll be here. The both of us.” 

Steve nodded in agreement, offering Y/N a comforting pat to her shoulder and a smile. She glanced between the two of them, flashing a teary smile of her own. “I know and thank you. Very much.” 

“Look, how about you go take a little nap, while Steve and I finish up the chores. It seems you could use some rest, maybe you’ll feel better.” Bucky kindly suggested, thumbs running over her clothed skin. 

 “Yeah…” She breathed softly, “That sounds nice.” 

Bucky led her through the threshold of his bedroom, walking the length of the floor to the bed then pulled back his comforter to hold it open as Y/N tucked herself under the fabric. Once she got into a comfortable position, Bucky bid her a good rest then stepped back into the living room while he closed the bedroom door. 

Now it was only him and Steve. 

“Do you think that maybe she was holding something back?” Steve abruptly asked in the now peaceful living room. 

Bucky wiped a hand over his face and sighed. “Yeah, but if she doesn’t want to get into it then who are we to prod any further?”

There was an obvious answer and the two of them already knew it. 

“I know.” Steve whispered to himself, wandering over to the couch and plopping down onto the cushions. 

“I just wish there was something that would maybe make her feel better. Get her mind off of it all.” Bucky admitted, sitting down next to Steve, leaning back completely. 

Steve sat up straight, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the rug below, thinking, contemplating. “Well, there’s this new movie that came out a few weeks ago, we could go see it tonight.”

Bucky raised his brows in curiosity. “A movie.” He repeated, tongue clicking in thought. “That could be fun. What’s the movie called?”

“It’s called ‘Blossoms in the Dust,’ I think. I don’t remember what it’s about, but apparently it’s good.” 

“Well there’s no harm in checking it out, then afterwards we could go out to dinner. Not sure I want to cook tonight anyway.”

“Y/N’s been the one doing the most cooking so you wouldn’t be anyway.” Steve scoffed as he stood up from the couch heading back to the kitchen.

Bucky smirked, “Shut it, you punk.”

________

Surprisingly, Y/N awoke feeling rejuvenated, blinking the sleep away from her eyes.

She stared off into the distance for a moment before her brain caught up with her. She sat up, partially pushing the blanket off her torso to look outside. It was obviously night now, the lights from the other buildings surrounding the apartment in full bloom at this time. 

How long had she been asleep?

A few seconds passed then she pulled the blanket off her completely, stepping onto the hardwood floor that creaked under her weight. 

Upon opening the bedroom door, the sound of smooth, lyric-less jazz resounded throughout the living room while Steve and Bucky sat at the coffee table playing cards. 

Steve laid down a card which caused Bucky to mutter out a slight curse then pick up another from the deck sitting patiently in the middle of the table. 

Y/N hummed a quiet laugh but it was just loud enough for them to hear as Bucky looked over. His annoyed expression softened into an endearing one. 

“Hey there, you feeling a little better?” He asked, cards forgotten in his hand. 

Steve looked up and over as well, a familiar friendly posture as he too wondered if she was okay.

Y/N nodded as she took several steps forward until she was standing next to Bucky, hand instinctively settling on his chair. “Yeah, I feel much better. Thank you.” 

“I’m glad.” Bucky smiled, keeping his eyes on Y/N before switching over to Steve briefly. “Hey, can I run an idea by you? I think you might like it.” 

Caught off guard by the abrupt inquisition, Y/N simply stared at him. “Sure.”

“Steve and I were talking earlier, and we thought it’d be fun if we went out to a movie tonight, get some dinner afterwards. What do you think?” Bucky asked as he looked up at her expectantly. 

Y/N gaped down at him, not anticipating the suggestion. Honestly, the idea of seeing a film in this day and age somehow hadn’t crossed her mind. She’s been so focused on trying to leave that the concept of just having fun… escaped her. 

“Uh..Which movie?” 

Bucky shared a smile with Steve as they looked at each other. “Well it’s called.. uh..” He trailed off then Steve filled in the blank. 

“Blossoms in the Dust.” 

“Yeah, yeah, right. Apparently, it came out a few weeks ago and Steve said it was good.” Bucky gestured to Steve before he quickly retorted,

“I said I heard it was good, I haven’t seen it yet.” 

“Well whatever…” Bucky brushed him off. “So what do you say?” 

There was a calming pause, her lips upturning into a delighted grin not only from their antics but the idea of going out. “That sounds great.” 

Quickly, Bucky stood up with an invigorated attitude. “Alright, well let’s head down and check out what times they’re playing.” 

“Okay, let me get freshened up a bit and then we can head out.” Y/N said, walking away to the bathroom to fix up her hair and straightening out her crumpled clothes from her nap. 

The boys did their own version of freshening up which meant combing their hair, throwing on a jacket with a hint of earthy cologne. 

Once Y/N stepped out from the bathroom, they headed on their way. 

Soon they were out on the street, walking down the sidewalk with lots of other people doing the same; arm in arm, perhaps to see a movie as well. 

“Wait, we’re not taking your car?” Y/N asked, coming to stand beside Bucky with Steve on the other side of them. 

Bucky beamed down at her, “Not tonight. I thought we should take our time…enjoy the night.”

When she looked up, there laid the gleams of affection swimming slowly, rising from the depths of friendliness to a realm of intimacy. Y/N wondered if it was real or maybe she was fooling herself, trying to grasp at anything that could make her feel at home in the middle of an ocean’s storm carrying her adrift. 

Nevertheless, she brought her arm to link with his, shyly tucking herself the slightest bit to his side. “That sounds lovely.” 

With no more words exchanged, Bucky simply held her hand with his free one against him as the trio soon came across the local theater. It was a bright exciting building with fluorescent like lights outlining a billboard with several movie titles running across the sign. Y/N couldn’t help but to marvel at the archaic looking structure, a strange wave of nostalgia hitting her with the sensation of fluttering butterflies in her stomach in the face of a new adventure happening simultaneously. 

They followed the mass of people filtering inside the theater, immediately smelling the salty popcorn lingering in the air. A couple of concessions stand off to the left side of the room and a large staircase leading upwards onto another level which had two sets of doors on both ends; one side of the stairs people walking up and the other people walking down. The carpet was a deep red with an albeit gaudy pattern, and plush as Y/N stepped across it with the boys standing with her. 

Once again she took a moment to memorize the intricacies of everything little detail the theater had to offer; from the carpeted floor to the towering ceiling, she admired it all. 

Without realizing it until he spoke, Bucky had already pulled her with him to the nearby concession stand. There was a young woman about their age, who smiled at them as they approached. “What can I do for you?” 

Steve, pulling out his wallet, briefly smiled at the woman, “Hello, can I get three tickets for the next showing of ‘Blossoms in the Dust’?” 

The woman began to look through what appeared to be a small ledger filled with the titles of movies and their runtimes. She dragged her finger down to find the name, then across for the time. “Looks like the next show is in fifteen minutes in theater 4, just up those stairs behind you. Will that be okay with you?” 

“Yes, that will be fine.” 

Soon after, the lady pulled out three paper tickets, pulling them apart from the pre-cut dotted line and setting them down onto the counter. “That’ll be 0.75¢.”

Steve pulled out three quarters and politely placed them in the lady’s palm who brought her hand up upon seeing him take out the coins. She pressed a rather large bulky button on the cash register, not bothered by the loud clunking sound it made as the bottom tray shot open only stopped by her close torso. “Would you like any refreshments?” 

“Uh yes, please.” Bucky instead answered, stepping forward causing Y/N to pull her arm away from his to let him take out his own wallet. “Can we get a popcorn bag for each of us, and three drinks too please?” 

“Of course. That’ll be…” The woman continued punching away at numbers on the register until it made a ding sound. “$3.00.” 

Bucky quirked a brow at the price, shaking his head a bit but said nothing as he handed the woman three one dollar bills. Again she opened the register before turning away to fetch their food and drinks. 

Soon the trio were making their way up the red stairs, and through a set of double doors. Notably, the auditorium was nearly packed, men, women, and children filling the rows of seats with very to pick from. Leaving the three standing by the doors for a few moments when Bucky pointed over toward the far right side of the room, conveniently three seats left open just for them. While walking past the lot of people somewhat loudly talking amongst each other, Y/N would glance up every now and then, catching glimpses of ads for new products and cartoons the like; all in black and white. 

Once reaching their seats, Bucky stepped to the side to let Steve in first then gestured for Y/N to follow him and then finally sat down on the end, leaving Y/N sandwiched between the two men. They situated themselves, shifting every which way to get perfectly comfortable in the chairs, eventually sitting their popcorn in their laps to open their drinks.

Y/N noticed Bucky being able to twist the bottle cap of his coke with no problem while watching Steve struggle a bit as he twisted the cap a couple of times before getting it off. Finally, she reached down on her own to do the same and felt the cap’s ridged edges pinch at her skin. She quickly let go to find another angle to twist it but it still bit at her flesh. 

“Ow…” She mumbled to herself, flicking her wrist back and forth a couple times. 

“Here, let me..” Bucky said, already taking the glass bottle from her hand and quickly removed the cap. “There you go, wasn’t so hard.”

Y/N laughed at his quip. “Of course it wasn’t hard, I loosened it for you first.” 

He appeared surprised by her playful retort but the surprise quickly vanished, replaced by fondness. “Well, thank you very much, ma’am. I don’t know how I could’ve managed it without you.” 

“Cheers.” Y/N grinned, lifting her bottle towards him. 

Bucky followed her motion, tapping his bottle against her’s with a noticeable clink. “Cheers.” 

“Steve, cheers.” Y/N now turned her bottle towards Steve’s who happily cheered with her as well. “Now we all three do it at the same time.” 

Steve laughed, sitting forward in his seat to get a better reach with Bucky who sat to Y/N’s left. “Cheers.” 

“Cheers.” Bucky and Y/N said at the same time then clanking all three of their bottles together. The moment they had, the lights lining the theater dimmed almost completely and the very beginnings of the movie credits started to play. 

Y/N spared one more glance to the two men, smiling to herself in silent gratitude before looking back to the projector screen while the grandiose music of the film filled the entire room with the promise of hopeful dreams and dramatic adventure. 

Nearly two hours later, after the movie reached its inevitable end, Bucky, Y/N, and Steve found a nice little outside seating area at a local diner and discussed the movie they just watched.

“I think she got a bad wrap.” Bucky clearly stated, taking a bite of his hot dog since he’d wanted something other than a burger unlike Y/N and Steve. 

“I think everything worked out the best it could have.” Steve admitted his own opinion on the matter, bringing his milkshake straw to his lips to drink from. 

Y/N wiped the expanse of her mouth with the napkin she’d grabbed after getting her food. “Honestly, I felt bad for her. She lost her sister, then her husband, and the one kid who she really felt like a mother too. It’s kind of sad.” 

“So you didn’t like it?” Bucky bluntly asked. 

She laughed at the straightforwardness. “No, I liked it, I’m just saying that it was a little sad is all. Though I think Steve is right, despite everything she still chose to stay with all those orphans and gave them the home they never had.” 

“Look, now…” Bucky took a quick sip of his soda. “I’m not saying that that isn’t nice, I simply think she should have gotten to stay with that one kid with the hurt leg.” 

“Well I’m sorry, next time I’ll look into a happier movie.” Steve lamented playfully with a shrug of his hands. 

Y/N, sitting next to Steve, squeezed his arm warmly. “Ah don’t worry about that, I liked what you chose tonight.” 

“There’s supposed to be a cartoon about a flying elephant later this year, maybe we should see that. That’s probably more of a happy movie.” Bucky smirked watching Steve half heartedly glare at him. 

Y/N’s brow furrowed in thought at the familiar description of the movie, but otherwise kept her conclusions to herself since she knew exactly what he mentioned and had in fact, already seen it. 

“Oh!” Bucky abruptly said a bit louder than he intended, drawing a couple of eyes to himself. “Let’s go dancing.” 

“Dancing?” Y/N repeated inquisitively. 

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, dancing. I’ve seen a bunch of people pass by here, all dressed up and what not and I remembered I haven’t been dancing in a while. So I figured why not?”

Steve suddenly started to clam up, shrinking into himself in a way. 

“How often do you go dancing exactly?” Y/N questioned, feeling a bit curious about the late night activity so many participated in from the old days. 

“Usually I go a couple of times during the week, but Steve here doesn’t ever go.” Bucky called him out with all the manner of teasing. 

Y/N pursed her lip outward as she thought about it before speaking. “Do you know how to dance?” 

Steve nodded. “I do but there’s hasn’t been much reason to go, that and no woman will dance with me; I’m too skinny.”

His words caused her heart to sink. How could people be so blind to his kindness nor give him the time of day to show them his sincerity. The thought honestly made her kind of angry. 

“I’ll dance with you.” She stated matter of factly, slightly amused when Steve jerked his head to meet her eyes. 

“Oh, you…you don’t have to do that, really I can be a little clumsy.” Steve stuttered, hands fidgeting as they rested on top of the table. 

“I want to, if you’re okay with it?” Y/N gently prodded, hand still resting comfortably on his arm. 

In his embarrassed state, Steve tried to appeal to Bucky on what he should do with a sort of desperate look and all Bucky did was smirk at him. Steve sighed in defeat but it wasn’t an unwelcome outcome, he just didn’t know if he had it in him to face the awkward situation if he were to make good on his statement about being clumsy in front of Y/N. 

“Alright, yeah, I’m okay with it. Sounds nice.” 

Y/N grinned at him, patting Steve’s arm a few times while standing from her spot on the bench. “Well I’m done eating, let’s go now.”

“I know a good dance hall, a few blocks from here. They're always open late.” Bucky said, standing up from his spot as well to throw away the paper tray that held his food into a public trash can. He watched Steve and Y/N do the same, seeing a spring in Y/N’s step as she was quick to grab Steve by the hand and then his, pulling them both to the sidewalk. 

“Come on, let’s hurry! I want to see what the dance hall looks like.” 

“We’re coming, Princess!” Bucky chuckled with her as he soon took the lead. 

As Bucky had said, down a couple of blocks there was a fantastic dance hall much like the theater, streaming with many lights with people bustling in and out. There was the sound of excited music recognizable even from outside, muffled only by the doors that kept being opened before they could fully close. Bucky continued to lead them, opening the door for Y/N to step through first then Steve and himself. 

Despite the throws of people walking past in a blur of motion, Y/N could only see the magnificent hall; the ceiling cascading upward with abnormally large streamers hanging from the walls for color, the luscious dance floor filled to the brim with many couples as the men twirled their girls and their skirts fluttered up like kites carried by the wind. In the space between the designated dance floor and walls, sat many tables made from a chestnut brown wood and shiny with polish, a modest bar sat on the right side where patrons who ordered drinks and laughed with the bartender before moving on to dance. And finally the stage housed an energetic band as they played a song she shockingly knew. 

“Take the “A” Train by Duke Ellington.” She mentally noted, seeing the sea of smiles and laughter throughout the building. 

“You guys want a drink?” Bucky shouted over the boisterous noise of the hall even as Y/N and Steve stood right next to him. 

Instead of answering with words, Steve and Y/N only nodded prompting Bucky to nod back as he then pivoted away toward the bar. 

“Let’s go find a table.” Steve tugged on her hand still holding onto his to the tables a few feet away. 

It took no time at all to find a spot, prompting Steve to pull out a chair for her which she gladly thanked him. They sat there for a time, chatting as well as they could in such a packed house until Bucky came sauntering over with three drinks. 

“Here you go, three beers. Bartender was feeling a bit generous, gave me these for 0.50¢ total.” He set the bottles on the table passing one to Steve then to Y/N. 

“Wow, that’s pretty good for a crowd like this.” Steve awed, taking the smallest sip of his drink. Y/N agreed silently that it was indeed a very generous offer. 

“Alright, come on, Steve stop dragging your feet. You said you’d let her dance with you. Don’t want to keep a lady waiting, do you?” Bucky joked, nudging his thin arm.

Steve huffed, “I’m not, I’m just sitting down.” 

Bucky gently grasped Y/N hand, helping her to stand then yanked Steve up with one heave. “We didn’t come here to sit, now go dance.” 

And with that, he pushed Steve toward Y/N who giggled at Steve’s apprehension and Bucky’s encouragement.

With the upbeat song keeping up a quick rhythm, Y/N led Steve onto the dance floor while carefully avoiding the spinning of the other patrons. 

The people surrounding them politely gave them enough space to prepare to dance as everyone else was. Y/N and Steve shared a hesitant glance before Steve gently took her right hand and guided her right arm to wrap around his shoulder. He stepped a bit closer, his left arm wrapped her waist to rest on the small of her back then took position. 

“You ready?”

Y/N nodded. “Yes, sir”

Steve smiled at her answer then a bit quicker than she was expecting, Steve dipped forward then back then forward again and back. Y/N swiftly matched his movements, dipping with him instead of leaving him to it himself. 

A few more times, Steve dipped forward and back moving with the fast movements of the people around him then Steve took her hand taking a step back, planted his feet to the ground then twirled Y/N out only to bring her back into him before spinning them both around. Y/N couldn’t resist the bellows of laughter that escaped her throat as Steve spun them around while twirling her a few times, causing her skirt to flutter out like a ballerina. 

All of the things she expected from Steve, small Steve, this was not one of them. Despite his small size, he truly did know how to dance; pulling her in and out as if she weighed nothing at all. 

How could anyone turn down this enthusiastic dancer? 

Their dancing went on for a couple of minutes, Y/N not sure the song was ever going to end until she heard the music stop and the crowd of people began to clap. She copied the people’s clapping, laughing some more as she and Steve shared a look of elation. 

There was a brief inter pause while the band prepared for their next song. A new woman came out from behind a curtain, dressed in a red sweater dress with a bow tied around her waist, and a pearl necklace complimenting the dress. Her blonde hair curls hung down to frame her face and were clipped back to keep her bangs from bothering her eyes 

Soon a much softer song began to play. 

The night is like a lovely tune. 

Beware my foolish heart. 

How white the ever constant moon. 

Take care, my foolish heart.

“May I?” A familiar voice charmingly asked. 

Y/N and Steve immediately saw Bucky standing there, a suave smile gracing his face, and a hand extended to Y/N.

“Of course.” Steve took Y/N’s hand and set it against Bucky’s who carefully pulled her to him much like Steve had earlier, but instead he brought her so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. 

“Thank you, Steve. That was truly wonderful.” Y/N thanked as Steve walked away. He gave her a curt nod, and a bashful smile. 

When she turned to face Bucky, they shared a chuckle, gently swaying with the slow song. 

“And thank you, for giving him a chance. God knows he deserves it.” Bucky unexpectedly admitted to her. 

Though slightly taken aback, she shook her head. “There’s nothing to thank, Steve is wonderful and I’d be more than happy to dance with him.” 

Bucky continued to sway them both. “Does that mean you prefer Steve over me?” 

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen any of your dance moves yet, mister.” Y/N teased, surrendering herself to let Bucky take the lead.

There’s a line between love and fascination.

It’s hard to see on an evening such as this.

For they both give the very same sensation

When you're lost in the magic of a kiss.

A beat of quiet filled the air except the sweetness of the music followed with beautiful lyrics. 

“In all seriousness, I’m glad you’re here Y/N.” 

The euphoric excitement that had occupied every part of her being was suddenly washed away with a nostalgic sorrow. 

“Where did that come from?” Y/N asked, trying to brush off the ache his confession brought to her heart. 

Bringing her hand inward, he brought it to rest on his chest as he pulled her closer; forehead almost touching as he confessed. “I know that you’ve been feeling out of place ever since you got here, and you’re worried about being a burden but I want you to know that you are not or ever will be a burden. Having you with Steve and I has been a joy.”

The ache in her chest continued to grow from her heart, to her throat, to her eyes. The beginnings of tears rushing to the surface like a broken dam.

Your lips are much too close to mine.

Beware my foolish heart. 

But should our eager lips combine

Then let the fire start.

Bucky noticed the tears, however he didn’t have a chance to mention them as Y/N buried her face into his shirt, her arm wrapping around his back tightly to feel more of his presence. 

He brushed his hand tenderly over the expanse of her back, lips lingering on her temple then placing a kiss there. “No matter what happens or whatever you’re going through, I want you to understand that you belong here. Even if this wasn’t your home, you belong here with us…”

Fresh tears rolled down the skin of her cheeks, leaving tracks in their wake as the evidence of her broken heart. At the same time, the feeling of grief sank deeper into her soul, replaced by hope, love for a man she believed she’d never have again.

“With me. If you want.” 

Could she really belong here?

For this time it isn’t fascination

Or a dream that will fade and fall apart.

It’s love, this time it’s love

My foolish heart.

“My foolish heart…."

________

a/n:

Decided to cut down the parts of the song “My Foolish Heart” included in this chapter since it felt a bit redundant to have the same lyrics in twice. If you listened to the song while reading this then you know what I’m talking about. 

Originally I was going to have them see “Dumbo” seeing as it was released in 1941, however it came out in theaters on October 23. It wouldn’t have been possible for the trio to have seen it since the month at which Y/N comes to the 40’s is early June and this chapter takes place some weeks later when it’s July. Though I did cheat with the song attached to this chapter (I couldn’t help it, it fit so perfectly!) This version of “My Foolish Heart” sung by Margaret Whiting came out in a movie by the same name in 1949. 

When it comes to the movie theater scene, $3.00 in 1940’s New York is actually expensive for the time even though today it would be amazing to only pay $3.00 for food at theaters. The calculations may be a bit off as I had to base the price of the food for how much they were sold independently in stores rather than a whole thing like we do today at the movies. Movie tickets back then were also sold for 0.25¢ per person. 

It’s crazy what you learn while doing research for a fanfiction. I enjoy it all the same!

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Lovers & Friends (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Keigo Takami x Black!Fem!Reader (Friends to Lovers)

Synopsis: In which you and Keigo have begun to realize the strange new feelings you both have for each other after one drunken night at a close friend’s wedding that ends with you in his bed, but because of your longtime friendship and committed relationships with other people, you’re more than happy to forget that night even happened and keep your mutual feelings in the dark…for now, at least. 

Story Warnings: Smutty smut; 18+ (MINORS GET AWAY); Cheating/Infidelity; Mating; Light Degradation; Spanking; Exhibitionism; Multiple Positions; Creampie; Unprotected PIV Sex; Facials; Scent Play; Marking; Spitting; Deepthroating; Cunnilingus; Begging; Edgeplay; Power Play; Daddy Kink; Some Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Mild Violence

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic (except for Rei and Haruko). However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: AO3 is down & supposedly leading people to a scammy site looking to steal personal info, so for now, these 2 chapters are staying on Tumblr until further notice. It's ALWAYS something, I s2g. -Jazz

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Bonus Chapter.

Read on AO3 here!

**********

Chapter Five: A Break.

Several hours later, as midday drips into the afternoon, you are champagne-tipsy and shaking ass like it’s nobody’s business. 

The DJ should’ve known better than to start playing Uncle Luke and thinking you and Rumi wouldn’t be losing your shit. The rabbit hero is right behind you, catching your ass as you throw it, hyping you up in the meantime. “Yaaass, bitch!” she shouts while Nemuri and Yu laugh behind her. “As you should with that ass, bitch!” 

At this point, your braids have fallen out of your updo and are swinging around your face and you’ve abandoned your shoes. The champagne has you feeling bubbly and warm. All is right in the world and nothing can touch you right now as you dance with your friends, joyful laughter spilling from your lips. 

The rest of the wedding reception was a whirlwind of food, alcohol, and pictures with Fatgum and Haruko as the newly married couple. You took pictures with them alongside Keigo by the gazebos before the DJ replaced the band and started pulling out the party songs like the Cupid Shuffle and Cha Cha Slide.

The blue sky has since transitioned to a tangerine orange as the sun begins to set on the summer evening. You almost don’t want the day to end. You’ve been having too much fun with your friends and enjoying yourself, tossing back glass after glass of the finest champagne. 

After the DJ gets all the “freak ‘em” tracks out of his bag, he begins to play the slower, more romantic songs. Instantly, people start coupling up with their significant others and partners. You look around, finding that you’re surrounded by couples you know: Fatgum and Haruko; Nemuri and Yu; Aizawa and Mic (after Mic drags him over to the floor against his will). 

And you’re all alone now. Rumi has since left the floor to go find someone to play with, leaving you with Nemuri and Yu to dance before the slow songs started playing. You flush with embarrassment, feeling awkward and small now that you’re standing alone among the lovey-dovey couples. You wonder where Rei is. Last time you saw him was an hour ago…or was it two? 

You turn to go search for him, but as you turn, you become wobbly due to the alcohol catching up with you. A gasp leaves your lips as you teeter to the side, your hands outstretched to catch yourself if you fall. But someone interlocks their muscular arm around your waist, stopping you from hitting the floor and making a fool of yourself.

“Whoa, whoa, birdie!” Keigo teasingly says. “Wouldn’t want you to bust that pretty face. Especially before the Gala.” 

You look up into the citrine eyes of your best friend, thankful to have him come to your rescue. When he sits up upright, his hand brushes against your lower back, his fingertips grazing your skin. It gives you chills, but you pass it off as an effect of the sun setting. In this position, you now see Rei standing by the snack table chatting with Snipe and Hounddog.

Keigo looks in the same direction, scowling. “What, your man don’t dance?” he scoffs. 

“You know he doesn’t dance, Keigo,” you fire back, rolling your eyes. “Plus, he’s busy right now.” But even as you defend your boyfriend, you can’t help but feel a snag of irritation at the fact that he’s been chatting more with guests than spending time with you. 

“Well, he better not be too busy,” Keigo replies dryly. “I’ve seen way too many eyes on you for the past few hours.” You notice his eyes, steel-like and intimidating, cutting across the dance floor to stare at a couple of waiters who are ogling at your frame. They blush and scatter with their trays when they see Keigo glaring at them. 

You flush, not realizing you are being silently pursued. Has it been like that all day? Have you been too tipsy to notice it? The idea almost flatters you in your tipsy state. Maybe that’ll teach Rei.

“Whatever,” you scoff. “Anyways, go find Sakura so she can dance with you.” You push the blonde off the floor to go find his girlfriend whom you haven’t seen in a while either. The last time you saw her was when she was shoveling down lobster at your table. 

Keigo scowls at you, looking concerned. “And leave you all alone?”

You giggle, rolling your eyes at his overprotectiveness. “Keigo, I’m fine and Rei is literally right there. I need to talk with him anyway.” You smile reassuringly at him and bump his hip with yours. “Go be with your girl,” you say, giving him a wink before leaving the dance floor. 

You head straight over to Rei, finding yourself becoming more bothered the closer you get to him. He’s looking quite good in his suit and the way the orange rays of the sunset are hitting his face are worthy of a nut. You slink up behind him and wrap your arms around him. “Hey, yoooou,” you coo, pecking his cheek. “Fellas, you mind if I steal him away for a bit?” 

Snipe puts up a hand while Houndog lets out a grumbling chuckle, already knowing what’s up. “Not at all, H/N,” he says through his metal mask. “He’s all yours.”

You nod at them in thanks as they walk away to converse with other pros who have begun to circle around the snack table where the huge, marveled, towering wedding cake that the chefs have brought out sits, ready to be cut. 

“You havin’ fun?” you ask Rei, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. He turns toward you, not even a bit tipsy. “Of course,” he chuckles, “but you definitely seem like you’re beating me in that department.” He stares into your hooded eyes, looking slightly concerned. “Babe, are you drunk?” 

You giggle tipsily. “A little bit,” you reply, pinching your thumb and index finger together. “The champagne just kept flowin’, so it ain’t my fault!” You give him a little pout before moving closer to him, pressing your sticky-glossed lips to his ear. “C’mon, I wanna show you something,” you whisper to him, a giggle in your chest. 

Rei pulls away enough to look down at you in hesitation. “But I think they’re about to cut the cake.” He stares toward the snack table where Fatgum and Haruko now stand, their hands enclosed behind a large butcher knife as cameras flash. The couple stares lovingly at each other, Fatgum using his thumb to swipe strawberry buttercream icing over Haruko’s lip. 

Just seeing the love transcending between them is enough to wear your off buzz. Just another reminder of what you don’t have and what seems so complicated to possess. You immediately take Rei’s hand and drag him away. “We can get some later,” you reply, laughing as you begin skipping away with him in tow. “C’mon, hurry!” 

You drag Rei far away from any prying eyes, right to the other side of the park where there are several white tents and a group of trees blocking you from view from the guests. You can only hear the distant conversation and music carrying along the summer wind. Rei looks at you confusedly. “What are we doing all the way back here?” he questions innocently. 

You press him up against the nearest tree, your hands gripping his biceps. Now that the alcohol has set in, so have its effects, including the horniness. Your body is begging for this man, pussy throbbing and nipples hard under your dress. “Let’s go home,” you purr to your boyfriend. “I’ve been missin’ you so much lately. And you look damn good in this.” Your hands run over his expensive suit, feeling his muscled chest underneath. 

Rei swallows hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. “We can’t just leave, babe. It would be rude. Plus, don’t you want some cake?” His response kills your arousal somewhat, but Rumi’s advice comes floating back to you. “Then we’ll just do it here,” you whisper more to yourself than to him. 

Rei furrows his brows at you. “Huh?” he asks, squinting in confusion at your words. His eyes then travel to your hands which have begun to pull and tug at his belt. “Y/N, what the hell are you doing?” he hisses, trying to move your hands away. 

You put his hands up to your mouth, your body flushed and your heart pounding. “Shh,” you coo, pressing a kiss to his hand. “This won’t take long, I promise. Lemme just…”

You continue to work his belt off, loosening it before your hand dips underneath his briefs to find his softened cock. “Wait,” Rei protests. “Wait, Y/N, c’mon, I’m not even hard.” 

You stare up at him through hooded eyes, pressing your tits up against his chest. “Then let me get you there,” you purr before you begin to stroke him under his briefs. Your lips press against his jawline, trying in vain to ease his nerves. “Just let me take care of you.” 

“Y/N, cut it out!” Rei quickly jumps away from you, leaving you empty-handed. “Someone could see us!” He motions angrily toward the pointed tips of the tents that stretch overhead behind the canopy of trees that only hide so much of you. Maybe you weren’t as hidden as you initially thought.

Rei stares at you like you’re a different person; someone he isn’t sure he can trust. “What’s gotten into you?” he huffs as he fixes his pants and belt. 

You stand there, embarrassed and humiliated. The alcohol only makes you feel much worse. You feel stupid. Idiotic. And more than that, tired. It is an exhaustion that settles in your bones and makes you want to pop an Advil and smoke a blunt.

It is exhaustion only contributed by the constant work given to this relationship–mostly the sex. You know you’ve exhausted all other options and tears conjured from the champagne prick at your eyes from the fact. 

“Maybe it’s all that alcohol,” Rei sighs, already moving past you to head back to the wedding. “C’mon, let’s get you some water.” But as he begins to leave, he realizes you’re not following him and stops. “Y/N?” he asks expectantly. 

You lean against the tree, feeling like you need something solid to hold onto. “This isn’t working,” you blurt before you can stop the words from arriving. As soon as they’re out, you look at Rei, wide-eyed and damning yourself. He stares at you, perplexed. “What isn’t?” he asks, sounding and looking so confused at you feel horrible for feeling like this. 

You will the tears threatening to drip down your face away as you sigh exhaustedly. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” you weakly say. You stare down at your bare feet, afraid to look at Rei. Coward. “I think we need a break,” you blurt out, cringing at your words. 

Silence swells around you, uncomfortable and tense. You look up at Rei, finding him to be standing as still as the trees surrounding you as your audience. “W-What?” he softly stutters, sounding devastated.

A knife stabs you in the heart, twisting. “I-I just need some time to think things over and to be alone,” you attempt to explain. Rei rapidly blinks at you, his lips parted in shock. “Are you breaking up with me?” he asks incredulously. 

“No!” you immediately reply, but then backtrack with a weak, “I don’t know. I-I just need a short break to be alone, at least until next month when the Gala is over. I wanted to give you time to work because it’s important to you.” You turn away from him, staring out at the stretch of forest leading toward the hiking trails. “More important than me,” you murmur. 

Rei scoffs behind you, the sound pissing you off for some reason, like he just can’t believe you feel so hurt. “Do you really believe that?” he questions in disbelief.

You turn to face him then, hoping he sees the exhaustion and hurt in your eyes. “What am I supposed to think, Rei?” you retort, frustrated. “We’re barely together anymore because of your job and if we are, I feel even more distant from you.” 

You huff, shoulders slumping. You wrap your arms around yourself to comfort yourself with a hug. “I’m just not happy right now with us…or the sex.” Rei’s scowl shifts to one of irritation. “The sex?” he parrots with a haughty scoff. “You’re breaking up with me over our sex life?” 

You stare at him, not believing his words. Did he hear anything you just said about feeling distant from him because of his work? He stares at you in utter disbelief and anger. “I don’t believe this!” he huffs. “I try so hard to be the perfect boyfriend for you. I give you gifts; I text you sweet little messages; I…” He leans toward you, his voice hushed. “I performed cunnilingus on you when you were on your period!” 

You flush at the memory, especially since he’s using it as a weapon in his argument about why he’s the perfect boyfriend. He’s doing a good job at it too. “For the record, I told you that you didn’t have to do that,” you retort. “And you didn’t even do a good job.”

Rei stares at you, dumbfounded. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about this?” he asks accusingly. 

“I’ve tried!” you snap, your frustrations finally being released. “For months, Rei! You’re not attentive, you barely wanna try anything new, and whenever I try to talk to you about it, you’re either too busy or you blow me off!”

Rei doesn’t look convinced. You can see he has his own unspoken frustrations in his eyes. “You sure this isn’t about him?” he cooly asks. The ice in his tone makes you wince. 

“Who?” you ask, confused. Rei doesn’t clarify, but the way he’s staring you down so harshly makes you realize who “him” is. Only one person you know can make Rei this enraged. “Hawks?” you squeak incredulously. “You think I like Hawks?” 

Rei is dead serious, his hard stare never softening. “I see the way you look at him,” he growls. “Don’t deny it! You were looking at him today like you wanted a piece of him.”

You gape at him, realizing he’s deadass. You can’t believe he’s even insinuating this, let alone putting you on the spot like this. “Are you insane?” you scoff angrily. “No, that’s not true and I don’t appreciate you bringing Keigo into this just because you don’t like him. This is between you and me.” 

You take a moment to inhale deeply, trying to calm yourself down. “This isn’t working, Rei,” you firmly say. “I just need this break for time to be alone. You’re able to focus on work and so am I. Then maybe after the Gala, if we still feel the same way, we can talk more about this.” 

You wait for Rei to continue to argue or protest. But he does neither. He just stares at you silently, sizing you up like he would an opponent. He doesn’t gaze at you with love or adoration, his eyes completely void of any of those warm emotions. 

“No,” he finally growls. “I’m not waiting after the Gala. I don’t need you on my conscious during one of the most important nights of my career, so if you don’t wanna do this right, then I will.” “I’m breaking up with you,” he says with finality. “There. You got what you wanted.” 

You feel those tears begin to rise again and quickly blink them away. “I’m sorry, Rei,” you softly utter. 

Rei continues to give you that fix, cold stare, his lips in a tight line. “No, you’re not,” he finally murmurs, making you flinch. 

Before you can even utter another weak-ass apology, he’s turning around and zooming up the hill until he’s at the parking lot in the blink of an eye. You stand there and watch him leave until he’s in his car and peeling out of the park’s parking lot without you. 

He leaves you standing there, heartbroken and feeling like total, oven-roasted shit. Desperate to be as far away from the wedding as possible, you quickly leave and head for the nearest gazebo that overlooks the stretch of forest surrounding the backend of the park. You stand in the white gazebo for you don’t know how long, but the evening has begun to transition to dusk. The sky has begun to turn from a shade of orangey-gold to a light hue of lavender. Fireflies flicker in and out of grass blades and between the trees now darkened from dusk. 

The sights of nature comfort you, but only a little. You’re still feeling guilt and uncertainty that eats at your entire being. You know that you hurt Rei, and that hurts you even more. How can you be sure you did the right thing? Will he even still want to rekindle things after the Gala? 

You lean your head against one of the gazebo’s pillars, staring out into the forest. You’re so transfixed on the swaying trees and the stillness of the forest that you barely notice footsteps creeping behind you through the grass.

You jump, startled, and turn to see Keigo making his way towards you. “Hey, you!” he sing-songs. “This is where you ran off to? I’ve been lookin’ for your ass for ages! Rumi swore you were kidnapped.” 

At the sight of his sunshine-bright smile, you quickly plaster your own smile onto your face. “Oh, just needed some air,” you lie through your teeth. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be with your girl?”  

Keigo joins you in the gazebo, leaning one hip against the ledge. “She’s asleep,” he chuckles. “Poor girl couldn’t take the festivities, so she’s in one of the tents.” He looks around, suddenly noticing you’re short of one person. “Where’s your date?” 

At the mention of Rei, your false smile wavers. “Oh! He, uh…” You quickly search for a good lie to avoid telling Keigo the truth. “He wasn’t feelin’ well so he left. That lobster flipped his stomach. You know how shellfish is sometimes.” Keigo just stares at you, not at all persuaded or buying your shit. 

“You’re a shit liar,” he says but not unkindly. You can see the soft concern in his citrine eyes, and that makes you feel utterly sick. 

You sigh defeatedly, wrapping your arms around yourself once more to comfort yourself. “I asked for a break,” you dryly answer. Keigo’s smile falters, turning into a serious scowl. You know he wants to ask what happened, but you’re not in the mood to talk. You don’t even want to think about it.

You turn away to avoid crying in front of him as those damn tears rise again. “Look, can we not talk about this right now?” you squeak out, swallowing the lemon-sized lump forming in your throat. 

Like a good friend, Keigo doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he offers something much better. He wraps a comforting, muscular arm around your shoulders, squeezing you into him. “Looks like someone needs a pick-me-up,” he hums, smirking down at you. “Patron shots?” 

You swear that you could’ve kissed him right then. 

[scoundrels-in-love]

Holding it together with one loose string (That I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't stop pulling)

It starts a few months after her mother's passing, when Meryl is barely eight. A stray, split hair that she has to fix and then another and another- By the time she is thirteen, Meryl's hand drifts to her hair any quiet moment. She would swear it helps her think, like doodling on the edges of her notebooks does in school, if there was anyone who would listen. It is not until after JuLai that someone asks why.

| Mashwood | On AO3 | | Trichotillomania | Compulsive hair pulling | Skin picking | Lip biting | Child abuse | Canon-typical injury mentions | Not as bad as it sounds |

It starts a few months after her mother's passing, when Meryl is barely eight.

She sits on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair and thinking about the day ahead, thinking about the math test so she wouldn't have to think about how gently her mama used to comb her hair every morning and night, how she would braid in a beautiful ribbon she had embroidered at the ends into Meryl's hair on school days that had all the girls jealous.

She also doesn’t want to think about how that ribbon is now hidden in a box beneath her bed, because Meryl is afraid that she would wear the threads out if she held onto it every night like she wishes to. Or far worse - that her father would throw it out as unneeded frivolity. Maybe even sell it, like he had sold their wedding rings. (Meryl loathes her school bag and pencil case that were bought with this money.)

She is trying very hard to not think about any of those things, about the hole in her chest that feels like breaking her ribs, when something catches her eye in the strands around her face. 

It's a hair, sticking out at an odd angle and a duller color than the rest which makes her tense up with worry. She likes her dark hair, down to her waist when left unbraided, just like mama's. It's the one thing she prides herself in.

She grabs at the offending strand, brings it close to her face and finds the culprit. It's almost split in half, each thin thread of it dead and faintly discolored, just enough to stand out against the rest upon inspection. It looks so ugly, she thinks, and tries to smooth it out. Instead, it breaks at the split with a soft, satisfying crack, and relief floods her. It's gone, she's fixed the ugly, broken thing. 

And still, that it existed worries her and she grabs more of her hair to bring closer for a look through. And there's more - more split tips. She drops the strands and braids her hair hurriedly, trying to fight her disgust and worry. The entire day, she feels as if every classmate and even teachers are looking at her, and not with the hushed pity from the first weeks after her Mama's death. No, they're looking at her gross hair, broken and dying because, because - 

She doesn't know why, honestly, and that somehow makes it even worse. She is distracted during classes, but by time she comes home, Meryl has a plan. When something is broken, you fix it or remove it. She can't glue the hairs back together - she tries in the school bathroom, but the glue stick only makes it all clumpy and she has to wash it out in the sink - so, she'll take them off instead. Like you cut or rip off a broken nail!

Well, cutting them off isn't an option as her father would want to know what she needs scissors for, but luckily it takes no force at all to break the lighter, broken parts off. And that's what Meryl dedicates her entire evening after homework and dinner to. Hunched on her bed, she goes through strand after strand, picking off the ugly bits and feeling relief fill her with every snap and pop.

After she's shaken off the comforter and quietly swept up the mess, Meryl goes to sleep with a sense of job well done. Now, no one will stare at her and the mockery that's ripening will never come.

But in two days time, she spots another broken hair and another, and spends the afternoon picking the dead ends off, meticulously.

Because she has to fix this. She will fix this. She will make herself whole and good again. She will.

---

By the time she is thirteen, Meryl's hand drifts to her hair any quiet moment. She would swear it helps her think, like doodling on the edges of her notebooks does in school, if there was anyone who would listen. But her father only grimaces in disgust or yells when he spots her doing it. Her teachers remark on her being disrespectful and untidy with her constantly plucked-at braid and her aunt offers to try another hair product that might fix the split ends. They never work.

She spends hours planning out her school newspaper articles and personal stories, picking at her hair (the ones split straight down the middle, the ones that are joined at top and bottom leaving a needle's eyelet in between, the ones that have three and more tips or countless little splits on one side, the ones with knot in middle - she knows them all and so many more) when there isn't a pen in her hand or she gets stuck on a sentence, and sometimes only realizes it after her shoulders are covered in hair clippings and longer hairs that she's accidentally pulled out entirely.

It is not that she doesn't try to stop, she does, and most of all in public. But the moment her brain is busy or idling too much, her hands seek purchase, something to fiddle with and her hair is always there to satisfy the need. Or little bumps on her skin, any scabs she might have on her hands from household work. 

What's worse, this year has come with pimples that Meryl has to near physically restrain herself from turning into bleeding welts. At least the hair picking is appalling, but not quite so painful and cannot scar permanently.

Sometimes she wonders if the ends she tears off without looking are actually dead or it's the sheer force of pull, but surely, if it was healthy and strong hair, it would not divide so neatly in sections, would not separate with such a nice little noise. Just because its weakness is not visible, doesn't mean it didn't need help to get rid of it.

There is no hiding the habit at home, she can't sit through her father's scolding without tearing and pulling at her hair, which only fuels his anger more. He loathes the habit, has slapped her hands away countless times, sometimes with enough force that there are red, stinging marks for a while after. And oh, the way he yells every time before he has to take her to the hairdresser to chop another half inch or inch off to even out the damages ends.

It's the eve of one such time that he loses his patience completely.

"I've had enough," he tells her and it feels as if her heart stops as she watches him grab the huge kitchen scissors.

"Sit." He points at the chair, but her legs are both frozen and a trembling mush. "Sit. I will not say it again."

So Meryl does, tears rolling down her face even before her father roughly undoes her braid. The snips are deafeningly loud in her ears, her head bouncing back after each time he pulls a strand down roughly to straighten it out. 

These vague efforts to make it even result in nothing and when she sees herself in the mirror afterward, her quiet sobs turn into wails. He tells her to shut up again, that she brought it on herself and maybe now she'll learn to control her hands. 

She doesn't listen to the rest of it, just runs to her room and locks herself in there. Doesn't exit to cook dinner, doesn't come out the next morning for school. Even when he threatens to break down the door, and she knows he will if she isn't out by time he's back from work.

It is sheer luck or divine blessing that her aunt comes over that day. It takes almost an hour of convincing for Meryl to open the door and the woman's gasp, a soft oh darling immediately causes her to burst in tears again.

Her aunt does the best she can to salvage her hair, but the only thing left to do is go even shorter, leaving Meryl feeling like it's a boy staring back at her from the mirror. As if her habits and grades, or height and flat chest that still haven't caught up to other girls haven't already painted an easy target on her back for being picked on at school. 

But worst of all is that she cannot see her mama's little princess anymore, not even a little. 

---

Meryl keeps her hair short through her years at University, though her father can no longer enforce it. Here, it feels less of an othering trait than it did through middle school and she's found bitter comfort in the fact that short hair culls some of the urge to pull and tear. She can't see most of the split ends and it's just not quite so satisfying to pick at the back of her head. Especially if she puts a hat on.

Still, she doesn't manage even a day in Roberto's presence before she spots a split tip in the bangs near her temple and her fingers ache with a want to pick it off. She can't, she can't - she's sworn to herself she will make a clean start at her work and impress her mentor and if she shows how little self control she has, he will never learn her name. Or use it, at least.

Meryl waits until she thinks he's fallen asleep to deal with the hair driving her insane and feels something in her stomach unclench. Loathes herself for it. 

It doesn't get better after they meet Vash, after Jeneora. Her thoughts are too much, too soaked in blood and fear, for her fingers to rest easily on the steering wheel as the drive off into suddenly a much vaster, much hungrier horizon. Meryl tries, though, and crumples the few times her hands stray toward her bangs and Roberto grumbles Both hands on the wheel, Rookie.

She hopes he doesn't know of the habit, but it's a fool's hope. For all his posturing as a careless drunk, she is quite sure he's caught her picking at her hair the moment there's a chance he isn't looking directly at her. Shame roils through her every time and she does the only thing she can - chews on her lip until there is a scabbed over dent that might never heal when driving and doubles down on writing every moment she's not behind the steering wheel.

Whether it's at a saloon in a small town or around a campfire when they settle down for an often meager meal, she has a barrage of questions and a pen in her hand. They're not just for Vash, though he is often the main target, but also Roberto and even Wolfwood, and she quickly learns that what the men don't say is often far louder than what they divulge. But she can work with that.

Sometimes, they will glance at her notebook and she's quite glad her handwriting is nigh incomprehensible. The edges of the pages are covered in doodles and scribbles, some words outlined and underlined several times more to keep her hands busy than actual highlight. She can navigate it well enough, but it is a pain for anyone else to flip through, so Roberto and Wolfwood give up quickly. Vash asks and she's glad to share - they tend to put their heads together, leaning over the notebook, and quietly talk, sometimes snicker, about the day's events or some anecdote Vash shares. And sometimes just to annoy Wolfwood.

Often, even so occupied, Meryl is still struck with need to fiddle, especially when Vash's eyes linger too long on her face as his shoulder is pressed to hers. In those moments, her thumb often finds and rubs or scratches at the little bald spot she's plucked in her right eyebrow where it tends to ache with need to be picked at. (She had cried when she'd realized it would never regrow. Spent a while covering it with makeup, before giving up.)

One of these times, she catches him looking with a curious head tilt that usually makes something warm and glad bubble in her chest. Now, it's just the first coil of trepidation.

He leans a little closer, eyebrows scrunching with focus. "Do you have a scar there, does it ache?" Vash asks and of course he would be concerned that she's been hurt, when it's only her own weakness-

She can't endure his scrutiny and ducks her head down, shakes it. "No, just overplucking accident as a teen." It's less embarrassing than the truth and she knows a girl who did shave her eyebrows off in seventh grade. Sometimes things happen.

It's then that Vash surprises her by tilting her face back up and brushing his thumb over the spot in mimic of her earlier movement. The coolness of it sinks in her skin and soothes the ache, but also sets the rest of her face ablaze with a blush.

"It's cute," he says softly and in a way that she knows he wasn't fooled by her white lie, "it's you."

Her heart does an odd lurch as it jumps to the assumption he meant that she is cute.

"If there was ever a clone of you and I had to distinguish between the two of you, I'd use it to identify you," he continues and she can't help the surprised laugh that escapes her at his wild thought jumps, even as her heart flutters down to the bottom of her stomach like a torn paper airplane.

But the next time she sees the bald spot in the mirror, it doesn't feel quite so irritably visible and ugly, like a signal of her failures. Instead, Meryl looks at her reflection and mouths it's cute, it's you like a revelation.

---

It gets worse after JuLai. 

There are few moments that she has to herself or even her work that isn't talking with survivors, helping in relief efforts or searching for even the slightest hint as to Vash's fate. But even so, there is constant energy that keeps her awake and jittery long past hours her body can endure. So she picks at her hair, at her skin and no one really cares - people are doing far worse things just to get through the day.

At the little spot she and Wolfwood have claimed for their campsite, having scavenged an entire tent to share and two threadbare bedrolls, she often ends up near clawing at her head in frustration, wanting to dig the ache and unease out of her skull. Or she pulls at the hairs until a spot on her head feels tender and sore, and then pulls some more, as she frets over the words to put down on the pages.

Wolfwood never says anything, the same way she doesn't really say anything about his smoking anymore, not even when he's downgraded to smoking the worms directly because who can afford to get cigarettes here, right now. Certainly not them.

Often, he even ignores it entirely, but not tonight. Tonight she catches him looking openly across the fire, expression unreadable as the flames reflect in his sunglasses with a strange red tint.

"Sorry," she says, grabbing hold of her notebook so hard her fingers ache, but anything to still her movements for a moment, "I know it's disgusting."

Wolfwood cracks a laugh that sounds as surprised as she is with such a reaction. "You’ve watched me barf blood all over the place and ya call this disgustin'?" 

He is right - she has and more than once, even. The latest memory is eager to rise and slosh nauseatingly in the pit of her stomach; the way he had spat and drooled dark blood on the sand as he wheezed for air while the blue liquid mended his ribs and whatever other internal injuries he had. How the streaks had looked like abstract writing of his pain into the sand.

(She remembers more than that - she remembers the utter fear when the walls of the building had crumbled completely, bringing the half standing two storeys down with Wolfwood still in its bowels, how she had thought she'd lost him to an echo of the same light that had taken Vash from her, from them. That she was truly alone now, in this wasteland left in wake of what had been the start of the end of the world, and in knowing the truth of the man who had tried to prevent it.

When Wolfwood had emerged, holding as much as holding onto the man he had gone in to find and had managed to shield in the collapse, she had nearly crumbled herself. Had had to fight against the urge of hauling him into her lap as he healed, running her trembling hands over his face, his back as he heaved. To soothe him or her, that she doesn't know.)

Meryl swallows thickly, wills herself to focus on the present. "That's different. You do it because you were helping, protecting. I… Just can't control my hands."

He makes a thoughtful noise, chews on the filter of his cigarette (when had he gotten a new pack?) and then grins around it, as if he's just had a brilliant realization. "Kinda like me 'n smoking, then."

She opens her mouth to protest and then closes it, because maybe he has a point. She's known for a long time that he uses the familiar ritual of having a smoke as a kind of self soothing thing, more than even Roberto had. After every battle, every argument between him and Vash, he'd reach for the comfort of it. Meryl always knows their own bickering has gone too far when Wolfwood fetches his pack after, with a furrow between his brow that eases as he contemplates smoke tendrils drifting up.

But even if it gives her a new, angled ray of understanding about his habit, Meryl doesn't relent easily. Not on the loathing she has for her own shortcoming and not on her dislike for what he's doing to himself.

"At least my thing's not killing me," she scowls at him lightly, hands bending and unbending edge of a page.

"I ain't doin' much living anyways." Wolfwood shrugs in response and immediately lights the next cigarette.

You could try, she wants to say so badly she thinks she could roll the words in her mouth like candy, you could try with me and Vash when we find him.

Instead of saying something as foolish as that, Meryl bites her lip and ducks her head over her notes once again.

The topic is not touched for several nights, both of them too drained by the time they come back to the campsite to do anything more than collapse on their bedrolls and trade a short summary of nothing, no news that carves the exhaustion only deeper.

But with no one else for company, when there used to be four of them, they're bound to talk eventually and Wolfwood winds up asking how she got into the habit over the dinner. (Dinner under stars used to hold such a romantic connotation to her, despite all the horrors of No Man's Land vastness. Now it's just another night, shivering in the cold or choking on the smoke.) 

When she hesitates, he shares how he copied the older kids smoking at the orphanage who in turn copied adults, stumbles around something else clumsily like he's caught himself saying more than he intended and doubles down on her owing him now.

No one has asked her earnestly and he's already seen the worst of it, so Meryl decides to share. A summary. At least that's what she intends, but as soon as she mentions her father's reaction, something hard settles in Wolfwood's expression and he digs in with questions about what she had meant by slapping her hands or selling her mother's things. And she gives in to the questioning, because she's used to being the one asking, not the one being interrogated.

It stuns her, how much Wolfwood winds up with anger the more she talks. She's seen him angry, of course - at Vash, at life, at himself. His anger burns brightly, often rising from dark logs of desperation. But it's one thing to see it directed at something and another to have it sparking across his twitching knuckles on her behalf. She had never thought he'd feel so strongly about anything that's her.

She quiets when he stands up and starts pacing about, but he tells her to go on, and she does, suddenly feeling as if she must pour it all into this fire, too, to see it consumed. To know it warrants something like that. 

When she's run out of things to say, woven the thread back to the present - or at least the last time she had seen her father and he'd commented on her looking like a boy in her graduation photo, instead of congratulating her for her perfect grades -, they both remain silent for a couple minutes.

"And this is the family you want to impress?" Wolfwood asks suddenly, with intensity and disdain that makes her feel as if he's about to pick up the Punisher and march all the way to December to punch her father in the face.

"No, I've given up on that now," she says with a muted laugh and feels a glimmer of gratefulness that he only raises an eyebrow instead of calling her out.

She doesn't know how to let people go, let their expectations wash away, it's true. Even when it has long since turned from motivation to wires that cut into her with each yank forward. It's part of why she's still here, on the edge of the crater that once was JuLai. It's why she had gone back, too, called Vash back from wherever he had been locked away. He had thanked her, then, but would he still if he had known what awaited him? She doesn't know and won't stop until she can ask him that, as much as the answer might hurt.

She tamps those thoughts down, pushes the stone in her chest aside to give Wolfwood a proper response. "I want my aunt to be proud. My mama, if there's some way for her to see me. She has so many failures to witness, too, I should get at least some things right."

Roberto too, she thinks but doesn't say. One more person whose pride she will never get to witness in earnest, only imagine. Guilt roils in her chest, like vines around the boulder pressing on her lungs.

And you. And Vash. She can't say that either, can't ask for the validation or it will not feel honest and earned even though Wolfwood isn't the type to emptily humor her. And it feels like putting too much of her already wrung out heart on display anyway.

"Well, if they ain't proud, they're fools. No offense. And ya don't gotta be perfect, little flaws in yer hair or whatever, it's no big deal. Makes ya real."

She inhales sharply, holds it, tries to hold back the emotions that suddenly are pouring out from the hole he ever so casually punched through her. Fails (again, some unhelpful, mean voice in her head still supplies) and wipes hurriedly at first tears that start to roll down her face.

"Hey now-" Wolfwood says, startled and a touch awkward, before chucking his cigarette down and grinding it with his heel into the sand. Then he steps closer and spreads his arms in a silent offer.

Meryl hesitates only for a moment (but it's enough to make him falter, she sees, and in a way that spurs her to move), before she wraps herself around and into him, starting to cry in earnest.

He holds her, arms around her shoulders as she sobs about - well, everything. The people she's lost (and might still), the shame that has been diligently nurtured by almost everyone around her and herself especially, the way he has seen her, through her, and the simple way he's given her permission to just be in a way no one else has.

It ends almost as abruptly as it started and she's left hiccuping softly into his chest. He smells of smoke, blood and sweat (they have no such luxury as water to shower) and he's so warm that she feels a little overwhelmed, a little grounded away from the mess of her feelings.

"Sorry," she says, twisting the back of his jacket in her fingers. There's surely snot and tears on his shirt now and he had asked for how the habit started, not for her to become a clingy, blubbering mess.

"'Skay, yer not my first crybaby to handle." There is something soft, almost fond in his tone and she is torn between wanting to look up, see it in his face, and fearing she wouldn't know what to do if she does.

Instead, Meryl does what she knows how to do best with him - argues. "I'm - I'm not a crybaby."

It's true, or used to be. She has never cried as often as she has since the start of this journey, since Jeneora. Part of her sees that as failure, too, like the opposite of growth. If she could mourn her mama quietly, without making fuss and drama like her father told her to, why is it that now she wakes from nightmares on the verge of tears and sometimes lets them fall, too?

"Sure. Nothin' wrong with bein' one, tho. Especially if ya keep walkin' anyways," he tells her, his hold briefly tightening as if he's bracing himself for something, but she has no idea what as in the next moment, Wolfwood lets her go. "Just sayin'."

"Yeah," she agrees softly and bites her tongue so she wouldn't ask when was the last time he let himself cry. It's a conversation for another night, she isn't sure she could handle the heaviness of his answer right now.

---

Meryl would love to say that once the three of them claw peace out of the world's bloody, hungry hands, her hair picking ceases. That her hands rest easily in her lap or on the table, at worst fiddling with her pen. But it's not true - the urge is still there, half compulsion that has hounded her most of her life, half habit made of sturdier material than her hands can easily break.

And even so. Through effort, she has managed to grow her hair out again. Not down to the waist as she had in her childhood, but it reaches past her shoulder blades now and she can put it up in a ponytail or braid it again. And the tip is always neat because Wolfwood or Vash sit her down weekly for a trim, even if it is miniscule.

It's their hands and fingers she fiddles with often while writing, or a piece of cloth with threads for her to pull and tear and yank out that they keep around just for this. 

Even on the days they have seen her hands do little but pluck at her hair or absentmindedly rub across her face for any bump to carve off her skin, when her lips are peeled and chewed raw, they still talk with her the same, no anger or disappointment in their tone, kiss her the same. 

Sometimes even more, because those are the days her anxieties are writhing restlessly at the tips of her fingers, beneath her skin, begging to be clawed out.  And the two men know it, so they wrap her up in embraces and easy chatter or have her lay her worries out so they can pick them apart like she does with the tips of hair she has torn off until there is no piece left big enough to hold. 

It makes her feel something that is too big for words, so she hugs them tighter, stands between them and their demons taller. 

Right now, though, she's lying next to - and partially on - Vash, squished between him and the backrest of the couch, their legs a tangle with each other's and Wolfwood's who is sitting on the other end and whittling away at some wooden figurine. It's too early to tell what it is, but he's been starting to carve unique toma for each kid at the orphanage, so she assumes it is the next one in line. 

Every simple day like this is a gift and part of her yearns and fears of growing too content about it, starting to take it for granted, in equal measure. But that is not what keeps her eyes skidding over the words in the book she and Vash are reading together without retaining any. Usually, they're good at syncing it, or at least Vash is good at slowing down and matching her pace, or waiting for her to catch up, but today she just can't focus.

Her fingers fiddle with his prosthetic ones, that arm flung around her shoulders and draped over her chest. She feels the familiar grooves and lines of it, tries to make that the focus of the restless energy surging through her, but to no avail.

It's only a matter of time before one of the men asks her what's wrong and she would rather start this conversation on her terms. 

"Do you like my long hair?" Meryl asks, the tension suddenly snapping and expelling the question with force. Her chest aches, as if it's been a rock lodged in there.

She feels Vash's and Nicholas's gaze fix on her and she keeps hers on the page instead, though she makes no effort to pretend to be reading anymore.

"Well, I think it's hot as fuck when ya put it up before tearin' someone a new one, but I could do without getting braid whipped while we're fuckin'. Or wakin' up being smothered by it," Wolfwood shrugs in her peripheral vision.

"Nico," she admonishes, feeling her face heat a little. She should be used to how casually crude he can be and she herself has said worse just to hear him or Vash whimper, but sometimes it still gets to her.

Vash's fingers squeeze hers slightly. "What he meant to say is, you look stunning with whatever hairstyle you find the most comfortable, Meryl. Long, short, shaved head - it's all you."

"Why don't ya stop playin' my translator, Spikey. I said what I said."

"I will when you stop needing one, Wolfwood," Vash responds in what is an excellent imitation of her snootiest tone and Meryl laughs softly, smothers it by burying her face in his chest and feels his jaw press to the top of her head as his hold on her tightens.

Nicholas's large, warm hand comes to rest on her lower calf, rubbing up and down soothingly. "Fine, whatever. He's right. Love ya, not yer hairstyle or what yer wearin'. Ya know how much I enjoy when ya wear nothin' at all."

She would kick at him for this under most circumstances, but right now she's too overcome by the way their words are sinking somewhere deeper and instead of stirring up sand and sediment, it's like they're carving paths of clarity through her. So she just lets them bicker on her behalf for a while more as they hold her.

In a couple days, she comes home with a new haircut, restoring her short bob from the early days of their relationship. Her mama's embroidered ribbon is tied around her head like a headband, the tips of it dancing in the wind like a victory flag. And when her men welcome her home with kisses and compliments, she well and truly believes them.

[keter-kan]

Back with chapter two!! Again, this has been read through once or twice for editing but isn't perfect so please feel free to point out any more gramatical/spelling errors!

In this chapter, we get to look at little more at May and Oryn's past.

tw: mentions of death, grief, loss, slight bodily horror

Ch. 2

There was a glare in May’s eyes that no one had seen before. A look that made her seem more like her father with every passing second. As the beads of sweat slowly started to drip from one man’s head to the oak table they all sat, May sat straighter in her chair.

“He stays,” The solidarity in her voice for something that wasn’t human sent a shiver down the spines of her men. “And if any of you disagree, let it be known now. Otherwise, you’re all dismissed.”

The men started to stand from their seats, the drag of wood across the stone floor ringing in their ears. It was silent but for the noise of their movements; no one dared disagree.

“Alec,” May snapped, seeing the young soldier starting towards the door. “Not you. You stay.”

The rest of them filed one by one out the door, Alec’s hands shaking as he looked down at his feet. He’d never spoken directly to the Dutchess before. He didn’t even think she knew his name. He knew the meeting would be about everything that happened last night, so it wasn’t a surprise when he got the summons. She must know he was the one to start the whole thing…

The slow tick, tick, tick, of the ancient clock droned on as May sat behind her desk, eyeing the child in front of her. He couldn’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen—nowhere near old enough to experience the horrors of war. Why the recruits kept getting younger and younger with each passing month, May couldn’t tell, but she couldn’t argue with the strength of numbers.

“You’re not in trouble,” she started. She could see him shaking, the red hue of his cheeks as he stared at the floor slowly fading the more she spoke. “But there’s something important we need to discuss.”

There was a slow and painful droning starting to cradle the base of Alec’s neck.

“Please, sit.” May said, extending her arm to the chair in front of her. Alec looked up at her with tears brimming in his eyes, his hands slowly reaching for the arm of the chair before his heavy feet began to move across the floor.

“There was a sacrifice made by a man last night that I’ll never be able to repay,” she said, taking her time to make sure Alec heard the severity in her words. “I need you to know that your lieutenant’s family is going to be taken care of by me, personally.”

Alec’s shoulders slowly started to unfurl themselves, a small wave of tension slowly washing away from him.

“What happened here last night can never happen again.”

Alec’s brows furrowed as he wrinkled his nose, sniffing a bit to keep his tears at bay. “How can you say that and let him stay?” He said, his eyes pleading with May.

There was a part of May’s heart that, in that moment, slowly started breaking for the small boy. “He didn’t know,” she started, giving way to Alec shaking his head.

“No animal ever does,” he choked, a tear starting to fall.

May stood from her desk, her cloak shrouding her massive form as she walked around it to kneel beside Alec. She took his hands in hers, looking up at his eyes, past the tears staining his cheeks. “He’s not an animal. He’s lost. And I think bringing him here…” she sighed, dropping his hands but keeping her eyes locked on his own. “I think it changed something inside of him.”

As she stood and walked back to her desk, Alec wiped his tears with the back of his hand. They weren’t shaking anymore. The low hum slowly crept up his skull. “Where did he come from?” he asked, “What is he?”

“I don’t know what he is. I don’t think anyone knows what he is. But there’s human in him. Because of that, I’m not going to subject him to whatever torture some High Councilor or Mage might have in mind for him.” She locked eyes once again with Alec, her own brow furrowing to match his. “I need your help, son.”

Less than twelve hours ago there was a pain and a guilt racking Alec’s chest, swallowing him whole as he prayed for the life of a superior whose death he felt responsible for. And yet here he sat now, being praised for his duty and taken aside by the Dutchess herself to ask a favor. His sense of duty was whole and always would be; his grandfather’s grandfather plowed the fields his grandchildren one day would, and through all those generations they’ve diligently served May’s family. He didn’t question May, but in that moment, he questioned her motivation. In no scroll or parchment anywhere in Aphoreum did it say to praise a man for causing death—rather, the Gods call it a Natural Sin unless to protect one’s self—and yet here he sat.

“I need to know if I have your full loyalty, Alec.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat and sat higher in his chair. “You do, my Lady.” The words fell off the boy’s tongue before he could have a moment to think of them.

May nodded. “I’m sure you can tell that we’ve been slowly building ourselves up since the last set of port raids, but in a way much different than in the past. Steering away from Crown Union Mercenaries, the King’s trade policies… Do you think of me as less of a leader for that?”

“No, my Lady.”

“And how do you think of the church?”

It was a loaded question, of course. There was a million and one things Alec could’ve said in that moment, knowing the God’s wrath and understanding the world’s Natural Chaos. There were those who were so afraid of the God’s that they’d cower in the daylight for fear of being stuck by a stray bolt of lightning.

He huffed out a solid breath. “Are you asking me what I think of the Gods, my Lady? Or the church itself?”

The smirk that spread on May’s lips told Alec that he’d answered correctly.

“There’s something coming, son,” May said, “and it won’t be for those who can’t stomach it. That… thing you saw last night, that beast—there’s a man in there who can learn how to control that. Do you understand what that means?”

Alec thought he did, and slowly nodded.

“Good. It’s settled, then.” May stood from her desk, prompting Alec to do the same. “I’m promoting you. Congratulations, . You and I will see a lot of each other. I’m going to provide you with a copy of the keys for the manor’s archive. You can read, yes?”

Alec was shocked, his jaw all but sitting on the floor. He nodded vigorously.

“We need to figure out what he is. And I don’t want them to know.”

-

Oryn and May sat in silence in May’s study, the cracking of the fire behind them burning strong, the spring wind softly blowing through the open window.

May looked at Oryn and saw someone she thought she recognized. There were the bags drooping under their eyes and ashen skin, showing a lack of sleep. But that wasn’t what was different. The way they sat in the chair said something was amiss; the muscle under their shirt seemingly misplaced, the crook of their jaw not matching the glide of their neck. This was someone May knew, but not someone she could truly recognize.

After moments of May’s puzzling stare, she spoke, her words soft and clipped.

“What are you?”

May’s presence in that mighty carved chair positioned behind the sturdy oak desk was something Oryn wanted to keep fresh in their mind. They’d never seen May as anything other than an afraid child, much like the way May must have viewed Oryn. Until now, of course. As a sigh escaped their lips, Oryn let themselves fall deeper into the cushioned chair they sat upon. There was no use in fighting it now; not here, not with her.

Their eyes traced the grains of the wood in the desk. “I don’t know.”

Oryn understood rules: there were things you couldn’t do, or bad things would happen as a result. There were small rules, like being gentle with glass potion bottles. And there were big ones, too, like the rules made by a king. Seeing May sitting behind the desk reminded them of all the rules they had to follow, the order they had to keep; there are consequences to actions, punishments when rules are broken. Oryn knew they were wrong, knew if anyone else had done what they had, they’d be strung up and left for dead—that’s how May ran her duchy. And yet, here they both sat, in comfortable chairs beside a blazing fire, the sweet scent of blooming flowers in the chilled air settling over the room.

“Who are you?”

Oryn’s eyes met May’s. “I’m me. I’m not—”

“But you look different. You’re not… you’re different, somehow.” She leaned forward, resting her arms on the desk, peering at Oryn like there was something missing.

“I don’t know how to—”

That puzzled expression vanished from May’s features as she slammed a hand on the desk, Oryn jumping in shock. “What do you fucking know?!”

~

There was a rush of something hot sucking May down to the floor, the heat scorching her skin and burning away any thoughts she had outside the pain. The blinding light of something better unknown sent her eyes rolling back in her skull.

When they told her there would be a price to pay, she didn’t expect something like this.

Her screams of pain soon mixed with Oryn’s screaming pleas, falling upon the desperate yet stern ears of the three women.

“You’re killing her!” Oryn shouted, their own skin started to vibrate with what they thought was fear, or maybe anger.

Starla wrapped her long, bony arms around Oryn’s waist, restraining her with more strength than many thought the old hag capable of.

Elisa’s eyes darkened, her brow furrowing as she took a long look at May writhing in pain on the floor. “Maureen…”

“She begged me!” Maureen started, her stable hands—one touching May, the other, her brother’s corpse—starting to shake. “She begged me…” she trailed off, sweat running down her neck as she sucked in a deep breath.

“If she could pay—” Elisa started.

“She can! She can pay! She’s—”

There was a reverberation felt throughout the cabin, the wooden floor cracking and splitting, the mud walls crumbling in places and every small animal and bug scattering out from the structure and into the forest beyond. Then all was silent, but for the settling of the cabin back onto its own weight.

May was left on the floor—unharmed, unconscious, and unable to pay.

Maureen lifted her hands from both bodies, stepping away from them as if she’d just seen something unholy.

Starla released her grip on Oryn, who fell to the floor and scrambled to May, cradling her head on their lap. “What were you doing to her?” They spat at their guardians.

Starla joined Maureen and Elisa, the three of them staring at the two on the floor.

“Why didn’t—”

“She asked for…”-

“What is she going to do?”

-

When May finally found herself waking, it was in a soft bed of furs in front of a roaring fire. She felt as though she had just fought a war; she felt as though she lost.

Maureen was at her bedside, softly cooing a lullaby under her breath and wiping at the sweat staining May’s brows. As May looked up at her, her eyes practically dripping with hope, she was met with Maureen’s look of unrelenting grief.

Through violent, choking sobs, May asked her, “Why?”

Maureen shook her head, Oryn bolting through the doorway of the small room, their breath heavy and eyes wide. “She’s awake?”

May grabbed Maureen’s arm, raking her fingers down her skin. “WHY?” she screamed, hot tears falling to the blankets surrounding her, breath hitching in her throat.

Oryn ran to her bedside, a look of astonishment upon their face. Here, for the first time, Oryn was meeting Grief; something primal and carnal and deeply engrained in what it means to be alive. Oryn beheld the only friend they had known in her throws of pain and wails of loss, clawing for something that didn’t exist and gasping for air that seemed so easy to breathe.

Maureen turned to Oryn, who was tempted to place a hand upon May’s back and comfort her the way they thought they should. But the look on Maureen’s face—the daggers in her eyes—screamed not to get involved. This is a human thing, her eyes said, something you can’t understand.

Maureen held May as she screamed her throat raw and bloody; she held her through her convulsions and the begging and the desperate feeling that comes from being and feeling utterly and completely alone in the world.

Oryn felt like it was something she could understand if Maureen would ever let her get close enough to someone to know.

That distance, though, that forced space Maureen created between Oryn and anything else living, was a punishment she greatly deserved.

~

“I know I’m not all human,” Oryn said, their low voice droning out the sound of the fire and the wind, “But I don’t know anything more than that.”

May sat back, folding her arms in front of her. “What happened?”

As Oryn gazed at May, they started to cry. First it was just a small tear trailing down their cheek, gently dripping into their lap. “I… I killed someone,” they whispered, trying to blink away the salty tears but only making it worse. “I killed someone,” they repeated, their eyes boring into May’s soul as she sat in front of them, pleading for something they didn’t quite understand yet; mercy.

She wept in front of May, tears pouring seemingly with no end, as they felt the guttural urge of knowing they’d done something wrong and needed to pay for it.

[altairattorney]

[SEKIRO] Dust Hymn

The fury in Owl’s eyes is unparalleled. And a thought without precedent, somewhere from the newly loose soil of his mind, makes something in Wolf snap.

Little voices left to rot and plot The crunching of your teeth may help you sleep, but will not lift you Always wished you'd walk through another song Hang you like a lullaby - Purity Ring, Dust Hymn

[AO3]

“Forsake him”.

The tone of Owl’s words is familiar and new at once. The commanding tone of a man who is not used to waiting, tinged with the slightest hint of an urgency that was never there before. The hesitation between them hangs heavier with each passing second.

A terrible risk to take with someone who is, by any means, not patient.

Wolf tries to say something, but no words are found in his mouth. He has never even considered responding to an order before. His gaze slides to the door instead, then to the stairs, and there is no stopping what comes next – the images fill his mind one by one, faster than lightning.

He is thirteen, curled into a corner of their modest home. The filth on the floorboards he lies on does not bother him. Soft voices converse just outside the walls, and he is a ball of tension as he tries to catch as many words as possible. His rest hinges on what Lady Butterfly will say – every night her lips hold his fate, the fine line between sleep or fifteen minutes of blinding pain. She will scold his father if he dares, that is true. It will not matter. Enraged Owl is a beast, and for good reason, he says; the monster in him is what pushes Wolf onward, as there is no mercy on the road to perfection. He strains to listen until his ears ache. Then, defeated, he closes his eyes, wishing he could fall asleep without having to think about anything.

He is in his twenties, and the screen door opens on nothing more than an infant. The creature in front of him knows a life he could never have pictured; as revered as it is defenseless, his frail frame looks like it could snap in half under Owl’s hands. Wolf kneels as he was raised to do, without the need to ask about anything. But the way boy wanders towards him, accompanied by an attendant in his bumbling little steps, is rewriting something in the way he understands the world. Maybe one day this child will grow into a different kind of man, one with insights and stories nobody ever cared to tell him. Maybe, somehow, Wolf will capture a hint of something new, by just standing at his side.

He is some years older, already dying alone. He failed to expect the unexpected, and it is all his fault – if he could so carelessly be struck from behind, he deserves to die just the way it happened. Shame is the last trace of life in the trail of his breath, and occupies each thought of deprecation. He thinks of how he failed his master, his family, but above all his own father. The pain of his burns echoes that of the past, when he was a young boy in constant need of punishment. He deserves it, he knows. He deserves exactly what he got. He does not deserve – nor could he expect – the small hand that holds his out of nowhere, and the pleading voice that brings him back to life.

He is a few days younger than today, and he staves off exhaustion by chewing on bits of the sweet rice ball throughout the night. Kuro is sleeping just behind him, so tired from carrying such a huge weight on his lean shoulders. He cannot ask for more – he would never dare – but every fiber of him wishes he was allowed to. The food is lending him restoration he has not felt in years, like a hot spring in the middle of a cold Ashina winter. Though it still feels beyond his comprehension, Wolf begins grasping some of it – the care that must have gone into making this food, the time spent for the sake of someone else, for his own sake. It is a small idea, newborn and fragile, somewhat like the child he first met so many years ago. That too, Wolf feels, is something worth protecting. And he chews on it with the food, alone in the night, with the sound of Kuro’s light breathing as his only company.

He is back, to the here and now. The fury in Owl’s eyes is unparalleled. And a thought without precedent, somewhere from the newly loose soil of his mind, makes something in Wolf snap.

He is alive. He breathes and thinks and talks, despite the machinations of the monster he called father. He is alive, but not thanks to him. He is no longer a scared boy curled on a filthy floor. And he may never get what he wished for – a duel, even a word, on the same level as him – but he is aware that his father’s approval, of all things, is not what he needs anymore.

He does not need his father. He does not need to give an answer, either. He can do better than that.

Wolf takes a deep breath, and then – for the first time – he chooses to draw his sword.

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

Greensleeves Chapter Thirteen: Dirty Paws

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Wordcount: 4.4k Warnings: Canon-typical violence, description of injuries

The party confront the last of the goblin leaders and conclude their business at the Selunite temple. They set their sights on the Risen Road and the wardevil Karlach

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes to the sound of her laughter again. It tricks him into thinking they’re still camping in the woods, but when he crawls inelegantly out of his tent he’s confronted with stone. Still in the snake pit, then. Not for much longer, hopefully. Fire still crackles in a pit before the statue of Selune, their only source of light unless a spellcaster throws sprites into the air. Gale does a headcount. Avoiding looking at Xaph for as long as possible. Shadowheart is lying flat on her back, staring up at the stone ceiling. The artefact rests on her stomach while she toys with it. Lae’zel is in her underthings, stretching each of her limbs until they look fit to dislocate. Astarion’s tent is still closed, suggesting that he’s still asleep. The other three are sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall opposite Gale’s tent. Wyll has found a stick and is getting the dog to turn around and around in circles to chase it. The druid Halsin is smiling, though he still has the dark circles and scratches from his imprisonment. He’s a mountain of muscle that makes Xaph and Wyll look small but waves Gale over with an even wider smile when he sees him awake. 

Xaph tosses Gale an apple from the stash of fruit the wizard and the warlock had found in the storage cupboard the goblins had been keeping Volo in. Xaph. He needs to talk to Xaph. Preferably without other people around, so for now he’ll settle for group breakfast. Not on the floor though. It’s far too early for his knees to even consider that. There’s an upturned crate nearby. That’ll do. Xaph. She’s working through a peach. She’s wearing those loose trousers and a cropped undershirt. Her midsection has bloomed indigo and plum overnight. He makes an educated guess that the ranger and the druid had stayed awake together despite the set night watch. At least they’ve made friends, bringing the party’s number of arguing duos back down to one. The dog bumps into his knee and reminds him other people are around. His hand drops to ruffle the dog’s ears and Scratch pushes his head up into his hand. Idle conversation is made, an activity at which Gale knows he excels, though he forgets it temporarily when Xaph drags her tongue up the length of her forearm and across her palm to collect drips of peach juice. 

She answers a question from Halsin several minutes later and he rolls away from them and into bear form to plod across the chamber to a section of wall ivy has pushed through. Xaph and Wyll engage in an admittedly childish game of fire-water-wood to decide who has to go and wake Astarion. Wyll loses and rises with a sigh. Once Astarion’s up the party will have to leave and face the carnage of the camp and the consequences of acts they’ve already committed. Gale can see the appeal of leaving the vampire in his elfin trance, but Shadowheart would start cracking the whip soon enough. Xaph rakes a hand through her hair and lets her head fall back against the wall. They’ve been left alone. For how long?

“He didn’t sleep at all last night, poor thing,” Xaph says quietly, sadly, watching bear-formed Halsin slump, then stand to move somewhere else, sit again, up again- “I know the feeling.”

“Did you?” Gale asks, “Sleep?” he clarifies a moment later. Xaph nods.

“Surprisingly, I did. After Gut I was sure I’d spend several nights awake, remembering the House of Hope,” a hand creeps up to her throat, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone, and he wonders if she’s aware of the movement. Now is not the time to ask. “But you gave me something better to think about. Thank you. You’ve brought me much comfort during nights that would have been sleepless. I’ll figure out how to pay you back.”

“Kindness isn’t bought, Xaph.”

“Well, no, but it should be returned. Besides, I hate owing people,” her head rolls to the side so she can look at him, and she pulls a knee up to her chest, “Listen, Gale, about last night…” his shoulders pull back, just a little, correcting his posture,

“Oh, I was surprised. But pleasantly so, like I said,” he tells her, “Amid the madness that has befallen us, it’s important to recall what makes us human. Well. You know what I mean,” a sharp exhale through her nose tells him he’s caused no offence, “A stolen glance. That sudden heartbeat. Sometimes the little things are worth more than kingdoms,” there it is. Their eyes meet and it feels secret and stolen and exciting, “They promise things to come.”

“What’s to come?” Xaph asks. Her eyes drop to his lips then back up and the bursts of want and sympathy that flash between their worms are as quick as a coin flip. How far open is this door? No. They should close it. They don’t want to.

“Divination’s not my school.” Gale quips, and there’s the little exhale again. It unravels another string from around his rib. He’s letting her answer, of the opinion that he’s made his feelings on the matter clear. Xaph thinks - he can practically see the cogs turning in her mind - before she lifts her hand into the space between them. Her pinky finger is extended.

“Tell you what. We make it through this, and I’ll take you to the mountains. I’ll even let you portal us, and we can see where the thyme grows,” she says. Gale hooks his finger with hers, mimicking the way he’d tried to make contact the night before. She squeezes a promise into his finger before she pushes up onto her feet and unlinks their fingers to flatten her hand in a more general offering, “Give me your hand, if we be friends.”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” He knows the line, of course he does. Knows the play. Xaph’s smile is one partly of relief that he’d understood, and it grows when he accepts the hand though he doesn’t really need the help to get up.

“It’s my favourite. I’ve seen it a half-dozen different times, and it’s always different. And always beautiful.”

“I propose a trade then,” Gale says, “If you show me your mountains, I’ll take you to the finest theatres in Waterdeep.”

She nods in agreement, and her eyes are bright. He’s smiling and there’s warmth in his face and his hands. They’re going to die, but maybe for a little while they can pretend otherwise.

***

Blood fills the day.  Now that the goblins have finally sobered up - those who hadn’t been poisoned and gargled to death that is - they notice there are rather a lot of bodies scattered around their stronghold. Dror Ragzlin, their fearless and until-now undefeated leader, is slumped on the floor of his chamber stripped of his weapons and his vault ransacked. The priestess might not be in seclusion at all, though this is unconfirmed because no one can find her. The druid they’d been keeping in the worg pens is gone. So is their new bard pet. And the prisoner from the grove. They don’t even have a chicken left to chase. All had gone to hell as soon as those True Souls turned up…and they can’t be True Souls, can they? Would the Absolute punish them so severely when they’d done nothing but follow Her word?

It’s not a delicate operation. Halsin shifts from rat to bear when a goblin blade slices Xaph’s calf open and if further hell can break loose it does so as his captors realise where their captive has gone. However, he’s an incredibly useful asset for batting enemies away while Wyll wraps a rag around Xaph’s leg to staunch the bleeding. Shadowheart and Lae’zel have found harmony in their shared fervour for battle, the former finding great joy in swinging her new flail into the skulls of goblins who get too close. A goblin heretic caught in a wooden cage howls that this is a punishment from Maglubiyet for their sin of straying to another god. The party retreats to the stairs to find the drow Minthara and at the top of the steps Gale twists, claps his hands, detono, and a fistful of goblins clatter down onto the stone floor of the sanctum again. This wing is clear of goblins, and the party aren’t sure if that’s because the drow was sure they wouldn’t make it this far or if she’s collected the strongest around her. The former proves to be the truth. When they spill into the room functioning as the office where she delegates raids, she stands alone. Her name is Minthara, and she’s intent on destroying the grove. To cleanse the ground of druids believing in the ‘false god’ she perceives Silvanus to be. To wipe out the treacherous surface-dwelling tieflings who should have stayed in the hells. To find the artefact trembling in Shadowheart’s pocket. She stands on the opposite side of the room, across a rickety bridge that covers a gap in the floor. Her armour is incredible - drow have many expert leatherworkers in their numbers - and she wields a heavy sword. A lyre is strapped to her back but no one is about to make the mistake of thinking she’s a bard. Illusory shields circle around her and further yellow light puffs up from the ground like dust where she walks. Her body hums with enough magic that the hair on the back of Gale’s neck prickles. He has to say that their ragtag group looks intimidating between the githyanki wielding a sword almost a quarter of her weight, the tiefling with her tail thrashing despite her bleeding leg and the giant bear looming behind them. Gale himself brings pinpricks of red energy to each of his fingers, ready to fire. He’s fast running out of spells and he has to make what he’s got left counts. Wyll stands beside him with a crossbow he’d lifted off a body ready and loaded and Shadowheart on his other side levels a spear at the drow. She’s crossing the bridge now, still silent but more menacing for it. The sword twists in a bright circle. Scratch cowers behind a bookshelf.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Astarion. Gale had almost forgotten about him. “Ignis.” He casts spells lazily - as though they don’t take massive effort - but credit where credit is due, his ability to aim is indisputable. He lands his hit now, his firebolt eating into the wood of the bridge. The drow laughs, high and cruel, thinking he’s missed. Her mouth opens into a wide O of shock when she hears the snapping and cracking of the bridge beneath her feet. Astarion’s flames have burned through the rope securing the supports of the wooden planks. Without the rope, the wood falls into the chasm. The drow follows with hardly time to scream. Silence sits on surprised shoulders, none of them willing to relax quite yet, but the drow doesn’t rise back up from the chasm.

“Well. That’ll do it,” Wyll says eventually, “Let’s get out of here before her backup arrives.”

“As solid a plan as any.” Shadowheart agrees, turning without further ceremony.

“Good spot, Astarion.” Xaph hits his shoulder and he pulls away from the contact but he doesn’t insult her.

The party slink out of the room and back towards the makeshift torture chamber. It’s the only exit they know of besides the front door and none of them want to face a second horde of goblins. Slowly, with many helping hands, they climb the rocks and squeeze out of the cragged hole that Liam had escaped through. The goblins must have been aware of this bolt hole because there are traps every few feet along the grassy path that Liam has pushed sticks into. On one side the stone wall of the temple rises upwards and on the other, the grass drops off into the river at a height that would break limbs if they were to jump. They have little choice but to inch their way along the grass single-file, hopping over traps Liam had missed, bones clattering when Astarion or Shadowheart stop to check skulls for weapons. Xaph carries the dog. Halsin morphs into a bird - Gale doesn’t know what kind - and flies above them, stretching his wings. He and Xaph call back and forth and he directs them away from any goblins until they wind their way back to the copse of maple trees. Their campsite is untouched, the grass where their tents had been set still flattened, as though the last few days hadn’t happened.

Once she’s decided they’re an adequate distance from danger, Shadowheart strips off her armour and wades into the river in her clothes. Xaph flops onto the ground and sets to pulling off her boots and trousers to get to her injured leg. Halsin plummets to earth and she watches him with a fondly knowing expression as he becomes himself again and pushes his fingers into the grass and mud. She also conjures some of her goodberries and deposits them in a bowl Wyll offers her, which he then carries around to the rest of the group. Lae’zel kneels at the riverbank to clean her blood-coated sword. Astarion pointedly distances himself from the bleeding members of the party. Wyll collects a bowl of water and takes over Xaph’s treatment after seeing her groaning when she bends to try and reach her leg. When she beckons Gale over he obeys. An arrow had caught his arm and his clothes are sticky with blood. He undoes the purple robe and rolls his sleeve so Xaph can get to it. They form a funny little line, Wyll gently holding and cleaning Xaph’s calf and testing the length of her tail for further injury while she tears strips from clean clothes to wrap Gale’s arm and wrist in.

“Spell check?” she whispers to him, turning his arm over in her hands. She draws a circle on his skin with her thumb, indicating that she’s asking about his magical malady.

“Manageable, for the moment.” The pain is no worse than usual, there’s no need to consume magic, but with quick fingers Xaph presses an agate ring into his palm.

“Astarion nicked this off that goblin with the foot fetish. He won’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“Ow!” Wyll has found a cut in Xaph’s tail and she can’t stop it from slithering out of his grasp.

“Sorry.” Wyll grimaces in time with the tiefling.

“You’re alright.” Xaph assures him, not unkindly. While he refocuses his attention on her leg she waves Halsin over. The elf sits in front of her, but doesn’t speak. With his nodded agreement Xaph takes his chin between her fingers and lifts a damp rag to his face. She sets to wiping the mud and goblin viscera off his face - discovering that the red marks on his face are in fact tattoos - and the druid’s eyes close as he lets himself relax into the ranger’s hands. Slowly he comes back to himself. Xaph makes small clucking noises, and they seem to bring him comfort.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel permit them a half hour of respite. Gale’s changed his shirt and tried to beat the blood out of his robe with river water and a stone. When he pulls it back on the sleeve is still soaking wet, but hopefully the sun will dry it. Astarion returns to them with a little colour in his cheeks, thanks to some squirrels he doesn’t tell Halsin about. The druid has grounded himself and speaks to the group at large,

“The grove owes you a debt beyond measure. All of you. Killing’s never my first choice, but those three were too dangerous to leave alive.” 

“The debt might be beyond measure, friend,” Astarion starts, leaning back on his hand, “But I do hope we can count on some compensation,” Xaph pokes him with the toe of her boot, “What, that was a lot of work.”

“When you return to the grove, I’m sure I can arrange something,” Halsin tells him, “But I must return as soon as I can to stop Kagha.”

“We can’t go with you,” Wyll says, “At least, I can’t. I think we should check on that settlement the goblins raided. Waukeen’s Rest. The trader I spoke to said that some of the buildings were already burning when they got there and the fire couldn’t be put out.”

“Hellfire.” Xaph says. Wyll nods,

“Karlach. I’m honour-bound to make her my priority, and I cannot deviate further from my path.” It’s the first mention of his quarry since they’d met him. He’d set his mission aside for the tieflings. Appreciation buzzes in the tips of Xaph’s ears as she replies,

“I’ll come with you. I want to find out where those gnolls came from.” It was gnolls that had attacked the tieflings on the Risen Road and tracked them halfway to the grove. It was gnolls that had attacked Scratch’s master. They don’t normally track along roads, particularly not such a prominent road as the one between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate.

“If it gets us closer to the creche, I will join you. If not, I go on alone.” Lae’zel decides. That’s three out of six. Shadowheart is pulling at the leather straps of her armour to secure it but she looks up to nod her assent to Xaph,

“Like I said, I’ll go where you go…” her eyes slide to Lae’zel, “Within reason.”

“As will I. Though I think my limitations of reason are quite different.” The brevity of Gale’s answer carries sincerity. Astarion rolls his eyes,

“Well, you’re hardly going to leave me behind.”

“I understand. Of course, you have missions and motivations of your own,” Halsin says, “Though I do ask that you return to the grove before you leave the wilderness entirely. No doubt the tieflings would give their thanks to you as well,” he rises to his full height, taller than everyone else in the camp, “Thank you again. I must say, even though I am unable to help you, the bonds you have formed will. They will aid you in your search for a cure as much as any sword.” With these parting words said, he shrinks down into a rat once more and leaps away.

“Fat lot of good friendship’s going to do us,” Astarion sneers, “Bloody druid.”

***

The Risen Road has become the Ruptured Road. Following their map, the party comes to a stone bridge that has fallen in the middle. It’s a manageable gap that everyone can jump across, though Xaph’s injured leg buckles under her and Shadowheart pulls her back up by her collar. Crates litter the bridge, debris from a broken-down cart. When Astarion prises one open he finds fresh produce. Cabbages, onions. Garlic he deliberately leaves when he brings his spoils back to the party. Other crates are broken into and the food is taken from them. Someone wonders aloud what had happened to the cart. Wyll reminds them of the goblins, the gnolls, the drow, Karlach. There are many possibilities. Xaph’s limping noticeably now, but she doesn’t ask them to stop and she waves Gale’s helping hand away. At a fork in the road, they turn right based on a hunch Wyll has. There are more crates here, but no fresh food. Just the smell of death. There are hyenas on the road. They look dead. Lae’zel makes way for Xaph to creep forward, dragging her injured foot a little.

She sinks to one knee and passes a hand over the creature’s bloated stomach. It’s still breathing, shudderingly. At Xaph’s touch, its entire body jerks as though taken by a seizure.

“Weapons,” Xaph says simply, and she hears the shink of daggers sliding into Astarion’s palms. The hyena writhes under her hand. Its life isn’t ending. It's evolving. This is how many gnolls are born. A shocked noise startles from Gale when, lightning-quick, Xaph extracts a goblin arrow from her hip quiver and plunges it between the unfortunate creature’s ribs and a second through its ears, “How many?” she asks.

“Five.” Wyll answers. Xaph pulls her bow from her shoulder, angling it so it doesn’t scrape the ground when she draws.

“They’re turning. Gnolls can spawn from infected hyenas, and all-”  Xaph’s explanation is drowned out by high whining, howling, the snapping of bones. Her companions watch in horror as the hyena bodies in front of them contort and burst like boils. Creatures, far bigger than the hyenas they came from, crawl out and up onto surprisingly steady feet. Signature hyena laughs erupt from the beasts and it chills the party to the bones.

“Fight or run?” Astarion asks in a hushed voice.

“Fight.” Lae’zel insists. She races forward before anyone can protest, and both Shadowheart and Gale groan god-related curses while Wyll darts after her. Xaph sends an arrow along their path to stick in her target’s leg. 

“Astarion, bow,” she calls back, “Stay back.”

“Ex textura!” Shadowheart pushes her hands out, then spreads them apart. A thick line of golden light follows her movement, moulding itself into the shape of a greataxe. At a word from its caster, the axe flies forward to chase a gnoll. Astarion falls into a good stance directly behind Xaph, so he can see where she’s aiming and course-correct accordingly. All four of the other gnolls zero in on Lae’zel and Wyll, their nearest targets. One falls behind, peppered with arrows. Another enters into a duel with the magical greataxe Shadowheart is micromanaging, her fingers crooked as she manipulates the Weave to her will. Gale lunges forward and takes one of the daggers Astarion had hurriedly sheathed in favour of his bow. The vampire whips around, fully intending to use the other dagger to threaten Gale, but the wizard is too quick. With a flick of the wrist, the knife morphs into an icicle and is sent into the face of a gnoll. It explodes into smaller shards of ice, covering both beasts in frost. The one that had taken the hit directly howls as its head snaps back with the impact, and two quick-fire arrows from Xaph are enough to tip it over onto the freshly iced surface below its feet. Wyll’s rapier ensures the creature isn’t going to get up again. Gale glances down at the blade a few inches from his throat and raises his eyebrows at Astarion. 

“I don’t think you want to do that.” Gale is surprised at the lightness of his own voice because his breath is most definitely caught in his throat. The bright blue tendrils of his spell’s light swirl around his arm and find painfully cold refuge in his arrow wound.

“Oh, I do,” Astarion’s teeth aren’t bared, but the growl is implied, “Don’t touch me.” Gale glances down again, at the fist screwed into the front of his robe. He doesn’t know what move he can make that doesn’t get him sliced open. Xaph yelps and Shadowheart roars. A gnoll is within clawing distance and neither of the men are providing cover. Xaph rolls backwards, holding her bow up to protect it, and rises to wobbly feet beside them.

“The fuck are you doing?” she doesn’t even look at them, already drawing her bow to loose yet another arrow into the juggernaut this particular gnoll is proving to be. Shadowheart grunts in exertion, trying to keep up her magical greataxe to aid Lae’zel and Wyll while also sending tiny motes of blue flame at the creature barreling towards Xaph. “You can measure each other’s dicks later,” the ranger tells the men, “Astarion.” The elf turns his attention and his blade to her and hisses. She hisses back. More of her teeth end in points than his. Shadowheart spits the wizard’s name through gritted teeth. Gale takes his chance, ducking under Astarion’s arm and consequently twisting his wrist to the point where he has to let go. A marble from the bag in his pack appears in his palm. Blue. Perfect. He hurls it at the gnoll, yanking on the Weave to turn the simple little marble into a semi-solid sphere of freezing cold energy that finally stops the beast.

When he turns back to his companions, he finds them with blades at each other’s throats. His worm wriggles in his head and he knows that they are communicating through their own parasites. Slowly, the knives are lowered. Slowly. 

“The hells is happening over here?” Shadowheart is furious, stamping towards the trio as the last gnoll falls at Wyll’s hand.

“Pointless peacocking,” Xaph answers, “They’re good now. Right?” her eyes are daggers in themselves, and Astarion’s voice is tight when he answers, perfect, darling. She looks at Gale with the same sharpness and he agrees. “ Right. We need to find this settlement soon, we haven’t got long until the sun starts to set.”

“I think he’s got something else in mind.” Shadowheart jerks a thumb in Lae’zel’s direction. She’s collecting melons and apples from another cart, but past her Wyll is already marching away.

They walk a few miles before Wyll even thinks about slowing down. Xaph’s using her bow as a makeshift walking stick to keep up, having wedged herself between Gale and Astarion in the walking formation. They’re nearing the river again. Shadowheart and Gale both try to talk Wyll into making camp or changing direction, but he won’t hear it. Somehow, he knows this is the way he has to go. Another mile and Wyll is stalking rather than walking, and the change of pace suits Xaph.

“Sulphur.” Astarion mutters. 

“Hells.” Xaph curses.

“Indeed.” Gale sighs. None of them are in a condition to put up a strong fight except for Wyll and Astarion, but the warlock shouldn’t count on the rogue’s loyalty after his earlier outburst. He’s too prickly. Xaph relents and takes Gale’s arm to ease her down the slope that will take them to the riverbank. Shadowheart opens her mouth, presumably to call Wyll’s name, but the word dies on his throat. A bonfire is raging on the riverbank. And it’s moving. There’s a person there, encased in flame. Wyll draws his rapier,

“One horn. The stink of Avernus. Advocatus diaboli.”

“Well, I’ll be godsdamned. The Blade of Frontiers.”

[letstrywritingmaybe]

Thanks to @muslimintp-1999-girl for making a most CoAi Tay song poll. I promised to write a song fic for the one that won, and coincidentally it was one that I had in the works already. And since this began on tumblr, I’ll post it here and on ao3 <3

You Belong With Me?

Summary: It’s a matter of principle. She was here first and they grew up together for goodness sake! Of course people can change their minds, but she waited patiently for two years with the title as his girlfriend, so how can it be over just like that? It’s not fair.

If you could see that I’m the one who understands you

Been here all along so why can’t you see

You belong with me

Standing by you waiting at your back door

All this time how could you not know baby

You belong with me

It’s the first day of school of her freshman year in college. She’s nervously making her way around the courtyard, trying to navigate this new chapter in her life.

If only… no, she can’t think about him. Not today. But it’s too late. He’s like a virus that refuses to go away, no matter how much she tries to get rid of him.

Breathe Ran. It’s the first day of school. So what he’s going to be studying here too despite missing a whole year of high school. His super smart girlfriend must’ve helped him catch up.

She frowns, he was already smart before she came into the picture. She just doesn’t get it!

Okay, so yes Miyano Shiho is gorgeous, but she’s so shallow! What does Shinichi see in her? Yes she might be brilliant, holding multiple doctorates while Ran barely managed to make the cut for university, but Miyano is always making Shinichi feel stupid!

Yes her childhood friend can be an idiot, but he’s her idiot! Kudo Shinichi belongs to Mouri Ran. It’s been this way since they were four. Why can’t he see this!

Thirteen years together, plus two more of her waiting for his return so that they can go on dates like normal couples. They were official for two whole years and didn’t even go on one single date together.

They saw each other more frequently when they were just friends…

Crap, she’s been lost in her thoughts for too long. She missed the turn for her first class. Now she has to hurry or else she’s going to be late. She can’t make a bad impression on the first day.

Turning around, she bolts towards the science department. It’s a good thing she’s a fast runner, she makes it into one of the last two empty seats in the room before the professor begins pulling up the syllabus.

Quickly taking out her notebook, she takes a deep breath to slow her racing heartbeat. She thinks it’s just about back to normal when a loud commotion interrupts the professor mid sentence.

“Sorry I’m late!”

She’s heard those same words too many times to count, and that voice too. She doesn’t even need to look next to her to know that the last empty seat, is taken by none other than her ex boyfriend.

She cannot hide her displeasure, making the mistake of glancing in his direction as he dares to flash her a sheepish smile.

She hates him, but she really doesn’t. Her heart rate picks back up. Get it together Ran. It’s just one look, just a tiny smile and already she feels herself falling again.

“Don’t make it a habit next time, Kudo. Even if you have Miyano-kun vouching for you.”

Great. He doesn’t even get in trouble for being late, and of course the professor knows Miyano. Why is life so unfair?

The rest of the day goes by in a blur, mentally she’s still stuck in her eight am class.

Next Chapter

This must be a sign from the universe. The apartment across from her dorm gives her a clear view of the person residing there. Yep, it’s none other than the guy who still owns her heart. This has to mean something.

He doesn’t see her yet, engrossed into a heated phone call. She can’t quite make out the conversation, but she swears she reads the name Miyano on his lips.

Figures Miyano would be picking a fight with Shinichi right now. Honestly they should just break up. All they ever do is argue.

Keeping her eye on the window, she moves over to her CD player to start this new album she’s been obsessing over.

She smiles remembering the amount of effort Shinichi put into getting it for her. Who knew CDs would be so hard to come by?

She’s willing to bet Miyano doesn’t listen to this kind of music. She doesn’t seem the type to care about things like this.

He finally hangs up the phone, a frown etched onto his beautiful face. She knows what will cheer him up!

Before she can even gain his attention, he’s distracted by the person who walks into his room. It’s just not fair. How can she look so flawless in a short skirt in this weather! She’s not even shivering!

Ran takes a moment to compare her attire, noting her worn t-shirt she hastily threw on as she was running late. It’s one of her favorites, it’s reliable, but it dulls in comparison to Miyano’s fashion sense. Even Sonoko couldn’t help but admire Miyano’s style.

Again she still can’t hear anything, but it seems they’re continuing their previous argument.

Ran instinctively ducks when she sees Miyano walk over to pull the curtains close for some privacy. It doesn’t stop her from seeing their silhouette press together in the glow of incandescent bulbs above their heads. The image seems to be magnified as it burns into her memory.

The way she moves away to gain some distance, how he immediately rushes to pull her back into his arms. Shutting her venomous words with the touch of his lips onto hers. Ran has to look away after this. Shinichi has never shut Ran up with a kiss.

Next Chapter

She’s adjusted well to college life. Going to classes, finishing assignments, making new friends, and allowing Shinichi back into her life.

He has a way of worming himself into a person’s heart, like a parasite who slowly takes control until it’s too late to break free of its influence.

So even though she decided she would get over him and go back to being friends. Old habits die hard. She finds herself wishing for his company more and more, only to be let down again and again.

It’s times like this she wonders how Miyano deals with his frequent disappearances. Will it eventually become too much, breaking them apart and leaving him all alone?

No, Kudo Shinichi shines too brightly to ever be left alone. If not Miyano, someone else will gladly take her place, and even though she knows she shouldn’t. Ran would be first in line.

“Ran? I thought that was you.”

“Shinichi? What are you doing here?”

“I got caught up in a case.”

“You and your cases. Some things never change.”

“No, they don’t. Are you headed back?”

“Just about. There’s a cafe up ahead that everyone’s been raving about. I thought I would go check it out.”

“That one just opened up right?”

“Yeah… um… if you’re not busy, you’re welcome to join me.”

“Sure, it’ll be my treat.”

Her heart is thumping erratically in her chest. This is it. This must be what it’s like to finally be on a date with Shinichi, just the two of them without his insistent babbles about mysteries.

They opted to sit outside at a park bench since it was so crowded inside. The weather is finally warming up, soon it will be spring.

She wasn’t thinking when she blurted out her hope that he would come with her. She’s never been one to remain shy when he’s involved. Preparing for another rejection, she was overjoyed when he accepted.

She expects it to be awkward, they haven’t really spoken outside of their one shared class. The conversation flows naturally, they seem to pick up right where they were, before he broke up with her.

She melts seeing his smile, it’s been a long time since she’s seen his smile. She notes the bags under his eyes, he hasn’t been sleeping well. She calls him out on it.

“I’m fine, really, just busy.”

“I know you better than that. What’s bothering you, Shinichi?”

“… nothing. I’m doing great, honestly.”

“… we are still friends right? Maybe you’ll feel better if you confide in someone.”

He pauses as he weighs out the pros and cons of letting her in. It has to be about Miyano. He’s never kept secrets, unless his girlfriend is involved. There must be trouble in paradise.

She waits with bated breath for the answer. Until the clacking of heels interrupts them.

Glancing up, her eyes meet the woman who took everything from her. Clenching her fist, she forces herself to calm down. She can’t make a scene when Shinichi is already upset.

Sure spring is just around the corner, but is it necessary to walk around in sparkling golden heels right now? Ran looks down at her trusty trainers, this is much more practical.

Looking over to see what Shinichi thinks, she’s taken aback by his reaction. She’s never seen this side of him before.

The look of relief when he sees Miyano standing in front of him, how his eyes soften when she asks if he’s ready to go home. He immediately reaches for her hand as a response, cracking a smile on her normally impassive features.

She’s beautiful when she smiles. Not that she isn’t already gorgeous, but it’s a kind of radiance that rivals the light of a thousand suns. An aura she once believed only belonged to Shinichi, but now she knows there is another.

Miyano is polite when they bid their goodbyes, she even tells Ran to try a vanilla latte next time. With oat milk to be exact.

It’s then she realizes why Shinichi was so quick to take her offer. Going as far as snapping a picture of his drink, even though he used to think it was silly when Ran would do this. He was sending it to Miyano, in hopes it would be enough to lure her over to him.

Next Chapter

Her whole life she knew her place as a spot next to Shinichi, growing used to his presence. How he holds her together when she’s in her deepest woes. In return, she does the same for him.

Or at least she thought she did. He was her safe place, she tried to be his safe haven as well. Making herself available to him at random times, usually to use as an excuse for his absence. Doing little things to cheer him up when he’s in a grumpy mood, even though she thinks he’ll feel better if he just cries it out like she does when she’s sad.

She knows all of his hopes and dreams. Though she claims to be annoyed, she does admire his drive to achieve his goals. She knows he can do anything if he puts his mind to it.

So then… why couldn’t they make it work?

Why did he break her heart with claims that he may not be able to return, leaving her waiting in agony every single day during the course of their relationship.

Why didn’t he immediately rush to her side, and beg for her to take him back… after whatever battles he had been fighting without her were over?

Why come back without any explanations except for an apology she never wanted to hear. How he couldn’t give her the life she wants, because he made a promise to some other girl.

Who cares about this newcomer? Did she put in as much time and love into this boy, now a grown man, as Ran did? Were nights spent pacing up and down in desperation that his absence is just a bad nightmare? What gives Miyano Shiho the right to come crashing into their lives and stealing what is rightfully hers?

Their love story isn’t supposed to end in tragedy, Ran and Shinichi should have made it all the way to the very end. Live the fairytale happily ever after she’s been dreaming about since she was four.

It’s just not fair. Kudo Shinichi belongs to Mouri Ran.

“Shiho, wait!”

Ran doesn’t know why she does it, but she hides behind the building like a coward. He’s not even looking for her, why should she hide?

Miyano certainly isn’t as she continues to walk ahead of him, she isn’t slowing her stride. Ran wonders how she’s still able to move so quickly with those black pumps.

“Shiho!”

He finally catches up to her, grabbing her wrist, forcing her to turn around to face him. Even from this distance, Ran can see the anger in her eyes. Miyano Shiho is livid.

It’s then she takes a better look at Shinichi and notes his disheveled appearance. It’s a miracle he was able to catch up to her so quickly given his injuries.

“I told you to wait for me.”

“I heard.”

“You cruel woman, I’m in real pain and you just left me at the nurse’s office.”

“You should’ve just stayed there and gotten your wounds treated.”

“You’re still mad…”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Shiho, I…”

“No Shinichi, stop. I’m not doing this again. I warned you and you didn’t listen. It’s over. We’re done here.”

“I promise there won’t be a next time, I didn’t know that guy had a knife. Look at me, I’m still fine, it just hurts a little.”

“You know I don’t mind you going out and solving cases, but you’re so reckless! Do you even consider how I feel seeing you hurt every time? I’m grateful that you gave me back my life Shinichi. You taught me not to be afraid, but now you’re the reason for my fears. I’m tired of being scared.”

“Shiho, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry. Just let me go.”

She pushes him away, intending to walk off by herself. He doesn’t allow her the luxury. Reaching out before she has the chance to completely turn away. He gathers her into his arms, holding her tightly, afraid she may disappear into thin air should he let her leave.

Ran cannot hear the whispers he speaks into Miyano’s ear, but it seems to calm her down enough to return his embrace. The only thing she manages to make out is those three little words.

He loves her. He really loves her.

The End

Once upon a time Ran believed she was in love with a boy who would only love her back. Now she knows better. It doesn’t matter who was here first, or how much time they spent together. There is no measure for love.

After seeing the almost break up of shinshi, she goes back through her memories one last time before letting the past stay in the past.

She’d be lying if she said it didn’t hurt, of course it did, it was real after all. It still hurts if she’s being honest, but it’s a dull ache that no longer consumes her every waking moment. Some days, she forgets it even existed.

Sonoko asked her once what made her graciously bow out of this love triangle, she told her she deserves better; as her best friend, Sonoko wholeheartedly agreed.

The truth is, she learned an important lesson from Shiho that day. It’s a cliché, but seeing it in action solidified the expression.

Shiho was willing to let Shinichi go, despite loving him. Teenage Ran wouldn’t understand this, even if she did want them to break up, but Ran now understands.

No one belongs to anyone, only to themselves. So while she used to wish her ex boyfriend would come back to her like they do in the movies. Now she knows, Kudo Shinichi belongs to himself and he chooses Miyano Shiho.

So, it’s time Mouri Ran do the same. It’s just a matter of principle, she can’t have her childhood best friend showing her up after all. That just wouldn’t be fair.

[postapocalyptic-cryptic]

Secret Santa for @d3epfriedangels!! hope you enjoy some Barriss and Ahsoka fun

Luminara left them at the corner by the convenience store with a, “Meet me back here by 1615, alright?” Then, they’re off. It’s just Barriss and Ahsoka for the next two hours, free to explore the ice festival. 

“Where should we go first?” Barriss stands up on her toes, trying to see over the crowd. Most of the locals are Human or of a near-Human height, but still, she and Ahsoka are still a bit too short to see well. Soon, they’ll hit their growth spurts, but for now, with Barriss fourteen and Ahsoka thirteen, they’re almost a head shorter than the rest of the crowd.

Ahsoka points towards the trail leading down to the river bank. “Wanna go check out the ice?” 

Barriss shrugs. That is, after all, the whole point of the festival. 

The ice festivals of D’Noshu aren’t anything she hasn’t seen before. In Barriss’s experience, almost every place that ices over in the winter has some form of celebration when the rivers finally freeze solid. It’s nothing new, but every single one she’s been to has been beautiful, familiar and unique all at once. 

This part of D’Noshu is small, underpopulated thanks to the mountains and the unpleasantly long and cold winters. As such, the ice festival is pretty small, even with the added tourists. The whole thing spans maybe two blocks, but they’re two lively blocks of craft and farm stands, ice carving shows, food carts, and kids making snow forts. There’s something intoxicating about it all: the bells ringing from a nearby church, the smell of warm food, the laughter, the crowds. It’s just her and Ahsoka and the clouds of their breath in the air, left to wander wherever the festival takes them. 

“Sure,” Barriss answers. “I want to get some hot chocolate first, though.” She points to a stand selling huge thermoses of hot chocolate and caf. The setup billows steam, a huge mirror of the little clouds puffing up from each thermos, and the woman behind the counter is red-cheeked and smiling. She charges them two creds each and sends them on their way with some advice to “see the ice carvers while you can, no one does it like Rika and Jor.” They promise her they will, then head down the trail to the edge of the river. 

The D’Noshu, the state’s namesake, is huge. Barriss has seen rivers before, but this one must be more than half a kilometer across, and frozen two meters deep the whole way. The flat expanse of snow-dusted ice glitters in the midday sun. “Wow,” she breathes, and the sun catches her breath and that sparkles, too. 

Ahsoka presses close to her side, looking out over the river. “Do you think the ice is strong enough for all those people out there?” 

Barriss laughs. “I hope so. They’ve got trucks out there and everything.” She gestures to a place just down the river where they’ve cleared a huge area of snow and roped it off to do some truly impressive stunt driving for a growing crowd. The engines are loud, but not loud enough to mask the cheering and the booming cracks of wheels on ice. “I’m sure it’s fine.” 

Ahsoka shivers. “If you say so.” She steps out onto the ice, jumping a bit to test it. Then, she turns to Barriss with a huge smile on her face. “Last one to the other side buys dinner?” Before Barriss can so much as process her words, she’s off. 

Barriss yells indignantly, jumping down onto the ice. “Hey!” She takes off after her into the sun.

[shadowqueen402]

Aria's (Un)Happy Childhood (A Prim And Proper Problems fic)

This is similar to the small fic 'We Meet Again' that I made back in 2022. Except, this is what Aria had experienced growing up. This is based off of the popular Prim And Proper Problems fic by @kayssweetdreams.

Every child deserves a chance to be happy, regardless of what life tends to throw at them. Some children do get the priviledge to have a happy childhood. Others, not so much.

And in Aria's case? Her once happy childhood turned into a living nightmare before she even realized it.

The four-year-old girl thought that everything in her life was perfect. After all, she had two wonderful parents, amazing aunts and uncles, awesome cousins, and the most loving grandparents that anyone could ask for.

But she was bound to learn the horrible secret that her parents were hiding from her one day.

It all started one night when the little brown-haired girl was getting ready for bed. As soon as she entered into her bedroom, that was when she heard her parents talking with each other. Her mother sounded frightened while her father sounded…angered. Aria was confused but quietly listened to their conversation.

"Another love note!?" Roy exclaimed, angered. "When will this woman take the hint that I am not interested!?"

"What if she finds us, Roy?" Esme asked, panicking. "What if she sees our daughter?"

"That woman will not touch our daughter, Mo leannan," Roy firmly assured Esme. "And in the event that she does find us, we'll have to..make a difficult choice. We'll have to move."

"I see." Esme nodded. She knew why it would be a difficult choice. Because it would mean having to separate from the rest of the family. And she knew that Aria loved spending every Sunday with them.

"It is getting rather late." Roy's tone was now calm. "I'll go tuck our daughter in." He then went upstairs to where Aria's room was and went inside. Aria was sitting on her bed, hugging her bunny plushie.

"Daddy, what's going on with you and Mummy?" Aria asked.

"Nothing's going on between us, Brèagha," Roy replied. "Your mother saw something terrifying and I reacted angrily to it. Sorry if I scared you."

"What did you see?" Aria lied in her bed as Roy pulled the covers over her.

"I promise to tell you when you're old enough, Aria." Roy planted a kiss on her forehead. "Goodnight, Brèagha." Then, he turned off the lights and left the room.

Eight years later, Roy had to be deployed to Afghanistan. This was to be expected as being a marine required him to go to a different country. So currently, it was just Aria and her mother at the time.

Aria sighed as she sat on the one of the benches of her middle school's yard. She missed her father terribly and wondered when he would be coming home. Aria recalled how, during those eight years, Roy still wouldn't tell her what he was so angry about. And this made Aria even more confused.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a strange woman standing by the school who appeared to be in her mid thirties. This woman had platinum-blonde hair that was tied into a tight bun, fair skin, and piercing violet eyes that would glare into the soul of anyone she looked at.

And her outfit? It was a long-sleeved black dress that resembled the ones that women that were in the upper class would wear back in the day. She wasn't sure why, but there was something about that woman that didn't seem right.

Fortunately, the woman didn't notice Aria was staring at her. She was rather more busy with talking onto her phone with someone. Her lips were curled into sickeningly sweet smile. "What's that? He's over in Afghanistan?" She said on the phone. "Aww, that's too bad. My offer still stands… What!? He has a daughter!? Hmm… Perhaps, she won't be as much trouble as her mother…"

Aria felt her heart pounding in her chest. She needed to tell her mother about this now. But how would her mother react?

A couple months later, Aria turned thirteen. And it was on the same day that Roy returned home. "Welcome home, a shèoid!" Esme greeted her husband.

"Father!" Aria cried, running up to Roy and hugging him. Roy smiled and hugged his family back. But the happy moment was ruined when loud knocking was heard at the door. Confused, Esme walked over and opened the door.

To Aria's shock, it was that same woman that she saw. "Primrose? What are you doing here?" Esme asked. So that was what that woman's name was…

"Out of my way, peasant," Primrose spat. "I need to speak to Roy!" Her tone was haughty and cruel. Aria frowned at this. Why was this Primrose woman mean to her mother?

"What do you want now, Primrose?" Roy asked.

"What, no "Hello" for me?" Primrose asked in a fake-hurt tone as she flashed a smile at him. "I've been doing well on my own. I'm the headmistress of my own school and I'm handing out flyers to everyone in Scotland."

"You have a school?" Roy asked, frowning. His brows furrowed in confusion.

"Yes." Primrose gave one of the flyers to Roy. "I call it PPP, short for Prim, Proper, and Perfection. A boarding school for girls that are EAGER to be perfect young ladies."

Aria made the mistake of peeking out from behind Roy. Because Primrose saw the young girl, peeking out. "Oh! And who is this young lady?" The woman nodded at Aria.

"This is my daughter, Aria," Roy asked, now sensing the red flags. "Why do you want to know?"

"I think she'll make an excellent fit in PPP," Primrose said. "If she fits my standards, she'll become the president of the student council that happens there. Don't you want your little girl to be that perfect and that successful?"

"Primrose, our daughter is already perfect to us," Esme said. "And we're already helping her choose a high school that she would enjoy going to."

"Nonsense!" Primrose barked. She then shoved a thick envelope into Roy's hands. "In this envelope is $900,000 in cash. If you accept it, I'll assure you that your daughter will be well taken care of in PPP."

"You're going to bribe us with money to send our daughter to a place that we don't know about!?" Roy was now angered at this. "We made up our minds! Aria is not going to your school! Now leave and we better not see you anywhere near her!"

Primrose huffed at this before storming out of the house, slamming the door shut. This made Aria jump in fear. "Mother? Father? Who was that woman?" She asked.

"Some woman that your father and I…don't really like," Esme said. "We don't want you talking to her, Aria. If you see her outside and we're not home, immediately get inside and lock the door. If she knocks, do not open it at all costs. You wait until we get home, okay?"

This scared Aria a lot more than what had happened earlier, but she always listened to her parents. So she nodded, making her parents sigh in relief.

Unfortunately for the Montgomerys, it wasn't over until Primrose said it was.

I don't own Madame Prim.

Roy, Esme, and Aria belong to me.