#every future ends with her dead on the floor of her fathers kitchen

[kuroshika]

gifs from @existingcharactersdiehorribly // poetry by me

[save-the-spiral]

Ouroboros

Content Warnings for child abuse, cycles of abuse, child neglect, manipulation, possession, blood, grief, implied (magical) ableism, implied suicide.

General Maliswap moments. This is not kind to Malistaire or Sylvia. The narrator(s) are not the most reliable sort, you understand, but they aren't pulling it from nothing in this AU.

It's very... ruminating on your shitty childhood kinda thing. I really advise that if you have shit parents and stuff that you take this slow and check in with yourself. It's a long one and a doozy. Ended up just kinda Writing it and not stopping after the first line.

(buy me coffee?) (Maliswap AU Masterpost))

You don't know when you stopped being your mother's child.

There has to have been a tipping point, somewhere between your birth and now. Something you did wrong that evicted you from your place in your mother's heart.

It's a lie you tell yourself, to give undeserved logic to your parents' neglect.

Your father is not innocent in this. But you don't speak ill of the dead. Only think it.

You can't even remember when they truly stopped seeing a child when they looked at you. You've given away so much that your perception of time is warped, without memories to anchor itself to.

It had to have been something you did. Parents don't wake up one day and decide to stop loving their children, you tell yourself.

When you were so very small, the kind of small where you still clung to your uncle's leg as he stomped around, making you giggle madly and cling harder, one of the petnames your parents used was 'little wizard'.

After you woke in your mother's infirmary, after coughing up blood and choking on smoke from casting a firecat under your godmother's instruction, your parents only called you by name.

Weeks later, after the confirmation that you would never cast magic without causing harm to yourself, they never looked you in the eye.

Sometimes you would overhear them talking to each other. Never arguing, they were the kind of couple that never really argued. But they would talk for hours, trying to make sense of what each of them thought, why they thought that way, and how to compromise.

Whenever they spoke of you it was always 'your child' this, 'the child' that. Never even your name. You couldn't even pretend it didn't hurt.

Even in those long conversations, there was no solution to the problem you were. Even if they spoke for hours about magical theory and whatever else, it didn't change that they saw you as a problem to fix instead of the child they birthed and were supposed to raise.

It was when you were becoming a teenager that you started acting out. Door slamming, mug throwing, screaming arguments. You were so angry at the world, at everything, but especially at the two people who dared to act like your existence was your own fault, like they didn't create you and then leave you to rot the moment you weren't what they wanted.

One of the memories you still cling to, one of the few you have left, is the end of a tense family dinner. You can't remember what pushed you to do it, but you had stabbed your steak knife into the kitchen table and stood up, chair falling back with a clatter onto the tile floor.

Your father's face had reverted into the stoic mien he maintained with his students, then quickly morphed to show his resignation, as if he knew you could do nothing but disappoint.

Your mother stared down at her meal, shoulders tense, knuckles white as she gripped her fork and knife.

Fucking look at me, you had screamed. Look me in the fucking eye and tell me you give a damn about my future.

After that you never really went back to living in that house. You were an unwanted guest in your own home. Even though they had given you no reason to, you jumped at every loud noise, at approaching footsteps.

That's the only thing you'll grant them. They never laid a hand on you. Sometimes you wish they had. Then you could've given a name to this. You would've known it was wrong long, long before that psychology class you took in university.

Some part of you misses them still. Or the idea of them. The concept of them.

They could've been such good parents. You know this. You've seen your mother in her infirmary, how deeply she can care for someone she's never met. A kind of genuine love for someone purely because they are a person and deserve it.

Maybe she thinks she loves you, but it's not... it just isn't love. It's something else rebranded, something where she sees the idea of a child she could love, instead of you. She acts like a mother, only because that is what she should do. She doesn't mother you, though. Merely is the adult woman in the house, and you the child. Surely that means she is your mother.

And your father, well he would've never been the traditional idea of a father. Stern, maybe, but not a disciplinarian. He was always awkward, disconnected from emotion because of his own upbringing. Something he could've changed. A cycle he could have broken and yet failed to, not even recognizing his own childhood as bad, let alone seeing the similarities to your own. That kind of realization would have hurt him deeply. He never realized. He never looked at you and saw more than the facts. He knew you weren't the child he wanted. You weren't going to become his protege, nor your mother's.

Both of your parents' lives were just so deeply infused with magic there was little they knew besides that. What could a person do without it? All they had known was magic and academia, and encouraging a child to study what they could never truly know seemed cruel.

Forcing a child to live their life around what they can never have seemed so cruel. Even without a better option, the guilt ate at both of them, and they pushed off conversations with their child, explanations to make sense of their distance.

They fail utterly at being parents. They are good people. They are great professors. But the failure to care for and raise their child forever stains their legacy, and the person who was supposed to be that legacy.

You are little more than a human-shaped husk that carries all of the worst of your parents. Your mother's temper. Your father's disconnection with emotion. You can't look people in the eye and tell them the truth, just like they did to you.

Cycles unbroken, and all that.

You are the sum of their union given form, and the world, the Spiral, is all the worst for it. You are just another catastrophe, little more than a natural disaster given sentience, and even then you played the coward and ran away to a place where your parents' names meant nothing.

You were nothing, there. Not the disappointment, not the professors' child, not even the strange freak who nearly blew up their hand casting simple children's magic. You were just a random young adult in a city that was uncaring, its stars so distant above the towering skyscrapers.

It felt like home, more than that house your father died in ever did.

Anonymity is the only true balm to the raw wound of being so utterly ignored from those who were supposed to love you.

Being no one in a city of unimportant people. Being nothing and only becoming something through your own hard work, that was where you found your passion. It took years, maybe. You can't remember how long you spent in that cityworld. It felt like the best time of your life. It is where the memories you had cherished most had resided.

Before you forfeited them all to me, of course. Now there is precious little of that world you remember. The feeling of stepping in an oily puddle remains. The soft slap of a rogue newspaper hitting you in the face after it had flown on the breeze, causing you to splutter and laugh. The bone deep cold of winter as you shivered alone in your tiny flat, bundled in extra blankets that a friend (you can't remember their face, their name, not anymore.) had taught you how to knit.

I let you keep those memories. They are not happy ones, but at least content. Sometimes I pity you, really, for such simple things to give you such feelings.

Sometimes I resent you for it. Don't worry though, darling. That's merely a result of one of our many trades. Your temper is short, but vast in potential. I gave you so much power in trade for it, and I cherish it, even if at times it turns inwards towards its original owner.

Sometimes I do pause and wonder at the memories you gave to me. I examine every little interaction with your parents and try to find the thing that could've been fixed. Something that you could've done to make them love you.

I'm so sorry dear, but even I, in all my eons of wisdom and expertise, cannot find such a thing.

Their problem was with the fundamental aspects of your being.

You could not handle magic the same way one cannot ingest poison. The nature of it broke down your body. There is no pool of magic inside you to draw from, and so it pulled at your muscles, your bones. It thinned the walls of organs and caused vital processes to stutter and choke on themselves.

This is just who and how you are. It isn't a problem to be fixed. And yet your parents begged to differ, and that is when they lost their only child.

I almost wish I could twist the knife. I almost wish I could tell you that you did something out of selfishness, that somewhere along the way you were a bad child, and deserved it.

Instead I must rub salt into the wound and tell you that there is nothing that you could've done except ruin yourself further, martyr yourself upon the altar of their stubbornness. Bleed out under their feet so they can mourn you and say there was nothing they could have done to fix you.

I don't want to lie to you. If you had died young, casting magic and trying to be what they wanted, they would've loved you. They would've wept at your grave. They would've torn the Spiral asunder for you, remake the universe to ensure you could live still.

You stopped being your mother's child when you listened to their warnings, I suppose. When you didn't slaughter yourself, bleating your last words when you were so young you didn't understand death.

I can't be your parent. I... am little more than a parasite. In my youth, if you could call the beginning of my existence such a thing, I was many things, as one is when they can shift their very nature as they breathe.

I was monster, beast, thing. I am not what one could call a parent. All understanding of such bonds are stolen from my previous victims and hosts, until the final one locked me in that damned book.

Until you freed me, gave me such hospitality, of course. I understand it now more than ever, and can say with certainty I am not your parent. I am a protector, of this body and what little of your consciousness is left in it. I am a creature of spite, if only from the circumstance of our meeting, and your mother's 'ignorance' of it.

But I also know, that in no world are those two deserving of calling you their child.

You were so much better than that. You had such potential. I suppose I was given that potential as well in our exchanges. But still, it came from you. It was something created and carried by you, and I cherish it.

I suppose I cherish you as well. It's long since been past the time where I could have shed your body, rebirthed myself and wreaked havoc, cause a cacophony to over take the Song Of Creation if I felt like it.

I suppose I have grown sentimental. I'll stay here a while yet.

I won't let you go like they did.

[trapton]

📝 + soap operas

���� @anonymous 𝙰𝚂𝙺𝙴𝙳 ↪ 📝 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑦

𝙸𝙵 𝙸 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙰 seeping like an infection from my own living room as i happen into the kitchen for a pint, i think i may end it all.

it's all i've been hearing for months, the theme tunes like death marches for my family's happiness. dystopian. the falsehoods splinter my teeth.

they plot against me. i know they do. he's turned her against me. she won't even look at me, won't even touch me. like i repulse her. i must. look at me. i've hollowed out, i'm horrific to behold.

THEY SAID I WAS A MONSTER SO A MONSTER I BECAME!!

they have the luxury of better disguises. they don't have to be sure they are perfect pillars of the community, they don't have to pretend that everything is fine when my body is decomposing from the inside out like an ugly fruit on the farm floor.

but little does that bitch know, is that she too repulses me. she's like a hospice patient sucking my last well dry, &. feeding from her dying carcass like a babe at the breast is my own son.

SHE REEKS OF DEATH. so rancid &. horrid it won't leave my nostrils, no matter how far away i might stray from it.

i'd rather self-induce a lobotomy than be anywhere near our house's main interior, regardless.

surrounded by comforts while i slave away on our family's resurgence, &. all they do is look at me like i'm insane. like i belong in an institution.

MARK MY WORDS. I AM NOT INSANE. I AM NOT INSANE. I AM NOT INSANE. I AM NOT INSANE.

they're the ones who think that their inaction is going to fix anything. I'll show them. while they sit there, watching their soaps, i'll be bringing back the son, the brother they don't deserve. i'll have the company i bled for back in my control,

and i'll slit that WASTE OF SPACE, LIAR, TRAITOR MYSELF from balls to throat. he'll know what it's like to suffer, this time.

perhaps my father was right. perhaps i wasted my time on being a bloody faggot, on my interest in art or performance when i should have been learning my desired trade. perhaps then i would not feel slighted when there is no reason to.

NOBODY IS TRUE. THE LAST OF THEM HAVE BEEN STOLEN FROM ME.

violated, plucked from my grasp to laugh in my face once it's been dusted by dirt. my daughter, what's left of my wife. what have i done to deserve such an evil seed?

but while they decay like zombies i expand myself to knowledge previously unknown to me. i have discovered a tool, as i've described in earlier entries. it will take some time to finesse, but in due time i will have a finished product,

THEY WILL SEE WHAT KIND OF GENIUS I REALLY AM.

oh yes, and when they do, they will be lucky that i will let them share in our new future. this utopia i will create, the success i will garner. i may even end up honored by the nobel society.

&. they will thank their earthly gods every night that the sanctity of marriage is forever, that a father must love their wretched spawn, and that they did not end up DEAD.

DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD.

[deciphered-narrator]

i don't feel like editing my first draft prose but it's fun (cw for terminal illness and verbal abuse)

Her father's death was a long time coming. He'd lain in his bed for weeks; even with the windows open and flowers stuffed in every corner of the room, the stale scent of death clung to him. In the later days, he slept most of the time. Jess would sit in his room for hours, knitting out long, tangled scarves like a child with her first crochet hook. They spilled out across the floor and wrapped themselves up around her rocking chair, so she was forced to stop and pull them free.

Sometimes, he would wake up. These moments of consciousness were heralded by a long rattling gasp, breath clawing its way into his lungs. Jess wished he would stay asleep. Whatever woke in his body was not her father. He spoke to her in a voice as hard and sharp as the edge of a knife, stabbing into her with each word. Her father hadn't always been kind, but he had known how to wrap his works in a soft blanket of masked language, so she would only piece together his real meaning hours later. By the time he hurt her, it had been too long, and he would pretend he didn't remember what she was talking about. But the version of him that remained after parts of his body and mind had been scraped away by illness, this one didn't hide his intentions. She would sit and listen to him, and pull her stitches too tight, so she struggled to push her second knitting needle through them.

And then, one day, when she walked into his room in the morning, he was dead.

She stared down at his body in the bed. His skin was gray—grayer than it had been, his lips so pale they blended into the rest of his gaunt face. He didn't breathe. When she touched his forehead, it was colder even than the room around him. The morning air seeping in through the open window was already warm with summer heat, but he was ice cold.

She should have been relieved. Instead, panic boiled up in her chest. His illness had been her routine for so long she thought it would never end, it couldn't end—what would she do now? She couldn't imagine a future without this, without every day spent in this never-changing room, a permanent limbo of deterioration without death. Her scarf, so long now that it spilled out of the bundle in her arms and tripped her up while she walked, fell to the ground as her arms went limp. All she could do was stare at her father—at his corpse.

She didn't run back out to the kitchen to tell her family. They were sitting at breakfast in the golden light that broke past the lacy curtains. The clink of coffee mugs and their cheerful chatter drifted down the hall. She would walk to them, stand at the end of the table casting a shadow over them, and tell them the world had changed. She couldn't do that. She couldn't bear to think of it. 

All she wanted was for things to stay the same. For his body to never leave this room. She knelt and picked up the long spools over her scarf off the floor.

His dead face lay frozen on the pillow. She placed one end of her scarf over his eyes. Gently lifting his head—rigor mortis had already passed, his neck bent as easily as it had in life—she wrapped the scarf around his hair, back over his nose and mouth. Around and around, she wound the scarf down his entire body.

When it was done, when she could no longer see that life had left him, she sat back in her rocking chair. Picking up the end of the scarf, she looped yarn around her fingers and kept knitting.

writing while my back hurts means my professor is going to get a real weird short story

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 7,362 Pairing: Teenage!Daryl Dixon x Teenage!Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: mainly pre-outbreak Warnings: Language, mentions of abuse, violence A/N: Angsty and fluffy and angsty and fluffy! AGH! Summary: Daryl and Y/N are close growing up. Y/N knows about his bad home life and worries when Daryl doesn't show up at school one day.

Your name: submit What is this?

You were kicking a rock down the road, humming some stupid song you’d heard on the radio, when there was a familiar voice from behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned and grinned, knowing immediately who it was before you even saw him. “Daryl,” you said warmly. “Hey.”

He had his hands shrugged into the pockets of his secondhand black jeans. “What’re ya doin’?”

You laughed and shrugged. “I dunno. Wasting time. Kicking rocks.” You tucked your hair behind your ear and took him in. You could tell immediately that something was bothering him. “You okay?”

How did you always know? Even when he was trying his hardest to hide it, you always knew. “Yeah, just—” he chewed his bottom lip in that anxious habit he had. “Water got shut off again. My old man didn’t pay the bill.”

Your expression turned a bit sad and you nodded. It was mid-summer and the Georgia heat and humidity was suffocating. They never had air conditioning at the Dixon house, but no A/C and no water was a big problem. “Come on,” you said, tilting your head in the direction of your house down the street. “You want to come hang at my house for a while?”

Daryl considered your bright and open expression and then nodded. “Thanks.”

You nodded. “Of course. C’mon. My momma is workin’ the night shift so she won’t be home until God-only-knows-when. Ya can stay as long as ya like,” you said. Daryl fell into stride beside you.

“Thanks,” he said again.

“Sure.” You nudged him with your shoulder playfully. “Ya want me to help you with the Algebra homework?”

He rolled his eyes at you. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Daryl. You’re way smarter than you think. If you’d just try—”

“Why? Ain’t like I’m gonna go off to some big fancy college like you,” he said, kicking a rock along. It skipped on the gravel and stopped in front of you.

“Ya could. If ya wanted to,” you said, hitting the rock again with the toe of your boot. It went skipping along the road in front of you again.

“How the hell would I pay for that?”

You gave him a sympathetic look. “There’s financial aid. Scholarships.”

He scoffed. “Ain’t no college givin’ me a scholarship the way my grades are.”

“That’s why I said try,” you replied gently.

“Nah. Ain’t happenin’.”

You always felt so sad when Daryl talked about his future as an inevitable dead end. You knew he wanted to get away from his drunk asshole of a father and you also knew that he had plenty of reasons why he couldn’t focus on his schoolwork. Hard to focus on class when you’re wondering when your next meal or beating is coming… But you saw so much brilliance in him that he refused to see in himself. You decided to drop the subject for now and simply glanced over at him. His blue eyes met yours and you gave him a small smile. “Ya hungry?” you asked, kicking the rock down the road again.

He avoided your eyes again but nodded. “Always. That even a question?” he drawled.

You turned onto the driveway of your house and soon climbed the steps, pulling open the front door and nudging your head toward the cool interior. “We’ve got chicken pot-pie in the fridge,” you said. “Ya can have the rest of it. I swear, it’s the only thing my mom has been buyin’ lately.”

A short time later, you were flopped down watching TV while Daryl sat on the floor, his back leaned up against the front of the couch. His empty dish was sitting on the coffee table and you jumped up and grabbed it as a commercial came on. “Ya want some more?”

He looked up at you and one corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Nah. I think three helpings was enough,” he said, pushing his dirty hair out of his face. “Thanks…” he said, a little more bashfully.

You nodded. “Sure.” Daryl climbed to his feet and followed you into the kitchen. He watched you set his dishes in the sink and then fill up two glasses with ice water, putting one down in front of him. He felt your eyes on his face and glanced up to meet them. “You wanna clean up while you’re here?” you asked.

He shook his head and glanced back down at the glass in his hands. “Nah. S’alright.”

You prodded him gently. “Ya sure? It’s not a big deal. I can wash your clothes and you can shower. I was gonna do some laundry anyway. Probably have somethin’ you can wear til they’re dry. Promise it ain’t a sundress,” you joked. You glanced at the clock. “We’ve got some time to kill before tonight’s terrible monster movie comes on anyway,” you said brightly. That was your thing; watching old monster movies from the ‘50s and ‘60s. You weren’t even sure how it had started, but it was just what you did together.

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He hazarded a glance back up at you. He was always so grateful for how you saw him, looked at him. Your expression never suggested anything other than open acceptance and genuine care. Finally, he nudged his nose up at you. “Alright. You win,” he said, downing the rest of his ice water quickly. “Let’s go pick out my sundress,” he said, eliciting a laugh from you.

Daryl followed you upstairs and you grabbed a clean towel for him out of the linen closet. “Hang on a sec. I’m sure there’s something in Brody’s room you can wear.” Your older brother was away at college. You returned a moment later with some clean clothes and thrust them at him. “You know where the bathroom is. Since I will puke if I eat any more pot-pie again this week, I’m gonna make popcorn. Just put your dirty clothes outside the bathroom door and I’ll throw ‘em in the wash.” You turned to head back downstairs and Daryl found himself watching you go until you disappeared.

“Hey, don’t watch the movie without me!” he called after you.

“Well then hurry up!” you called back up. Daryl smiled.

_ _ _ _ _ _

A short while later, you and Daryl were side by side on the couch. His clothes were tumbling in the dryer and now that he was clean, he realized just how dirty he had felt before. You were both munching on some popcorn from a huge bowl sitting between the two of you on the couch. Daryl always teased you about how much you made at once.

“Christ, are ya eatin’ this for your next four meals?”

You would pull a face at him. “No. Just for dinner. And knock it off or you don’t get any.”

Your eyes were glued to the screen as you watched the damsel in distress on screen run from some deep woods swamp creature, your knees pulled onto the couch and bent underneath you to the side. “I don’t understand this—if somethin’ is chasin’ you why would you run in a straight line, completely visible!? At least take a turn every now and again! I mean, look at all that thick brush she could disappear into!”

Daryl let out a small laugh. “That’s what your problem is? There’s a 9 foot tall, muck-man chasin’ her and that’s what ya take issue with?” he drawled.

You turned and gave him a manufactured look of annoyance and chucked a handful of popcorn at him, eliciting a gruff laugh. “You know what I mean!” you said. You heard the washer stop spinning and went to change the laundry over into the dryer, chucking one more handful of popcorn at Daryl as you got up.

“Hey!” He brushed the popped kernels off his shirt. “Ya know I’m gonna retaliate eventually and it’s gonna be much worse!” he yelled after you.

You laughed as you started the dryer. “Oh, I’m real scared! What’re you gonna do, Dixon?” You appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed over your chest and not looking the least bit intimidated.

“I’ll think of somethin’,” he said. “C’mon. Movie’s back on.”

You rushed back to the couch and moved the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table, sinking down in the empty space now beside Daryl.

He couldn’t stop glancing over at you and he felt suddenly fidgety, chewing on his bottom lip and practically having to sit on his hands to keep them still. Luckily, you didn’t seem to noticed, and it wasn’t too much longer before you laid down on the throw pillow at the other end of the couch, curled up with your eyes still on the screen. And not much longer after that before Daryl noticed you were asleep. The first movie was over, and some old rerun of The Blob was no playing.

Daryl noticed goosebumps on your arms and wondered if you were cold from the A/C vent blowing overhead, just in your t-shirt and shorts. He grabbed a quilt from the chair nearby and tried to cover you up without waking you.

But you stirred as soon as you felt the fabric on your arm and sat partially up, blinking awake and meeting his blue eyes, which seemed care-free for once and brighter than expected in the dim light from the television screen. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Was tryin’ not to wake ya up.”

You sat up all the way, clutching the quilt over your lap and looked up at him. “Thanks. What time is it?” Daryl glanced over at the time on the VCR.

“S’late. I should go… Let ya get some sleep,” he said.

“Oh, your clothes,” you said, climbing to your feet. You went to the laundry room and grabbed his freshly cleaned clothes from the dryer. “Go ahead and get changed and just leave those in the bathroom.”

While Daryl was changing, you went to the kitchen and filled up a water bottle with ice and cold water from the tap. He came out, looking much more like himself now that he was out of your brother’s old shorts and t-shirt. “Here,” you said, pushing the water bottle toward him. “In case you get thirsty on the walk home,” you said giving him a small smile.

He gave you a long look and seemed like he was on the edge of saying something, but he couldn’t get the words out and simply nudged his nose up in a nod at you. You always thought of the littlest things to make his life less shitty and did them for him without hesitation. “Thanks,” he said, grabbing the bottle. “I’ll give it back to ya tomorrow.”

He started toward the front door and you followed to walk him out.

He turned on the entryway rug, his hand on the handle. “Hey, tell your mom ‘thanks for the food’ when you see her in the mornin’, okay?”

You nodded. “Sure thing. You walkin’ tomorrow?” You already knew the answer. He always made the half hour walk to school, and you did it together most days.

“Duh,” he said, one corner of his mouth flicking up. “Ya comin’?”

“Duh,” you returned with a wide smile. Daryl felt his heart jump.

“Alright. See ya then. Thanks. Night.” He pushed out onto the porch and you caught the screen door as he ran down the steps.

“G’night,” you called after him. He turned and waved one last time over his shoulder and then he was gone into the still darkness outside. The cicadas seemed to grow louder as you stood there, and it was a fitting soundtrack to the immediate rise in your anxiety after Daryl disappeared. They seemed to grow so loud they were almost defeaning. You always worried about him when he went home. There was no way to know whether his dad would be passed out drunk or waiting up angry. You knew sometimes Daryl would just wait outside in the dark until he could either sneak in through a window or until he was sure his father was asleep or too drunk to move. Your heart ached. You wished more than anything that you could just fix it. He deserved so much better… You were always amazed that his heart still was so good considering all the bullshit he had been through, losing his mother and their home, his brother running off, and all the shit he was still going through. Sure, he could be angry and moody at times, but who wasn’t at your age?

Finally you sighed and closed up the house, heading upstairs to try and catch some sleep before school the next day.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were finishing packing lunch when your mom came down, still in her scrubs from the hospital. “Morning, mom,” you said. She came over and gave you a hug and left a kiss in your hair. “How was the shift?” you asked, grabbing a banana off the counter.

“Oh, just the usual. Nothing exciting. Lots of old people.” She was a nurse and always worked the night shift. She yawned and grabbed a mug and put on the tea kettle. “I’m exhausted. Mr. Jones came in again needing to be back on oxygen. Pneumonia again.”

“Oh, no…” you said, glancing at her. “Did he throw things again this time?”

She let out a wry laugh. “Of course he did! Nearly took my head off with a damn bed pan.”

“Seriously?! I hope it was empty!” you exclaimed, and you both dissolved into laughter.

“Luckily, it was. Or I would not be in such a good mood this morning… What’d you get up to yesterday? How was school?”

“School was fine. Daryl came over for a while. We watched some terrible Swamp Thing movie of course,” you said.

Your mom laughed and opened the box of tea and grabbed a tea bag. “You two. I do not understand your obsession with those monster movies from my generation,” she said.

“I dunno. They’re funny. Anyway… I gotta go. Gonna meet Daryl to walk to school.” You kissed her cheek and grabbed your things. “Love you! Get some sleep!”

You rushed to the spot where you and Daryl usually met up to walk to school, but were surprised to see that he wasn’t there. He was always there waiting before you. You dropped your bookbag, checking inside to make sure you had grabbed your lunch and the second one you always packed for him… And then you waited. And you waited. And waited… But there was no sign of him. And now you were worried. Maybe he’d gone ahead for some reason? He had never done that before. But soon you knew that if you didn’t leave, you’d be late for class, so you hastily scribbled a quick note on a sheet of notebook paper and left it under a rock at your meeting spot before heading to school.

You looked for him as you made your way through the halls to your locker, but you didn’t see his familiar silhouette anywhere. And he wasn’t in any of the classes you usually had together. At lunch you couldn’t focus on any of your friends’ conversations because you were so busy worrying about where the hell he was…

Over the course of the day, you felt sicker and sicker. You made sure to grab materials for him in all the classes you had together so he could get caught up on what he missed, and by the time the final bell rang you were determined to see him and make sure he was okay. You hastily waved goodbye to your friends and started the walk home, but instead of going straight there, you paused at the meeting spot where you usually met Daryl and saw that the note you had left that morning was still sitting underneath the rock. You collected it and shoved it hastily into your pocket. You stared up the dirt road that led into the woods and to the Dixon house. You took a deep breath in and tried to hold onto your courage as you turned up the path.

It was strange how the trees seemed to insulate from sounds of the outside, but amplify everything taking place inside the woods. You startled when a crow let out a raspy caw and took off nearby, the beating of its wings so loud in your ears that you could hear the hurried rush of the air through its feathers. Your heart was hammering in your chest as you came at last to the muddy driveway that led up to the dilapidated little trailer house. The ‘No Trespassing’ sign burned red in your peripheral vision as you carefully picked your way between the puddles and deep mud, trying not to sink your shoes into it up to your ankles.

You gulped and hesitated at the front step, but you forced in a breath and knocked.

Your heart was racing and you could feel your pulse in your fingers and toes as heavy bootsteps and cursing sounded from inside the house. The inside door was yanked open and an imposing man stood there, separated from you only by the thin screen door.

He glared at you, his lips almost curling into a sneer immediately. “Didn’t you see the goddamn sign?! Get the hell outta here! I don’t want whatever the fuck you’re selling!” he growled. He was tall and lean, but looked powerful and you gulped, suddenly thinking that maybe this wasn’t a great plan…

“I’m—” you had to clear your throat. Your voice came out quiet and somewhat strangled the first time. “I’m not selling anything, sir. I’m—I’m a friend of your son. Is he here?”

Mr. Dixon let out a scoff and never quit staring at you like he could snap at any second and come rushing through that screen door. “My boy ain’t got no friends. He’s too damn worthless. You got the wrong house,” he said, turning to slam the door already.

You weren’t sure where you got the courage from but you quickly shouted to stop him. “I don’t have the wrong house, Mr. Dixon! I’m—I’m a friend of Daryl’s. Please. Is he here? I just have some, um, school work for him…”

He stared at you again for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. They were sharp. “He ain’t here.” You were sweating with nerves under his gaze. “You goddamn women are only good for one thing, and I know he ain’t man enough to be getting any tail, so I don’t care why you say you’re here, but it ain’t no good reason. Now get the fuck off my property!”

You felt your face burn, some combination of anger, humiliation, and shock at being talked to that way by a grown man. You decided to try one last time. “Are you sure he’s not—”

Daryl’s father kicked the screen door hard and it flew open violently. You jumped back and let out a small scream of surprise and fear. He stepped out onto the stairs, his hands clenched into fists, and you could see that he was wavering a little on his feet, drunk, but also shaking with rage. “I got a goddamn shotgun sitting right inside here and I won’t be waitin’ much longer to use it unless you get the hell outta here right now!”

You quickly turned tail and ran, not caring at all that you were sloshing through muddy puddles up to your shins on your way back onto the dirt road and away from the house. You ran all the way back to the spot where you and Daryl usually met up before collapsing onto the grass. You shut your eyes and pressed your hands over your face for a moment. “Shit… shit.” It suddenly occurred to you that maybe going there had been entirely the wrong move. What if going to his house and asking about him got him in trouble? What if you had just endangered him more than he already had been? You felt tears burning in your eyes and blinked them away, popping back up onto your feet, which were squishing in your mud-soaked socks and shoes, and you trudged the rest of the way home.

It had felt like the longest evening of your life. You’d drifted around your house, hoping Daryl would come bounding up the porch steps at any moment, ready with some sarcastic comment or that quick twitch of a smile. But he didn’t. You knew your mom usually took a break around 8 pm, and you called the hospital, needing to hear her voice.

“Hi, honey. Is everything okay?”

You anxiously bounced your knee, feeling like you were about to cry again.

“…honey? Are you okay?” Now there was worry in your mom’s voice too.

“I’m—I’m okay. It’s just—Daryl wasn’t at school today… We had planned to walk together and he never showed up, and then—he wasn’t in any of our classes…” you trailed off. Your mom knew Daryl’s home life was bad, but you’d never told her how bad. Daryl had made it clear plenty of times that he didn’t want you telling anyone—not your mom, not the school counselors, not his teachers, not the cops, no one.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. You twirled the phone cord anxiously around your finger, winding and unwinding. “Well, maybe he was just sick today,” your mom offered.

“Mom, Daryl doesn’t get sick.” You chewed your bottom lip. “When Daryl gets ‘sick’ it’s because—because stuff at home has gone really wrong.”

Her silence on the other end of the line was heavy until she finally sighed. “I wondered. I mean, I’m a nurse for Pete’s sake. It’s not like I didn’t see the signs. Oh, honey… and how could anyone ever lay a hand on that boy? He’s got a heart of gold.” Her voice was low and sad.

“I know… What—what do we do?”

“I suppose, unfortunately, we just have to wait and see if he’s back tomorrow. It’s only one day… If he’s not at school tomorrow, you tell me and I will deal with it,” she said. “Try not to worry yourself too much, hun. I’m sure he’s fine.” But her tone was half-hearted and you were unconvinced. Your stomach twisted as you thought about more endless hours of waiting ahead. “I gotta get back to work, sugar. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good night at work.”

“Love you,” she cooed.

“Love you too,” you said. You hung up and your house had never felt emptier.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, knowing sleep wasn’t going to come, when you thought you heard something on your window. Your first thought was that a cicada or other insect had flown into the window. It was a small plink sound against the glass. But when it happened again, you shot upright in bed. And then it came again. You rushed over to the light switch and flipped it on and then went to the window and pulled back the curtains.

You could barely see a familiar silhouette by the dim glow of the porch light. You hastily pushed the window open. “Daryl?”

“Hey.”

“Just—just hang on! I’ll come let you in!” You raced downstairs and clicked on the hall light, unlocking and throwing the front door wide open. He was standing on the steps and you could see that one of his eyes was almost swollen shut and was surrounded by angry bruising. “Oh my God.” You felt all the air leave your lungs in a rush. “Daryl…” you stepped back to let him in.

He strode in past you, ducking his head a bit. “Yeah. He’s usually pretty careful about hiding ‘em. Guess his hand slipped on that one…”

You closed the front door and locked it again, turning to take him in. Daryl watched your eyebrows knit together and form a deep worry line in your forehead. The next second you had thrown your arms around him in a hug, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. “I was so worried about you!”

You heard him let out a strained exhale, a wince really, even as his hands landed on your back and he hugged you back. You pulled back suddenly and Daryl’s hands slipped onto the bare skin of your upper arms. “You’re hurt worse?” you asked him, looking up into his bruised face.

His hands dropped from you and you both lamented the break in contact. Daryl ducked his head again. “M’fine. What the hell were you thinkin’ comin’ to my damn house? Are ya crazy?” But you could see that he was almost smiling as he said it.

“I was thinking that I needed to know you were okay,” you said, turning and leading the way into the kitchen, flicking the light on as you went. “You heard that?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, nodding. “I was—I couldn’t get to ya.”

You nodded, your expression sad and overwhelmed with worry. “Your dad is…”

“A bastard,” he said, sinking down onto one of the chairs at the table. “Ya. I know. M’sorry ya had to go through that.”

You looked at him with consternation. “Are you kidding? You’re apologizing to me? Daryl…” You went to the freezer and grabbed out a bag of frozen vegetables and wrapped it in a clean dish towel. “Here. Put this on your face,” you said.

Daryl mumbled a thank you and pressed the makeshift cold pack over his eye. He was wearing a black t-shirt and as you stood beside him you noticed some dark spots on the material. You gulped. “Daryl…”

“Hmm?” he glanced over at you and saw that your eyes were fixed on his back. His stomach twisted. “S’nothin’,” he said.

You gave him a skeptical and deeply concerned glance. “Let me see,” you said gently.

He dropped the ice pack from his eye again and hesitated for a moment, nervously licking his lips and bouncing his knee. He trusted you, more than anyone, but this was still hard… Finally, he set down the ice pack and grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it off over his head, wincing as he moved.

When the light cotton was pulled clear, you saw that his entire torso, his ribs, his sides, his back, all a cruel dark purple with shades of black and blue. Across his back were raised lashes, some open and bleeding, the reason for the dark spots you had seen on his t-shirt. He sat there with his eyes turned down and his shoulders slumped forward.

You couldn’t help it. The tears just started streaming out as you looked at what had been done to him.

“Hey,” he said, turning toward you a little, hearing your hitched breathing. His blue eyes landed on your face, took in your desperate expression. “S’alright,” he drawled softly.

Those words only made the tears pour out faster. “I should be saying that to you—” you managed. “But I don’t even know if that’s true. Daryl, you can’t keep livin’ there with him. He could kill you one of these times.”

He gulped. He knew you were right. Of course he did… “Where the hell am I supposed to go? Run off and find Merle? Go into the system? Because you and I both know neither of those are gonna work.”

You hastily wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Here. You can come here. I can talk to my mom—”

“Nah. Nah, ya’ve already done enough for me. Ya do enough. Christ, Y/N, ya pack me a damn lunch every day. I eat dinner here more nights than not.”

“It’d be fine! My mom loves you! And—and so do I,” you said quietly. You felt nervous flutters in your stomach. You’d never told him that before, but it was true.

Daryl’s eyes snapped up to your face again and he gulped.

“You’d be safe here. And taken care of the way ya deserve to be,” you said.

Part of him wanted that more than anything. He wanted to agree and escape from the shit life he was living in that shit house with his shit father. But the idea of being a burden, and he truly believed that’s all he would be, the sense that he wasn’t worth it was so engrained in him that he rebelled against that other part of him that wanted to reach out for help, for escape. He avoided your glassy eyes again and shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, with no small amount of effort.

You felt like your heart was breaking. “Why not?”

He wouldn’t look at you. You just wanted him to look up at you. You wanted to see his blue eyes and convince him. But he wouldn’t. “I just can’t…”

“Daryl—”

“No! It—it ain’t your job to save me, alright? And I ain’t—I ain’t your burden! Just leave it alone.”

“You’re not a burden.” You tried to swallow the tightness in your throat but it didn’t work. You sniffled and wiped the tears from your cheeks again. You’d pushed him enough. You let it drop. “Is he gonna know you’re gone?”

Daryl replaced the ice pack on his swollen and bruised eye. “Nah. He’s on his next bender now. He’ll be so drunk he can’t see straight for at least the next few days.”

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s get you patched up and somethin’ to eat,” you said quietly. You filled a glass with ice water and grabbed the lunch you had packed for him that day from the fridge, setting them down in front of him at the table. You grabbed his bloodstained t-shirt and murmured a soft “I’ll be right back.”

After throwing in some more laundry, his shirt with it, you climbed the stairs and retrieved the First Aid kit from under the sink in your bathroom. You paused for a moment, leaning heavily on your hands, gripping the edge of the basin so hard your knuckles were white. You glanced up at your pale and somewhat wide-eyed expression and wiped a few more stray tears away, steeling yourself. You needed to just be strong for him. You knew he was trying his hardest to hold himself together and you going to pieces wouldn’t help anything. You’d spoken your piece and there was nothing else to do at that moment besides care for him.

You came down with a pile of supplies and dumped them on the kitchen table next to him.

Daryl seemed frozen, still as stone, holding the ice pack to his eye and occasionally drinking for the glass of water you’d given him. You grabbed a washcloth and wet it with some alcohol. Daryl twitched a little as your fingers landed lightly on his bare shoulder.

You withdrew for a moment after he startled. “Sorry,” you said, replacing your hand gently. “This is gonna sting,” you said.

“Can’t be worse than it is now,” he said quietly.

You could tell his wounds hadn’t been tended to at all and it took you some time to carefully clean the dried blood from them, dabbing gently at the raw skin and cuts. You worked in silence and Daryl nervously bounced his leg and spun the water glass on the ring of condensation it had shed onto the table.

After you were satisfied that they were clean, you grabbed some ointment and spread it over the entire length of each as gently as you could. Your stomach twisted as you stepped back and took in the whole view of his wounds and bruises. “Alright. Done.”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Here. Take some of these,” you said, putting a bottle of Advil in front of him. “I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain.”

You moved around in front of him and sank down on a chair, sighing. Your brow was still knit and Daryl read the worry still on your face. “M’alright,” he said.

You shook your head. “No. You’re not.” You paused and grabbed the makeshift ice pack, replacing it in the freezer before nudging your head toward the staircase in the hall. “C’mon. You’re stayin’ here with me tonight.”

Daryl’s brow quirked down and he briefly chewed his bottom lip. “…Why?”

“Because it’s safe. And I just can’t let you go back there. And you need real sleep and we both know that you won’t get that if you’re under the same roof as him.”

Daryl considered your determined expression and finally nodded. “Alright.” He stood up, wrapping an arm around his ribs as they ached when he moved, and followed you up the stairs. You flicked the lights off as you went.

The door to your bedroom was standing open and Daryl hesitated at the threshold as you pulled the blankets back on your bed. You tossed an extra pillow down next the one already at the head of the bed.

Daryl gulped, nerves at the thought of staying with you so close all night suddenly overwhelming the aches and pains running through him. “I’ll take the floor,” he drawled.

You shot him a quizzical look. “You’re not taking the floor,” you said. “You’re covered in bruises. Come on. You take the other side. Just shut the door behind you.”

After shifting his weight a bit nervously for a moment, he finally crossed the threshold and shut the door softly behind him. You settled down in bed, heaving a sigh as your head hit the pillow. Daryl gingerly laid down on the other side, facing in toward you. His eyes met yours as he settled in, wincing a little as he moved his arm up under the pillow. You were close together, your faces merely six inches apart and Daryl could see your eyes flitting over his face.

“Ya sure this is alright?” he drawled quietly. “Yer mom…”

You shrugged. “She won’t even know. It’s okay.”

Daryl licked his lips absently and nodded.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Daryl looked puzzled.

“It’s not fair,” you went on. “That someone as good as you has this happening to them.”

Daryl gulped nervously again, your words kindling a rush of heat in his chest which seemed to spill into his face. “Ain’t yer fault.”

You nodded, looking a bit sad, but beautiful in the warm glow of the single lamp on your nightstand. You turned and clicked it off, and maybe it was the darkness that gave you the courage to, but you reached over and found Daryl’s hand with yours in the dark and slipped yours beneath it, pressing your palm to his.

Daryl felt his stomach flip with surprise but he thrilled at the grounding touch from you. For once stopping himself from overthinking it, he laced his fingers with yours, and soon both of you were asleep.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Some years later

“Don’t fucking move.”

Daryl froze, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth.

“Put your hands up where I can see them. Away from the bow.” The voice belonged to a woman and despite the tense and potentially dangerous situation he now found himself in, Daryl felt his stomach flip, seemingly responding to the voice peculiarly.

“Stand up.” Daryl obeyed and stood up slowly, in disbelief that he hadn’t heard whoever the hell this was approaching in the almost silent woods. That left him feeling particularly curious and a little uneasy. He didn’t like that anyone was able to sneak up on him… “Now turn around. Slowly.”

Again, Daryl complied, his hands still up, turning slowly to face toward the woman holding him at gunpoint.

But neither him nor you expected the person in front of you and you felt a tug somewhere behind your navel and the muzzle of your gun dropped involuntarily just as your mouth fell partially open. You felt like the air was ripped out of your lungs as you took in the familiar face in front of you. “What the hell?” The words fell from your lips without you even knowing it. But you would recognize those blue eyes anywhere. You lowered your gun the rest of the way. “D—Daryl?”

He finally dropped his hands his eyes narrowed and intense. “Are ya gonna shoot me?” he drawled. His voice was deep and gruff and you felt goosebumps rising on your skin. One corner of his mouth flicked up in the same way it always had back when you were kids.

You gulped, your hands still on your pistol. “Do I need to?”

He let out a gruff laugh. “Nah. I dun think so.”

You holstered your gun, still paralyzed, your boots seemingly rooted into the soil.

Daryl was the first one to move. He rushed over to you and hugged you almost desperately, but you were still in such a state of shock that by the time you moved to return it he was already breaking away. Your eyes were searching as you looked at him and he just peered back at you with that classic Daryl Dixon stare.

“S’real fuckin’ good to see you, Y/N,” he said. He bent and picked up his crossbow, swinging it over himself and onto his back in a fluid and well-practiced movement. He tilted his head at you. “Why the hell did ya stick me up, hmm?” he asked.

You snapped yourself out of your reverie, actually shaking your head slightly. “Uhh—My camp is near here. I don’t like strangers,” you said absently, still unable to trust your eyes that this man standing in front of you was the boy from your past. “Daryl—” You weren’t even sure where to start but you suddenly felt a swell of anger. “Daryl, what the fuck?” you demanded.

He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably.

“I—I thought—you just—you left! You were just gone!” Before you knew it there were tears spilling out onto your cheeks and your anger was rising. “What the fuck!?” you yelled at him. You rushed toward him and pushed him hard in the chest. He simply took it and staggered backwards. “Why did you do that?! You didn’t even say goodbye to me! You didn’t tell me you were leaving, you didn’t tell me anything! You just—you were just gone! Do you know what I thought? Do you have any idea?!” You shoved him again and still he just took it and stepped back to regain his balance. “I thought maybe you were dead!” The tears were pouring out more quickly onto your cheeks and you reached out to shove him back again, but this time he gently caught your arm and held it. His eyes were soft and you crumbled underneath them. “I thought maybe you were dead. I thought your dad—” you gasped in a heaving breath.

“M’sorry,” he said. You stared at him, fighting emotion. “M’sorry,” he said again. He gently tugged you closer to him and you allowed it. “M’so sorry.”

You fell into him and felt his arms wrap around you as you squeezed your eyes shut. “M’sorry, Y/N,” he whispered to you. His hands flattened out on your back and smoothed over it and he held you until were able to stop yourself from crying. You straightened up, hastily wiping the tear streaks off your cheeks.

You laughed a little wryly at yourself. “This is so stupid. I’m—I’m crying over something that happened over a decade ago,” you murmured.

“S’cuz it still feels like it just happened yesterday. Ain’t stupid,” he said.

You took him in for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You brought Daryl back to your camp and you both did you best to catch the other up one what life had been like since those hazy summer high school days. Most of it didn’t seem to matter anymore now that the world was what it was—all nightmarish and broken. But there was one question you had to ask him as you sat by the campfire that night.

“If you could do it over,” you hesitated, “would you do the same thing?”

“Hmm?” he hummed, a questioning noise.

“Would you just leave, like you did? Or would you do it differently?”

Daryl considered you quietly for a long moment. He had always thought you were beautiful and that hadn’t changed. He had always known you were kind and smart and caring and funny… and that hadn’t changed either, despite the hell around you now. And he still felt like there was a string, a golden thread that led from his heart to yours, tying the two of you together, and that still felt connected. It had never been cut. Not after all the time and all the distance. “I ask myself that just about every day. Think about ya every day,” he said, feeling a bit bashful under the gaze of your brilliant eyes. He turned back to stare at the crackling fire in front of you both. “I dunno if it woulda turned out any better or worse, or even any different but—I do regret not havin’ ya around all this time. Maybe my biggest regret in life.” He glanced up at you again and marveled at your thoughtful, open, and slightly sad expression.

You nodded subtly. “Mine too.”

“The reason I didn’t come tell ya I was leavin’—” he hesitated, biting his bottom lip anxiously. “Is because I knew ya’d try to stop me. I knew ya’d ask me to stay… and if—if ya asked me that, there would be no way I could go.”

You gave him a sad smile and had to blink away the glistening moisture in your eyes again. You cleared your throat and nodded. “I’m still mad at you,” you joked softly.

He let out a small laugh. “Thas fair…” Daryl rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “So, yer really alone out here?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Well, I’ve got a group. Good people. Family. If ya wanted to, ya can come back with me. Yer—yer family too. I promise they’re all good people,” he drawled. He watched you carefully, anxiously trying to read your reaction.

You nodded slowly. “I trust you,” you said.

He cleared his throat, feeling a swell of happiness at your response. “I won’t leave ya again,” he said.

You quirked an eyebrow up at him. “Ya better not.”

[lolita-lollipop]

Omg wait! I love the part 2, but can I ask for another alternate!! Like what if they’re just stuck, but they still need to feed, so when someone moves into the apartment, they lock her up in a room temporarily so they can get the new kid. Maybe Izuku, but then they meet, when Izuku finds their room or they try to escape or something? Would they escape? Would the family catch them? How would they react? Please!!

PART 3- YANEERE ERASERMIC FAMILY CORALINE AU X READER

- I guess this is a continuation (?) kinda.

———————————————————————

You’ve been dancing with midoria in the kitchen, just a slow stepping g dance, one you might see at a school dance when a slow song comes on. It was pure euphoria, peaceful, and calm, you just loved him so much, and now you finally have the chance to be with him forever. You let a smile break ok your face as he spun you around in the air, giggling like a schoolgirl, this was perfect. Perfection falls way to quickly.

“You know, I wish we could stay like this forever, I love yo-“ he started, holding you close, not before a loud crashing noise could be heard across the house, the sound of a shattering glass, and both of you turned. You were warned of the wildlife in the area, bears, elk, maybe even deer, you sighed, letting go of his hands, making your way towards the house. Your been here for what? 3 hours? And there’s already an occurrence, just your luck too, it ruined the moment.

“Gimme a sec babe, I’ll be back, just gonna go shoo it out of the house.” You warned, you’d seen horrors great and small, a little deer couldn’t scare you, could startle you heavily, sure, but not strike real fear in your bones. He muttered an”okay” before goin back to stirring the skillet of food, also annoyed by the sudden disturbance. You turned the doorknob, displaying a nursery, preparation for the future. The window right above the creme colored crib was shattered completely, spread around the floor. Yet no animal, just a broken window, you raised a brow, bending down to touch it, then, yeh door behind you slammed shut, and you gave a laugh.

“IZUKU! Quit playing around!” You yelled, and went to turn the doorknob so you could go hug you husband again. But it wouldn’t budge, and that smile was wiped straight off your face, you couldn’t hear him laughing, nor could you hear his footdeps, what’s going on?

“What are you talking abou-“ he started up, yelling back at you from the kitchen, but he was cut off before he could continue, a loud clanging sound could be heard, then nothing more. You panicked looking around, someone was in your house, right? There’s no other explanation, you tugged at the doorknob, pulling it as hard as you could, before it just came off, now you’re really locked in here.

“You know, we’ve been waiting for you” a voice echoed behind you, it made your spine crawl with a familiar sensation, you know who taht is, you’re just hoping you’re wrong. You paused for a moment, not moving a muscle, then turned around, meeting buttons to eyes. And so, you screamed. The man who claimed his title of “father” had been standing in front of you, reaching his hand out touch you. You made a dash towards the shattered window, of yoj could hop through it then you could go around and get out. Failing though, as he had his hand wrapped around your shirt, his fist bale led up in the fabric, he yanked you back, pulling you into his chest.

“GET OFF OF ME, DONT TOU H ME YOU MONSTER.” You screamed at him, clawing at his hands, a scream resonated form outside the door, Clearly belonging to your husband, which jsut amde your movements more panicked, you kicked at his legs, bit his shoulder as hard as you could, scratched him, rammed your head into his chest, everything. You were NOT going to do this again. How did they even get here? Where did he come from?

“You Need to calm down honey, you will hurt yourself” he spoke, completely unaffected by your attacks, he pulled your head into his chest to shush you, this time around, they had been prepared, it was a mere coincidence that you had been in this house, but to then it seemed like fate, earlier in the day someone had knocked over the shelf standing in front of the door, so it was fairly easy for them to get out, just to see you, little you, dancing with a nasty man.

His blood boiled, you left them just to do exactly what they forbade you form doing? You’re married? No, no way. That boy is as good as dead, at least he’ll have a meal.

“Cmon, you didn’t really think we’d let you leave us, you’re just too little to understand, oh I know, we’re protecting you. So please don’t cry baby, don’t be sad, we have a suprise for you when we get home” he spoke, dragging you flailing figure closer to the wall, bending down to open up the door again, you continued screaming, grasping at anything to fight back with, anything. You ended up grabbing the closest thing to you, a plushie.

you grabbed a fucking plushie to fight off a man twice your size

He shoved you into the interlocking hallway, shutting the door right behind him and l I king it, licking you in there. The only other way out would be through the other door, leading to the other side, to the “other home”. You sobbed, letting the panic fully overtake you, crawling fowrard and sitting in the middle, curling up in a ball, you cried, the door was locked, and you’re on the wrong side of it, with a stupid plushie as self defense. There isn’t any way out, how did you not notice the small door and get the hell out! Why hadn’t you noticed it? You could’ve avoided this! All of it!

All you could manage to hear through the thick wooden door on the other side were one sided screams, each made you curl up further, in pure agony, each and every last one made more tears aris eto the brink of your eyes, you knew, oh you knew so well that he wasn’t okay, yet you could do nothing about it, you hate this, you hate this helplessness, you hate them.

Then, the screams silenced, and the door Clicked open again, you made yet another attempt at dashing through the opening, and failed again , when your other father grasped your shoudler, pulling you right back. Hizashi hushed you, the hallway had heightened quite the bit, enough so that they could fit comfortably, he swung you off your feet, pulling you close.

“Oh don’t be like that, I know you’re upset, but there isn’t a reason to pout, let’s get you back home, this time, you aren’t leaving. Oh god you’ve grown too much, your still my little baby girl forever, don’t worry.” He cooed, walking with your squirming figure to the opposite side of the hallway, his husband was holding a bag of… um, remains, from that scum from earlier, eri was gonna have to eat. He almost cried at how cute you looked, even with the tarts, you’re just holding. A cute little stuffed animal, all sweet, his little baby.

“You’re insane, I don’t belong here- not with you” you hissed, trying to bite his hand off when he caressed your face, then bent down to open that door, that dreaded little door. Just to reveal the same thing that haunted your nightmares , the same rooms you spent being forced to cuddle and color, the place that you’ve been avoiding the past three years, your “other” home.

“Don’t say that, oh- KIDS! Your little sister did back!” Aizawa yelled, you could once again, hear the puttering of footsteps upstaira, as you did your first day here. You looked back at your “fathers” giving them one last tearful glance, silently begging them to let you go. It was so perfect just moment ago, why does this always happen to you? It was so, so perfect.

You should’ve known by now to realize that perfection, gets shattered with just a touch of a button

———————————��———————————————————————

Thank you for requesting! It was super fun to do!

I got my inbox to work again! So I can see new asks, it started acting weird this morning, but I fixed it, so we’re all good!

Have a wonderful day today! Goodbye!

[mommymooze]

A Cleric and a Prince

Dimitri x Reader

Cannon typical violence, deep splinters, personal threats

Being a healer at Garreg Mach is a challenging job. Working with Manuela in the infirmary is a mixture of emotions. Happy to help others, sad that she has so many personal issues, anxious when someone arrives with serious wounds, hilarious when the students tell you exactly how they become (not seriously) hurt before arriving in the infirmary.

You have not yet been instructed regarding the fine points of battle. If the students need healing battalions, you are part of the Seiros Sacred Monks, helping Mercedes. Your group frequently accompanies the Blue Lions in battles as well as working with them in the monastery, being available to heal them after rough sparring sessions and general needs.

Eventually, a few members of your battalion are assigned to specific members of the class. You are assigned to Dimitri and Dedue. You cannot handle Felix’s antagonistic personality. Sylvain, well, he was given a male healer so that he will focus on what is hurt versus being Sylvain.

After a few battles Dimitri and Dedue realize that you are their assigned healer. It is not announced to the troops, however they notice the same healers heading to assist the same team members. Dimitri asks you to sit with him and Dedue during meals quite often. Dedue speaks with you frequently during your time together in the greenhouse. Healing herbs don’t plant themselves.

You’ve become good friends with both of them. Cheering them both on when they enter the lance tournaments. Joining them in the training grounds, healing their injuries, or the injuries of their opponents more likely, after a long sparring session.

Things fall apart after the battle that occurs in the Holy Tomb. Dimitri is acting strange and distant. Dedue shields you from him at times. Dimitri’s health is suffering, you can tell that he’s not eating and sleeping properly. You help Dedue mix other herbs into the prince’s tea, hoping to get him to sleep occasionally. You find out about Dimitri’s ageusia and load up on the sleeping herbs. Dimitri is a big guy and there are enough herbs in this batch to knock out a horse. He finally sleeps for a night, Dedue cannot force the tea on him every day, he gives it to him as often as he can.

The battle when they lose the Professor is devastating. Dimitri is seriously injured, you keep him from the brink of death. As soon as he is mobile, Dimitri disappears with Dedue following him.

Remaining with the Knights of Seiros you are trained to fight like everyone else. Nearly five years are spent searching for Rhea, fighting Imperial troops, and thieves. Returning to the monastery after the anniversary of the millennium festival, the place is a mess, in worse condition than when you marched away with the rest of the Knights. The Blue Lions return. Dimitri is with them, at least the shell of him is here.

You attempt many times to speak with him while he keeps his vigil at the base of the shattered statue of the goddess.

“The Dimitri you once knew is dead, only this repulsive blood-covered monster remains!” he screeches at you as you enter with a tray of food from the kitchens.

You have learned to bring things that can survive his rage. Any food or drink you bring near him is immediately upended or thrown against the wall. In times of true hunger, the Boar forages, grabbing the chunk of sausage or meat skewers, now stale bread and raw vegetables from the floor.

The times that he is lucid are few. Infrequently, the Professor can have a partial conversation with him. If you catch him while he sleeps or as soon as he wakes, he may let you approach to clean a few wounds and heal him.

Felix scoffs at you, telling you that you are wasting your time and effort on a beast, a worthless animal. Yet Felix is there, every day, just like you, watching over him.

The army heads for Ailell, obtaining additional troops and Rodrigue joins them. Rodrigue can have a few conversations with Dimitri, however Dimitri’s anger still controls him. It is only when they take over the Great Bridge at Myrddin that a change is sparked in him, when Dedue rejoins the Blue Lions.

Now, when food is brought, it is handed to Dedue, who will not allow his highness to throw the trays. Dedue directs the prince not to use his rage upon those that come to aid him. He even convinces Dimitri to remove his armor, a few pieces at a time, to be cleaned and repaired. Dimitri allows the Professor or you to approach, assisting with cleansing his wounds, healing, and clearing his infections.

The army marches for Gronder Field. You stand amongst the troops in his battalion, waiting for the order to proceed. Suddenly it is time to advance. Dimitri and Dedue sprint far ahead of their battalions, they are immediately surrounded by enemies. The battalions fight their best, you alongside them. Perhaps nobody will notice if you cast physic on Dimitri. Dedue is a brick wall, or at least is made of stone, he does not get injured often. The Blue Lions fiercely move forward, Dimitri is determined to reach Edelgard and end her life.

Dedue assists by clearing the last armored Imperial fighter in Dimitri’s way as the leaders of the opposing troops battle. You are fighting Edelgard’s battalion members, preventing them from attacking Dimitri and Dedue. A sudden roar comes from Dimitri as Edelgard is warped away by Hubert. His prize taken from him, Dimitri lashes out at her remaining battalion members, crushing heads and ripping off arms, rending flesh.

The sounds of battle dissipate. You are called to the medical tents to assist with healing. Suddenly the word spreads around camp that Rodrigue has fallen. You cry, not just for Rodrigue, but for Dimitri, whose rage was calming due to Rodrigue and Dedue’s work, and for Felix, who is now alone.

Dimitri solemnly returns to Garreg Mach, Dedue at his side as they escort the body of his dear departed friend.

After the funeral, you march to the Cathedral, arms full of bandages and cleansing cloths. Dimitri would not let you treat his wounds after the battle, during the march or the service. Dedue convinced Dimitri to bathe for the wake. You approach them both as Dedue helps you undress Dimitri from the waist up. As you clean his wounds to avoid further infection, heal him, apply salves, and bandage him, Dimitri looks at you for the first time in forever.

“I am sorry for your loss. I know Rodrigue was like a father to you.” You tell him softly as you wrap a bandage around his left arm.

“He told me I should live for my ideals.” Dimitri swallows, his voice trembles, “Rather than stay shackled by the ghosts of the past.”

“Learn from the past, live for the future.” You smile at him, smoothing some salve to his left ribs. “I know you can do it. Rodrigue believed in you. I do too.”

“My apologies for any problems I have caused you.” He says then hangs his head.

Tying off the bandage on his chest you hug him. “All is forgiven. Rest easy.” You whisper.

He’s not sure what to do, he lifts you into his lap and surrounds you with his arms lightly touching your back, fearful of his great strength. He sobs into your shoulder as you softly whisper comforting words to him patting his back and rubbing his shoulders.

When his tears end, you ask Dedue to get a small towel wet. You place it on Dimitri’s face to cool his forehead eyes and nose. While pressing it to his face, you cast a faith spell to reduce the pain and swelling from crying. After a few minutes you peek underneath the cloth over his good eye.

“How’s it going?” You softly ask.

His blue eye looks at yours. “Better.”

You climb from his lap and he stands, taking a deep breath. “I should probably speak with Byleth.” He coughs into his hand. “Thank you.” He says bowing.

“I’m always at your service.” You smile.

The battle in Fhirdiad is awful. You had not been to the capital of Faerghus too frequently, it is painful to see so many lives ruined, buildings and homes demolished. The citizens are rebelling against the Imperial army, doing their best to help. Although the commoners are brave, you cannot help but feel grief-stricken when they are killed. The people are not trained fighters, however they feel so heart strong for their land and kingdom.

The battle against Cornelia is harrowing, under the tactical eye of Byleth and strong will of Dimitri, the Blue Lions are triumphant. Bells ring throughout the city proclaiming the victory. Citizens are jubilant, dancing in the streets. A celebratory feast is held in the castle.

You are in the infirmary, healing and patching up anyone that comes for treatment. Working long hours into the night, you collapse into an empty infirmary bed for a well-deserved rest. The morning comes quickly. Dedue arrives asking for assistance with Dimitri’s wounds. The serious injuries for soldiers have been addressed, ensuring that the soon to be King is healthy is the next item on the priority list.

“Thank you for coming to my aid.” Dimitri humbly addresses you as you enter his room. “I did not see you at the feast. I was told you were working with the other clerics, healing those that could be helped. I feel guilty asking for your assistance.”

“We need you to lead us.” You smile. “It makes no sense to let you become ill from infection.”

As you treat his wounds and bandage him, you tell him stories of his brave people. How they worked together to aid in the fighting, putting out fires to save buildings, pulling other citizens away from the battles, and how all of them support him.

Dimitri again lets his thoughts go back to when he was lost and out of control. You reassure him that the people have forgiven him. They cannot lead themselves, not yet anyway. Everyone can heal together. Rebuild the city, rebuild the people. Put people into place that are good rulers, good people to look up to and respect.

The conversation goes on, you did not realize that the two of you are talking for hours. It is quite late, he should probably be asleep.

“Come Dimitri, it is time for you to go to bed. Get dressed and I will tuck you in and tell you a story.” You grin at him. He holds you to your word. He calls to you after he is dressed in his nightclothes and under his covers.

You gently tuck him in and blow out all the candles but one. You tell him a fairy tale about a boy, magic beans, an evil goose, and a giant. Your hand is on the bed next to him. Gently he places his on top of yours before the story is done. You take his hand in both of yours, rubbing it warmly between yours as you tell him another story about silly animals that think they can sing and their adventures. When you know he is asleep, you take the candle with you as you leave.

The rest and recovery time in the capital is short lived as the army heads out to Derdriu to assist Claude, the city is under siege. Byleth leads the troops just in time to rescue them. The army turns south to head to Enbarr. One last attempt in negotiating for peace is held with Edelgard, however neither side would give in. Battle is the only way to finish the war.

The battle goes through the streets and heart of the city. So many dead, so much blood everywhere. Everyone gave their all. Edelgard refuses to stand down and her life ends. Dimitri, Byleth, and the rest of the army claim the final victory in the war.

You hound Dimitri for thirty minutes before Dedue steps in, helping remind him that he is injured from the battle and needs treatment. Taking him to a quiet and safe room inside the castle you cleanse his wounds, stitching what he would let you and healing him. You then force him to drink water.

“May I finally return to my duties?” He grumbles.

“Yes, now that I feel like you will not fall over in the middle of them.” You answer. Turning to Dedue you instruct him, “Do not let him stay up all night. He needs to try to eat and sleep.”

“As you wish.” Dedue nods as he follows his liege.

“Wait, you have not been healed as well. Sit and show me your wounds.” You direct him to a chair. Soon Dedue is allowed to follow Dimitri to the multiple destinations on the agenda for the evening.

You head to the temporary infirmary, healing and tending to all the injured, be they from your army or citizens of Enbarr.

Finally, the army leaves for Fhirdiad at the beginning of the Verdant Rain Moon. Everyone is happy to be in the cooler temperatures in the northern part of the continent. You settle in the castle, working in the infirmary, staying in the residence for the healers. In your spare time you volunteer healing the hurt and ailing citizens, working alongside them to help rebuild and recover.

Dimitri’s coronation is a grand affair and a healing event for the city. It is a celebration that proves things are well and that prosperity is just around the corner. You sneak out of the infirmary to watch Dimitri be crowned as King. The cheering of everyone brings tears to your eyes. Their hopes and dreams are now resting on his shoulders.

Finishing work, you arrive at the celebration long after the food has been served, someone had been kind enough to send trays of food to the infirmary and it was shared with the patients that remain there as well. Even the spirits of those still suffering injuries are high and in a celebratory mood.

You clean up, wearing clothing proper enough for a meeting with the king, not really fancy enough for a royal party, it is enough you think as you arrive at the festivities that are ongoing. Dancing, singing, drinking and toasts will most likely continue for the entire night. You look over the crowd, finding Dedue is not difficult, he towers over everyone. You wind your way through the other happy celebrants to stand by his side.

“Good evening, Dedue. Is everything going well?” You ask him.

Dedue leans toward you, whispering. “I am well. His Highness has been quite swept up in the events of the day and should move to retire soon.”

“I agree. It looks like he is being cornered by quite the crowd of potential dance partners, let me see if I can intervene.” You answer with the slightest bit of a grin.

Walking up to the King with an air of authority, you bow and wait for the opportunity to address him. Dimitri appears happily surprised at your presence.

“I am pleased to see you are able to join us. Is there anything I can do for you?” Dimitri smiles, but it appears to be a bit weary.

“My King, as your personal physician, I must remind you that your health is quite important and request that you retire. Your schedule is full of meetings tomorrow and will need your complete attention.” Your attitude and stance are such that nobody wishes to question your authority.

“My apologies, ladies. But I must leave the festivities for now, healers orders.” Dimitri smiles sincerely as the women surround him groan in disappointment and disburse, looking for another noble to taunt.

Escorting the King to Dedue, the three of you leave the venue, proceeding toward the King’s residential area of the castle. Once the three of you are far enough away, he stops.

“Thank you so much for rescuing me.” Dimitri gasps. “I felt like the last piece of meat at a butcher shop.”

“Living up to your name, Di-meat-tri.” You succumb to the terrible pun.

He laughs as you head to his quarters. You excuse yourself as you reach his door.

“No, please, come in.” Dimitri opens the door for both of you. He heads straight for a chair and holds his leg up for Dedue to pull his boots off.

“Ahhh!” Dimitri gasps. “My feet are killing me! I have been on them all day.”

Pain? He has pain?! We can’t have that. You procure a stool and sit at his feet. Grabbing a leg you place the king’s foot on your lap and massage it, noticing the slight swelling at his ankle from being on his feet all day. Using a bit of faith magic and expert fingers, Dimitri is content. You turn and take his other foot in hand for some healing and muscle manipulation. When you are finished, you look up to see one very asleep Dimitri.

Dedue smiles and you let yourself out the door as he takes Dimitri to his bedroom.

The castle calms down over the next few days, a comforting routine takes over. Dedue unexpectedly calls you to the King’s quarters, there was an accident in the training grounds when Dimitri was sparring with Felix. Dedue advises you of the situation and you bring the necessary tools to come to the King’s aid.

Entering his room, you find Dimitri seated by the window at his desk, looking over paperwork.

“My apologies for having to summon you. It is a trivial matter, however Dedue is concerned about infection.” Dimitri looks embarrassed. He is in his undershirt, his left shoulder and upper arm covered in dark streaks, debris, and blood. Imbedded under his skin are many long and deep splinters.

“This doesn’t look like it came from a weapon.” You observe.

“No, Felix knocked me over and I fell into the wall. I did not know the wood had weathered and well, here I am.” Dimitri says sheepishly.

“A steady hand and some antibiotics will take care of this.” You nod, unrolling the pack of sharp tools and tweezers.

Beginning with a bit of faith magic to numb the area, you take into hand a sharp scalpel, cutting along the length of some of the deeper splinters to make it easier to remove them. A tool in hand with a needle like point lifts the imbedded wood while the other hand manipulates the tweezers pulling at a large piece of wood. The easier pieces to remove are no problem as you place splinter after splinter on a piece of cloth on the table. Next it is time to work on some that are deeper in his flesh.

“Come on, nice and easy. You can do it. Mmmmmm” You softly say, coaxing the splinter from his shoulder. “Yessssss.” You mutter with satisfaction as it comes out in a single piece.

Laying the bloody wooden spike on the cloth you look up at the King, rubbing his forearm. Dimitri listens raptly to your chatter as you work. You are talking to splinters, but some of the words and how you say them are…sultry.

“How are you doing Dimitri? Need me to take a break?” You look into his blue eye that is staring at you, not paying any attention to his papers.

“I’m…I’m fine.” Dimitri stutters as he grabs a paper, holding it up to read, hiding his blush from the enticing words you are using to help coax out the splinters.

You nod, getting back to work. “You naughty thing, stabbing our King. Right there, yes, come out.” You beckon the splinters out as you dig them from his shoulder. Giving a happy sigh you place another large piece of wood onto the cloth.

“I’m going to tear apart the training grounds and find every splintery piece of wood and give them a piece of my mind.” You grumble as you go after a smaller splinter. Moving Dimitri’s shoulder and arm, you place his hand on your knee, giving the right flex to his arm to get to the next splinter.

Dimitri turns his head and coughs a few times. “Ahem.” He is quite embarrassed. He tries very hard not to think about his hand and where it is. Papers…supposed to be reading papers, right.

“Are you feeling okay?” You lean forward to rub circles on his back. “You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?” Your voice is terribly concerned.

“No.” Dimitri shakes his head trying to clear his thoughts. It’s hard to think while his back is being rubbed. “You can continue.” He holds the paper closer to his face so you cannot see the pink tint return to his cheeks.

You continue to verbally coax the splinters from his arm, occasionally giving a squeal when you successfully remove a piece without it breaking. Applying an antiseptic salve, you rub it into the wound.

“I don’t want to heal it quite yet. I’d like to check later and see if anything is left in there. I’ll bandage it for now and check before you change for bed.” You announce as you pick up his arm and place his hand on your shoulder.

“Hold it right there so I can bandage you.” You demand as you begin rolling the bandage around his arm several times to keep the salve on his wounds and prevent it from soiling his clothes. You sit down and slowly move your hands down the rest of his arm, lightly massaging it as you go. Massaging the center of his palm you are satisfied that you have removed them all.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Dimitri?” You stand and slightly bow to him.

He clears his throat, “No, that is all.” He says in his normal deep voice. Then adds a soft, “Thank you.”

Later that evening you knock on Dimitri’s door, beckoned in you see both Dimitri and Dedue looking at the King’s already unwrapped arm.

Dedue stands behind his arm as you approach. Dimitri is seated in a chair pulled close to a large candelabra providing sufficient light. Dedue points out two areas that are redder than the rest, some deep hidden splinters as you had feared. Dimitri’s shoulder is a bit warm to the touch, another sign of an infection brewing. You hand Dedue your tools, there is no table nearby. Casting numbing faith magic, you take your scalpel and cut a small slit into one area that is bright red. Holding the flesh apart with the scalpel and edge of the tweezers you see a black bit that must be another splinter. Quickly you grasp the end with the tweezer and pull out an inch long piece of wood.

“That would have festered into a terrible mess. Let me flush it with some antiseptic.” You pour some liquid from the bottle onto the wound, wiping the excess with a cloth to not cause a mess.

The second irritated spot is more difficult to see. Changing the angle of Dimitri’s arm helps, you take his hand and place it around your right hip.

“Keep your arm there, Dimitri. Don’t move while I have this knife in hand.” You warn as you cut into another deep area where you’ve already removed some splinters.

Dimitri doesn’t move, he’s frozen to the spot. So close, his arm is wrapped partly around you and your hip.

You hand the scalpel to Dedue as you carefully pull with the tweezers. This splinter is not as long, but already showing signs of infection, a pocket of pus surrounding the bloody wood. Pouring antiseptic in again to flush it clean you dab the spot.

“I hope you don’t mind a couple stitches.” You announce to Dimitri as everything happens at once.

Felix slams the door open to the King’s chambers, asking the boar if he ever got the splinters out.

Dimitri panics as his arm is around a woman when Felix enters the room, thus he stands up, pulling his arm into you knocking you backwards. Dimitri and Dedue both lean forward to reach for your falling form at the same time, smacking their heads together, hard. Dedue stays on his feet. You fall onto your back onto the carpet, followed by Dimitri who falls crosswise across your chest grabbing his head and preventing it from hitting the ground.

Felix stands with his mouth agape as you ask him, “Did you get any splinters, Felix?” looking up at him from underneath Dimitri’s prone form.

“Tch. No. But you may want to check to see that he didn’t hit his head as well.” Felix grumbles as he backs out of the room, closing the door behind him.

After a moment you heartily laugh at the whole situation. Dimitri and Dedue join in as everyone scrambles to their feet. You make them take a seat as you feel the bumps on their heads. Healing their heads first then stitching and healing Dimitri’s arm you ask if there is anything else needed this evening.

“No, that will be all.” Dimitri says with a soft smile.

You smile widely back at him. “Thank you for letting me serve you, my King.” You bow and leave the room.

The next day you are up early in the training grounds with two carpenters and their wood planes, smoothing every visible piece of wood in the grounds. Returning to the infirmary you continue healing those injured in mishaps around the castle. A young page knocks on the door and hands you a note and a bouquet of flowers. You are invited to tea with Dimitri this afternoon. You advise the page you accept the invitation.

The infirmary workload is light today. Things are slowly settling down after the coronation. Visitors have left and reconstruction is not as desperate as before, thus less injuries. Leaving the infirmary you head to your room, changing into a nice dress and fixing your hair a bit. You are eager to find out what business the King wishes to speak with you about. Heading to his personal wing of the castle, you knock at his door.

Dedue answers, inviting you in. As you enter, Dedue exits, closing the door behind him. Dimitri is dressed casually, no coat or jacket, simply in his shirtsleeves. As you enter the room, he stands to greet you.

“Please, join me.” Dimitri smiles, holding out his hand as he sits at one end of the settee, a large table with a tea service and sweet treats piled high on a tray. You take a seat on the other end, Dimitri pours tea for you.

“I believe Bergamot is a tea you favor, is that correct?” He smiles as he gently and carefully hands you your cup and saucer.

“Yes. It’s my favorite.” You return the smile as you reach for the honey, letting some drip into your cup, leaving the tea on the table as the contents are still too warm to drink.

Dimitri clears his throat. “I suppose I should get straight to the point. I am sure you are wondering why, out of the blue, I have suddenly invited you to tea. Things have been quite busy with ending the war and then plans for the coronation and the coronation itself. Of course, things are always busy as one is trying to set up the government again after so many years of chaos. It seems like there is a never ending list of meetings and consultations and conferences. And I’m rambling, aren’t I?” He coughs into his hand and swallows, taking a deep breath.

You reach out and touch his hand that is sitting on the settee between you. “Dimitri, we have known each other for years. We have fought together in a war. I have seen you at your worst. I am so happy now seeing you at your best. You can tell me what is on your mind.” You smile at him warmly.

Dimitri relaxes a little and takes a deep breath. “Yes. We have known each other quite some time. You have been by my side, helping me and supporting our efforts. You were there when I was so terribly lost. I thank you for that very much. You believed in me when I needed it the most. Now…” He takes your hand, softly as he can between both of his, staring at you intently, his hands begin to tremble.

Time stops as you look at each other in silence. His voice is soft and low as he speaks, “Would you…would you allowmecourtyou?” He sighs heavily, searching your face desperately for your answer.

First you smile, then you nod, he still looks at you. Figuring he wants to hear your answer you lean forward a bit.

“Yes.” You gasp, bringing your other hand over his hands that still hold yours.

“Yes? Oh yes! Thank you.” He grins happily. If he were a puppy his tail would be wagging hard enough to knock everything off the table. He had been expecting a no, so the yes took a few seconds to register. His cheeks are red, his eye sparkles and he laughs a bit with glee. “I’m just so happy. I don’t know what to do with myself. I had been worried and fretting over your answer, I had no idea what to think if you actually said yes.”

“Well, right now we can sit and chat and have some tea. Perhaps you can tell me of some things that you would like me to do to help you. Your day is filled with doing everything for the country. Perhaps some time can be carved out for doing things for you.” You reach for your teacup, taking a sip.

“Going outside sounds amazing. I’ve been cooped up inside the castle every day. I want to get on a horse and ride. To no place in particular, just feel the wind on my face and sun on my back.” His look is far away with a relaxed smile.

“If it is a nice day, we can take tea together in the gardens. The King should have the ability to make time for a ride at least once a week, if it is a nice day. If they give you too much trouble, I’ll ask your clerics to write a note prescribing a required amount of sunshine for your health.” You smile then take another sip of tea.

The next few days both of you take tea in the gardens together. You are happily surprised when he identifies several different plants.

“My interest in plants came from Dedue. He is always gardening in his free time. I insisted that we include some flowering plants from Duscur in the gardens. I would love to see plants from all over Fodlan here, growing together, just like the country.” He holds out his hand so that you can take his. He is still too cautious of his strength to touch you on his own.

The Harvest Festival calls for the city to be decorated in oranges, reds, yellows, and gold. Many displays and booths line the streets to celebrate the great harvest now that the land is at peace. Dimitri invites you to the event and you arrive alongside him in the royal coach. The path before you is cleared by soldiers surrounding the king for his protection.

Dimitri graciously offers compliments and accolades to all that have worked so hard providing food for everyone. His eye goes wide at the size of some of the pumpkins entered in a competition to see who could grow the largest. Often the two of you stop to admire a street performer entertaining the crowd. One of the rear soldiers drops multiple gold coins into each of the receptacles of the performers.

Suddenly you hear a shriek followed by a wailing cry. You dash off into the crowd, your medical instincts taking over. At the base of a tree, you find a woman crying over her son. The rambunctious six year old had climbed the tree, much to his mother’s dismay, to have a look at the King as he walked past. Unfortunately, the boy did not know the branch he was standing on was weak, it broke sending the child tumbling to the ground. Mother and child are crying as you kneel next to him.

“What is your name, young sir?” You ask him calmly.

He stifles a few tears enough to answer. “Jakob.”

“May I see where you are hurt?” You smile a bit, holding out your hands.

He points to his arm, his wrist is already swelling. He tries to lift it and lets out a wail.

“Shhhh. Hold still.” You hold the arm and wrist in yours as faith magic works into his injury. You hold his arm straight and begin ordering anyone nearby to provide splints and bandages. Immobilizing and wrapping Jakob’s arm, you give instructions to his mother. As you stand, you notice Dimitri is at your side.

“King Dimitri, may I introduce you to my newest friend, Jakob. Jakob, this is King Dimitri.” You smile.

Jakob has the biggest smile across his face as he stands and bows before the king. “It is my pleasant honor to meet you King Dimitri.”

The King bows to Jakob, “It is my pleasure to meet you as well. I suggest you heed your mother’s warning when it comes to climbing trees.” He smiles as he ruffles the boy’s hair.

“Yes sir, King Dimitri sir!” Jacob stammers.

“Please bring him to the castle tomorrow morning so I can check his arm.” You tell his mother. She thanks you several times.

You return to walking along the street with the King, admiring the displays and visiting with the people. A street vendor hawking his booth loudly calls out your direction.

“Oi! Your Kingship! Have a try at me booth! Just one throw is all I ask!” The man’s voice calls out over the crowd as he stands juggling coconuts.

You bump your shoulder into his and giggle as Dimitri shakes his head and concedes. “What is it that you ask of me?”

The man bows so deeply his head nearly touches the ground. “Ahh, Your Kingship! So wonderful to be graced by your presence. I only ask that you throw one of these coconuts at the stack of milk bottles at the rear of my booth. Should you knock them all down, you win!” The showman raises his hand to the target with a practiced flourish then both hands in the air as a sign of victory.

“Go on.” You nudge him again. He looks so cute when he’s put on the spot.

“Very well.” King Dimitri takes one of the offered orbs, staring at it for a moment, then hurls it at the stack. Milk bottles fly in six different directions, most of them landing far from the booth as the target is destroyed, the coconut breaks open on the rear wall of the booth and falls to the ground, shattered.

“What an arm! Your Majesty! Congratulations!” The showman scampers over to a special box and removes a beautiful hand crafted stuffed blue lion in all its majesty. A collar around its neck proudly displays the shield of Blaiddyd. “Me wife crafted it herself, she did. She said if you see the King, you must gift it to him, she said.” He bows as he offers the regal stuffed beast.

King Dimitri bows and thanks him for the beautiful gift, handing it to a nearby soldier to monitor while he continues his stroll. At the end of the lane where the festival ends, the King gives one final wave, thanking his people for their faith and hard work.

Returning to the castle, Dimitri must attend meetings, leaving you to your own business. Taking the stuffed lion in hand you dash to the servant’s quarters, asking for a few specific items. You then head to the infirmary to notify them to find you when Jakob arrives tomorrow so that you may personally check on his wellbeing. You trust your replacements in the infirmary, you had chosen them yourself, however Jakob is a special patient.

Returning to your quarters, which now are close to the King’s own rooms, you find the requested items. With a bit of assistance, you complete the project and request it be delivered to Dimitri’s chambers.

Joining the King and the current guests in a large meeting room, representatives of the former Alliance region are here to discuss their budgets and new laws for the expanded Kingdom. There is a break for dinner followed by discussions continuing until late in the evening. The conversations finally wind down and you know that Dimitri is quite exhausted.

“I believe everyone has made great progress today. Let us all sleep on this and take this up again in the morning.” You announce.

Everyone in the room nods as you escort Dimitri to the exit. Walking down the hallway, your hand in his, Dimitri yawns not once, but twice from exhaustion. Dedue opens the door for the both of you. Following you inside the three of you sit and enjoy a cup of chamomile tea, a lovely habit you have incorporated to get him to wind down before bed. You must leave soon, his eyelids are getting heavy, you hope he sleeps well this night.

“Come with me.” You smile as you take his hand and lead him to his bedroom. Dimitri blushes and looks quite confused as you lead him inside the doorway. You point at his bed and then he notices the stuffed blue lion. It is adorned with a small crown, eyepatch and a cape that resembles his.

“It’s adorable!” he exclaims as he puts his hands on your cheeks and plants a sudden kiss on your lips.

“Come again?” you gasp, your eyes wide.

Dimitri stops and blushes in his sleepy stupor as you pull on his collar and place a brief sweet kiss to his lips. Dimitri’s cheeks are a bright red as you step back and bow.

“Good night, my sweet.” You tell him before leaving the room.

“The tea was lovely, thank you Dedue.” You announce as you leave the king’s quarters, walking normally. This is a normal pace? Right? Sure it is. You see yourself out the door. Running into your room you fall on your bed and scream into your pillow. He finally kissed me!

The next morning you stop Felix on his way to bang on the King’s door wishing to drag him out for a morning spar. You require his assistance in accompanying you on a trip to the harvest festival area. He complains the entire trip switching between arguing that he is wasting his time doing this and you must stay closer to him, any madman with a blade could try to attack you. Once your mission is complete you purchase three heavily spiced meat sticks for him to enjoy while you head back to the castle.

Upon your return you are delighted to meet with Jakob and his mother in the infirmary. Jakob chatters the entire time that he is bragging to all his friends that the King had messed up his hair and he is going to grow up to be a knight to protect King Dimitri. Changing his bandages, you are pleased with his healing progress, he can take the bandages off in two weeks as long as he behaves. Before they leave, you had a large basket to his mother, filled with fruits, smoked meats, bread, and cookies.

“Share the cookies with all of your friends and neighbors.” You remind him as you wave goodbye.

The visitors with the king leave after a final meeting, heading back to warmer territory as quickly as possible before the snows cover the land. Certainly, it is not today as the sun is warm and the weather is beautiful. You work on a few projects when there is a familiar knock at the door. Dedue has arrived to fetch you for lunch.

“It is so nice out, I thought Dimitri would want lunch in the gardens today.” You mention.

“His Highness said he prefers to have it in his chambers today.” Dedue answers. He opens the door so that you may enter, then closes it behind you as he remains outside of the room.

Dimitri is immediately on the other side, looking a bit flustered.

He reaches for you, ever so lightly placing his hands on your shoulders, his eye searching yours. “Tell me, I cannot remember if it was real or a dream. Did we k-kiss last night?” His face flushes red.

You nod as pink dusts your own cheeks. “Yes.”

“May I kiss you again?” He asks as he pulls you close. His voice is so deep, with your chest pressed against his, you’re not sure if it is the vibration of his words or the shudder of a thrill racing up your spine.

“Please.” You beg him, your hands sliding up his chest around his shoulders pulling him down to meet your lips. It is a bit awkward, slightly messy, and the best kiss you’ve had since the night before. You hold him tight to your chest as he slowly wraps his arms around you as lightly as possible, resting his cheek on your forehead after the kiss. You sigh happily into his chest.

You try to step back, however he has no intention of letting you go.

“We should eat a bit.” You suggest.

“I am hungry for your lips.” He mumbles into your hair.

“They are not very nutritious.” You tap him on his back.

“You would deny a starving man who has just had a small taste of the most delicious thing he has ever had in his life?” He chuckles.

“You are always negotiating. Would you agree to lunch then perhaps kisses for dessert?” You look up at him and grin.

“One now, then lunch.” Dimitri brings his lips to meet yours once again.

After the most hurried lunch you have ever eaten, you find yourself on Dimitri’s lap exchanging kisses.

A knock on the door alerts the both of you to Dedue’s presence. “Your highness, you have a meeting to attend.” He announces.

Dimitri sighs heavily, “The duties of a King are never done.” He bemoans.

You giggle as you clamber from his comfy lap. “Let me get a comb to make you more presentable.” You offer. After combing his hair and straightening his clothes, you send him off to be bored for the remainder of the afternoon.

Things are busy rebuilding the kingdom. There is always another emergency, an urgent need or any excuse for a meeting. He has been in meetings from early dawn, only returning now very late in the evening. He eats little, his head is pounding from the stress of the day. He hesitates to call you, however he has another meeting filled day tomorrow and must try to get some rest.

You ask Dedue to please prepare tea for the three of you this evening. Directing Dimitri to sit on the couch, you stand behind it and apply gentle faith magic to relieve some of the pain in his head and jaw from being so tense. You then place the footrest at the far end of the couch, coaxing him to lie back and place his head in your lap.

You ask for his right hand and massage the point just above the thumb where the index finger would be carried down. Applying pressure first, then rubbing circles with your thumb in each direction. Placing his hand on his chest you do the same with his left hand.

Next you squeeze the spot on each side where the bridge of his nose meets the bridge of his eyebrows. Applying steady pressure there, then releasing and repeating. Finally reaching around to the base of his skull in the parallel hollow areas between the two vertical neck muscles, you press upward to the top of his head briefly release and repeat.

Removing the hair tie from his hair you run your fingers through it, gently scratching his scalp. You watch his face visibly relax and a soft smile is on his lips as you continue to card through his hair.

“Better, sweetheart?” You softly coo.

“Mmmm, yes. Thank you.” He relaxes.

Dedue brings in the tea service, placing the cups and saucers for three at the table.

You tap Dimitri on the nose. “Diiiimmaaaa. Tea time!”

He sighs then sits up. “Whatever you did was amazing. My headache is gone and I think I should be able to sleep some tonight. Thank you.”

Dedue pours tea for everyone.

“Thank you again Dedue, for a wonderful tea.” Dimitri smiles.

“You’re welcome, your Highness.” Dedue answers.

You take a cookie, taking a bite. “Oh, did you make these Dedue?”

“Yes, I had the time this afternoon.” Dedue nods.

“They are delicious. Hmm, anise, cinnamon, nutmeg, pecans, ginger, clove, molasses. An amazing group of flavors mixed in with love. Thank you so much, Dedue.” Your appreciation shows in your smile and warmth toward the man.

Teatime is very much enjoyed. Dimitri looks like he is relaxed enough to go to sleep peacefully and without a headache. Dedue looks away so you can give Dimitri a sweet good night kiss.

Sunday is the lightest day of work for Dimitri. No meetings if there are no visitors in the castle. The weather is beginning to cool a little more every night. It won’t be long before snow covers everything. Dimitri wishes to take a long horseback ride and invites you to join him. You’ve never really learned the skills of being on a horse, Dimitri is more than excited to educate you. Lifting you up straight into the saddle, he climbs up behind you. Accompanied by a few knights on horseback everyone rides out past the city and into the countryside. His destination is a small area of woods that has a cliff overlooking some of the lands of Fhirdiad. Dimitri discussed the location with Dedue, this spot would provide some privacy, enemies could only approach from one side and the guards could stay far enough away, yet still protect their King.

Dimitri dismounts, lifting you from the saddle. He then unties a picnic basket from the back of the horse and tethers the steed to a tree. Spreading out the blanket you unload the basket to find a delicious lunch, complete with sweet tea.

“This is beautiful, sweetheart.” You smile at him as you place food on your plate. “A gorgeous view and beautiful scenery too.”

Dimitri blushes once he realizes the compliment. His mind then heads straight to places it should not go at such a lovely scene. “I am a beast. I have done horrible things. How can you trust yourself to be alone with me?”

Placing your food on your plate you reach out to cup his cheek. “I have seen you at your worst. I have seen you at your best. You are not a beast. You have come so far making amends for what was done and you will continue to improve. I will be here for you as long as you wish, to help you become the best you can be.”

“Why? Why would anyone want to help me? Some days I feel so useless, that I can’t be the King everyone expects me to be.” He is trembling under your touch.

“I help you because I love you. I know you are a great King, Dimitri. We all know.” You smile, using the thumb that is close by you wipe a tear from his eye.

“You…love me?” Dimitri is shocked.

You fold your hands into your lap and look at them. “I must not be doing a very good job of showing you that I do.”

“Wait! Please, take my hands.” Dimitri begs you. You reach out to hold his hands in yours.

You look into his eye, confused.

“I never thought I could be loved. You have always been there since we met, haven’t you? I have been a monster to you, yet you still came to feed me and heal me. When I had asked permission to court you, I thought you would decline. Every day I wake up and think you would reject me this day. I can’t believe you are still here, with me.”

Dimitri bends forward and pulls you close. Placing a sweet kiss on your lips. Your lips are barely touching his as he whispers. “I love you.”

The next few kisses are not as chaste as the previous one. Plates and food are scattered about the blanket as you hold each other close.

Dimitri’s stomach growls loudly, causing you both to laugh.

“I think we should finish our picnic before you begin digesting your internal organs.” You laugh.

“Can that happen?” Dimitri innocently asks with a look of surprise.

“No. Just joking!” You laugh.

“You are a cleric and an expert on those things. I suppose my sense of humor needs a bit of work.” He smiles sheepishly as he helps you straighten out the food. Finishing the picnic lunch, he packs the basket onto his mount.

“Wait. I need to get on this thing without your help.” You announce.

Placing your foot on the stirrup you attempt to hike yourself up onto the horse. Mentally you remind yourself you need to do a lot more squats. The third hopping jump you manage to jump/haul yourself up and stand with your left foot in the stirrup, you haul your right leg carefully over the horse and sit crookedly on the saddle, gently moving and wiggling yourself to center while trying not to upset the steed. Dimitri’s long legs are great for having the stirrup low, but then you had to overcome the length of your legs versus his. Maybe if you had a horse of your own it could be shorter. Maybe a pony? You suddenly notice a snickering man next to you.

“What?” You snap at Dimitri.

“Nothing.” He smiles at you, easily getting up and into the saddle as if he flew on wings.

You turn around to look at him again, he still has that silly grin on his face. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.” You frown.

“It is just that when you have your mind set on something, you can be very stubborn.” Dimitri whispers in your ear. “It is very endearing, my beloved.”

Those two words at the end send a shiver down your spine, followed by a second when he kisses the top of your ear peeking through your hair.

Winter in Fhirdiad is cold, nobody can deny that. Early winter the snow falls, then melts and this repeats as the weather has not quite made up its mind. By the end of Red Wolf Moon, the snow is here to stay for a while. Wagon wheels get stuck, so sleighs are used to cart things around in the northern parts of the kingdom until the snow is too high to move anything.

Although it is cold outside, with enough warm blankets, perhaps a warming box under the seat filled with live coals to keep your feet, legs, and posterior warm, you agree to go on a sleigh ride with Dimitri. Wearing your fluffiest warmest winter hat and coat, you are surrounded by blankets and your boyfriend as Dedue drives the horse drawn sleigh through the city and countryside. Dimitri entertains you with stories of snowball fights and building forts and snow houses with his friends.

Dedue even joins in, sharing his experiences growing up. With the water surrounding Duscur, the snow would be so deep that they had doors on the roof of the house so people could get outside and carry on business or shop or just leave the house to play. Winter is also a time for handcrafts, baking, soups and savory stews. Before the end of the ride, he promises to make a Roasted Root Stew for dinner in the next day or two.

The sun sets quickly in winter, the moonlight giving a bluish tint to the snow as it sparkles all around. The trees look like they have their own coats of white covering every branch. A rabbit scampers across your path, its fur turned snow white to help with camouflage. The most amazing thing about snow is the quiet. Not many birds stay around in the winter. Once it is night everyone goes inside as the little bit of warmth from the sun is gone. The only sound is the horse tromping through the snow and the swwishhhh sound of the sleds sliding across the snow. The quiet is peaceful, beautiful and filled with the air of calm.

The snow piles higher and higher around the castle. Time marches along as the citizens and lands rest, healing from the war. The King is healing as well. His nightmares are not nearly as frequent, he does not seem on edge and full of angst by the end of the day.

Dimitri’s birthday is tomorrow and a small celebration is planned. Several of the other Blue Lions will be attending, easily able to traverse the snow. Dedue is pouring chamomile tea as you review what has happened today.

“I was called to the kitchens again this morning,” You dribble some honey into your tea. “The cook’s new apprentice burnt her fingers again. That is the third time this week.” You frown.

“Perhaps you can provide her some training?” Dedue offers.

“I would like to sew gloves permanently on her hands!” You chuckle. “Perhaps we can set up something to develop her awareness.”

“The meetings were light today. Not too many complaints when people have difficulty making it through the snow.” Dimitri muses.

“Tomorrow is the big day, not everyone will have problems getting here tomorrow, I hope.” You smile taking a sip.

“Felix and Sylvain will have no trouble whatsoever. Mercedes and Annette will arrive with them.” Dimitri’s eye shines brightly as he goes through the list. “Ingrid will be on Pegasus, so no issues there. Of course, Ashe is a knight here, so the only concern would be Byleth’s arrival in time.”

“Am I spoiling you if I want to be the first to give you a birthday present?” you ask him just before he must go to bed.

“Sometimes, my beloved, I have noticed that you are not the most patient of women.” Dimitri grins. “I will allow this, only for you.”

You happily pull him to his bedroom door and open it so he can see it.

Normally the proud kingly lion sits in the center of his bed, awaiting his return. Tonight, he sits opposite a beautiful female lion. She is adorned with a circlet of flowers around the top of her head and ears, long ribbons down her back and a clerical cape like yours. The lions face each other, touching noses.

“They are adorable.” Dimitri smiles.

You bend down to the bed patting the lioness on the head. “Oh, what is this? I think she has a present for you.” You softly say as you get down on a knee to reach and obtain a box that is sitting between her front paws.

Dimitri comes closer to join you, only for you to stay on one knee and turn to face him with the box in your hands.

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, will you marry me and make me the happiest woman ever?” You ask, your eyes welling up with tears.

Dimitri gasps and falls to his knees in front of you. “What? Oh yes! Of course, yes!” He declares as he takes you in your arms and kisses your lips and face urgently. Eventually, the two of you have to break apart to breathe.

“You definitely have an impatient side to you.” He laughs, placing his forehead against yours.

“What? I have the patience of a saint.” You giggle. “Saint Cethleann was very impatient.”

“I suppose you are entitled to this.” Dimitri walks to his desk and opens a drawer. He brings a small box to you. “Just to be certain, will you marry me?”

“Let me think.” You chuckle. “Yes. Without hesitation.” Pulling him close you kiss him again.

The day of Dimitri’s birthday is a joyous event for everyone in the castle. Guests arrive and are settled in their rooms. Felix, Sylvain, Annette and Mercedes make it without incident.

“Come on Boar, spar with me. We have time before dinner.” Felix grunts as he shoves Dimitri in the shoulder

You have a cup of tea and cakes with Annette and Mercedes in your parlor, catching up on the latest gossip. You are relieved that they are wearing gloves, you have not had much experience in the high circles of society. It is cold in the hallways, and they certainly help.

“Teaching at the School of Sorcery full time really keeps me busy.” Annette says as she places her teacup down. “It is fun to see the wide eyed new faces get excited about casting their first spells.

“Annie, that is so sweet.” Mercedes laughs softly. “Things are going very well at the new orphanage we started in Fraldarius. We have a huge building and a room for each individual child. We really appreciate the help from Dimitri and Felix. The children are going to write thank you letters soon. I hope you get to see them.”

“That is wonderful to hear. I am sure Dimitri will be well pleased with the news.” You thank them. “Getting the country back on its feet and prospering is his main goal, of course. I hope to see some of these places myself when it warms up in the spring.”

“That would be awesome if you can come visit!” Annette gasps excitedly. “We could have the students show off their talents. Many are working hard to take existing spells and making them useful in every day life.”

“Can someone look into a spell to cast on ordinary items that resist breaking?” You giggle. “I know someone that would appreciate that spell for sure.”

The table erupts in laughter. Girl talk continues as Ingrid joins you. Byleth’s arrival is announced, and everyone heads to one of the comfortable dining rooms that is prepared for the lavish feast the cooks have prepared.

Dinner consumed, the reunited Blue Lions retire to the King’s wing of the castle in a parlor fitted with plenty of furniture to accommodate everyone comfortably. Chairs, lounges and couches are scattered about the room as well as bowls of fruit, trays of cheese and sausage for snacks. A well-stocked cupboard carries glasses, wines, ciders and hard alcohol.

Sylvain makes himself right at home pulling out a large bottle of brandy and filling a few glasses. Annette picks out a fruity wine made with blackberries and between the two everyone has a glass.

“May I propose a toast?” Byleth spoke up and everyone shushed. “Happy Birthday to Dimitri, King of United Faerghus. May he have many happy and peaceful birthdays to come.”

Sylvain let out a whoop, most others give a respectable cheers! Everyone settles into little groups chatting amongst themselves. You lean on the arm of a comfy sofa, talking with Byleth about what is going on in the monastery.

“The rebuilding and repairing is going well.” Byleth shares. “The classrooms are functional, and all of the dormitories are repaired. We are rewriting the curriculum to teach mathematics, reading, writing and other necessary classes for the public. We want it to be a school for the children to learn, leading into better careers than just becoming knights or fighters.”

“That is wonderful to hear!” You excitedly clap your hands together. “A well educated people is a boon for everyone.”

Dedue is on the left side of the room with Ashe and Mercedes discussing recipes. Ingrid, Felix, Dimitri and Sylvain are discussing some recent merchants that arrived in Fhirdiad offering impressive and finely made weapons from Dagda and Brigid, the styles of weapons being the main topic of conversation.

Mercedes sits next to you for a while, speaking with you and Byleth about a recent idea you are testing. Setting up healing clinics in the city in several areas to assist in keeping the people healthy. Byleth approves of the idea and may test some clinics in areas around Garreg Mach.

Sylvain has been keeping everyone’s glasses full. He notices that he really hasn’t had to fill your glass much, however the glass of water next to your wineglass is nearly empty. Leaning over the back of the couch he starts massaging your shoulders.

“Hey.” Sylvain bends over and speaks softly close to your ear. “If you don’t like the wine we have other drinks. Loosen up and have a good time, beautiful. Get relaxed. “He grins at you and then winks.

Before you can turn your head to tell him no, Dimitri marches over and sits next to you on the couch removing Sylvain’s hands.

“Refrain from manhandling my fiancée.” Dimitri growls at him. He then gently places his hand on top of yours that is sitting on the couch cushion between the both of you.

You blush at him as several gasps utter in the room.

“Fian- you’re getting married Dimitri? Congratulations!” Sylvain nearly shouts, slapping him on the shoulder. “Didn’t know you had it in you! When did this happen? Tell us all about it!” He runs around to the front of the couch to take a seat in the chair directly opposite Dimitri so he can watch his friend’s every move.

“I-well. It just happened. We aren’t quite ready to announce it, but then Sylvain…” Dimitri hangs his head down, shaking it while blushing profusely.

You decide to swoop in to save him. “You see Sylvain, when two people like each other and get to know each other well, spending time together, sometimes something special happens. We have been courting for quite a while you know.”

“I know, yeah. But he’s Dimitri! He has no idea how to flirt or capture ladies’ hearts. Has he even kissed you?” Sylvain looks quite shocked.

Dimitri’s face is red all the way to his neck. You take his hand in yours and squeeze it tightly.

“We have kissed. He kissed me first and everything else is our business. Change the subject.” You give him your evil eye look.

“Wow.” Sylvain laughs. “Wah-hah-how.” He stands up and walks to the alcohol cabinet. Felix gives him a punch in the shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up, idiot.” Felix mumbles.

“Felix, do me a favor.” You smile slyly. “Take Sylvain to the training grounds with you early tomorrow morning and give him a good workout. I’ll even tell them to lock you two in there so he can’t escape.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Felix gives a courteous bow and Sylvain a side eye.

“Speaking of sparring,” Byleth says loudly. “I have a few new swords I’ve brought if you want to have a look at them Dimitri. Fantastic workmanship. I hear this weapon maker has some amazing materials that are being shipped in from Dagda.”

You get up to move about the room, talking with Ingrid about improving farming techniques in their territory.

“We always thought Galatea had poor soil because certain fruits and vegetables would not grow well there.” Ingrid sips her wine. “We kept fighting with the land, trying to make it grow what we wanted. Finally, we’re growing what the land wants, what grows in our type of soil in the first place. This is the third year for cranberries and the bushes are loaded. Rethinking our ways has improved things a hundred fold.”

“I love cranberries.” Annette croons. “They make a really tart sauce that is great with bird meat.”

“I like the juice for breakfast, it certainly is an eye opener!” You add.

The conversation quietly moves to anything and everything except for the engagement. Annette heads over to speak with Felix, Ingrid heads to Ashe to discuss something.

Sylvain stands close, but not too close to you. His grin is full of mischief. You dread what is going to come out of his mouth.

“So, when you planning on having kids?” Sylvain not so innocently inquires. “The council has been dogging him about heirs since the day after his coronation.”

“One more word from you and I will have Felix take you to the training grounds now, followed by Byleth, Dedue, Ingrid, Ashe and myself. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” You give a smile through gritted teeth that makes him cringe down to his toes.

“Yes Ma’am.” Sylvain whines as he backs up and heads to the farthest side of the room, only to find Dimitri there, so he splits the difference and heads to a corner furthest away from the both of you.

Sylvain stays in his corner. Ashe approaches him, asking a question. As he opens his mouth you stare at him. Sylvain dutifully closes his mouth and only answers by nodding yes or no. His voice is not heard throughout the rest of the evening. It is a fine party indeed for Dimitri’s birthday.

[maddiwrites]

The Hybrid (I)

Pairing: JJ x Reader

Summary: The Pogues rekindle their friendship with their old childhood best friend and JJ’s first crush, Y/N. Old feelings resurface for JJ and Y/N, possibly leading to a summer neither one of them could ever forget. Due to past trauma, Y/N is reluctant to let anyone into her heart, but JJ never backs down from a challenge, even if he knows it will come back to haunt him in the end.

Note: Thank you for being patient with me as I slowly write this series. I had this idea a long time ago and I’m not finding motivation to write it but the inspiration comes and go. I smile with every comment that is left on my fics and I’m so grateful for this community. Thank you for letting me pursue my creative writing without judgement. Love you guys! (Also, yes. If you didn’t see my last note, I based YN’s family off of the Gilmore Girls characters. That’s who I picture as them.)

Word Count: 8k

 Masterlist   Prologue 

You wake up to someone falling on your bed next to you with a dramatic sigh. Knowing exactly who it is, you choose to ignore her and try getting back to the dreamless sleep you were peacefully having before you woke up.

That is, until she sighs again. 

You flip onto your back and stare up at your ceiling fan that’s quickly spinning above you. “What, Rory?”

“How did it go with Andre and that boy?”

You look at her with one brow raised. “You woke me up to hear about Andre’s love life? That hardly sounds like you. You don’t care about high school drama or hookups.”

“You’re right,” Rory says. “But I thought I would ease you into what I actually need to tell you.”

You turn on right side and look at your sister confused. “What?”

She sighs. “The cafe’s basement flooded last night. Mom needs us there to help her clean up and take inventory on what’s salvageable.”

You turn back on you backside and close your eyes, exhaling a deep sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Rory says and pats you twice on your covered thigh as she sits up. “Come on. I made you pre-cafe coffee. It’s sitting in the kitchen.”

You throw your sheets off of you and trudge to the bathroom to brush your teeth and clean your face. It’s about 8 a.m. At least you were able to get about six hours of sleep. 

Last night, it was hard to let your brain rest to fall asleep. You kept tossing and turning, thinking about the blonde Pogue who walked you home. You missed how easy it was to talk to someone who you felt truly knew you. Your banter rolled off your tongue easily and you never had to worry about offending him because you knew him like the back of your hand. You knew what he could take and what he couldn't. 

Talking to him brought back childhood memories you had hidden deep in your mind. How JJ would constantly poke you until you ripped into a smile on days that were grey. How you used to steal John B’s bandanas until he was chasing you around his house to get them back. How you would draw a mustache and a unibrow on Pope’s face when he fell asleep by the water. 

Those days felt like they were decades ago. So far away, you didn’t know if you’d be able to reach for them again. If it was even possible to get back. 

You thought about texting him. Thanks for walking me back. We should all get together soon! You had written out. But then you deleted the whole message, telling yourself it was because you didn’t know if he even had the same number. But deep down, you were just afraid of the rejection. 

Its been about three years since the four of you had been together in one place. You don’t know what they’ve been through or if they’ve changed. They for sure as hell don’t know what you’ve been through. You don’t know if they're dynamic has changed. Clearly you and JJ can still joke with each other but what about John B and Pope? You heard about John B’s father disappearing at sea, most people believing he’s dead, but John B holding onto hope that’s he’s alive. You always thought about calling him to reach out and offer your condolences. But for the same reason you didn’t text JJ, you never called. It didn’t feel like your place. They had Kie for that now. A little part of you felt jealous of her, like she had replaced you and any memory of you. She seemed nice, but she wasn’t you.

“Ready?” Rory pops her head in to your room as you slip on a cropped plain white zip up jacket over your cropped black tank. 

“As I’ll ever be,” You say and snag the car keys out of her hands. “Don’t even think about it. I’m driving.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “I want to get there safely.”

“And I want to get there quickly.”

“Fine. But we’re taking my car. It actually has doors.”

For your sixteenth birthday, your grandparents gifted both you and Rory your own individual cars and even let you pick them out. Rory chose a black 2020 Honda Civic for it’s safety features and reputation for longevity as if she was planning on handing it down to her future kids. And you picked out a white 2020 Jeep Wrangler with a hard top that pops off along with the doors for a very open and thrilling ride. Everyone but you called it a death trap, but you found it to be the perfect summer car. 

You park Rory’s boring Honda Civic in the back of the cafe in a lot used specifically for employees. The cafe is already booming with teens and families, waiting for their morning coffees and fresh pastries. Kids your age are running around behind the counter with sweat dripping down their brow bone to get everyone’s orders out in a timely manner. 

In the back of the store, your mom walks up the steps from the basement with two large trash bags and immediately notices the two of you. “Oh good. You’re here. Rory, help the girls behind the counter. The dishwasher’s broken and poor Hailey is hand washing everything. Y/N, come with me downstairs.”

“Why does Rory get the fun job?” You grumble and follow your mom back downstairs after she tosses the two trash bags. 

“Because she’s actually nice to the customers.”

“Treat others how you would like to be treated. Isn’t that what everyone always says?” You smirk. You never agreed with the phrase ‘the customer is always right.’ It’s complete bullshit and being the employee shouldn’t mean letting yourself getting verbally abused by a ‘Karen’ on the other side of the counter. 

The basement is used for the cafe’s storage, lined with wooden shelves Steve put together that hold to go cups, back up espresso machines, boxes of coffee and food and ingredients, etc. Now all the boxes are dark and sopping, creating puddles on the concrete floor. 

“Oh my god. Mom. How did this happen?”

“Jenky water pipe busted in the middle of the night,” Steve walks down the stairs and passes your mom a knowing look. It didn’t surprise you that he was here. He’s the jack of all trades. Owns his own automotive shop, builds a lot of his own furniture, actually cooks a decent meal, and has the same outlook on customer service as you do. He was probably your mom’s first call. “Talked to the plumber. They can’t get here until at least noon.”

“Noon? We’ll be underwater by noon. I might as well turn all my employees into a swim team,” Your mom says.

Steve shakes his head. “I was able to hold the leak until he gets here. You should be fine.”

Steve was the first person that actually helped your mother out when's she moved to the Cut. Six months pregnant, she pushed her car into his automotive shop after it broke down on the side of the road. Their banter was similar to the one you and JJ have. He helped save your mom money by building yours and Rory’s cribs, changing table, and dressers. And ever since, the two of them had been connected by the hip, although they both refuse to admit it. You think the pair are just trying to deny the love they clearly share for each other. And you think the main reason for that is because of the incident four years ago with your mom’s ex boyfriend. No thanks to you.

 “Look at you constantly building your resume,” You smirk at him. 

Steve scoffs. “It’s more than what you’re doing.”

You roll your eyes. Steve is the closest thing you have to a father. He practically helped raise you with your mom. He’s the one you turn to whenever a fight with your mom goes too far, which isn't too often but it happens. He usually lets you stay at his house for the night to let you cool off. But he’ll never sugar coat his advice when it comes time for him to give it. Even if you don’t ask for it. He knows growing up with Rory has been challenging. She was clearly your mom’s favorite, or at least that’s what you thought. She has a 4.0 GPA with a realistic dream to get into Brown University and study journalism. She played by every rule, never got into trouble, and spent most of her free nights getting ahead of her school work or staying late at the cafe with an open book from the library across the street. She was an absolute angel to everyone else, making you look like her evil twin. 

You glare at him before turning to your mom with crossed arms. “What do you want me to do, Mom?”

“Actually honey. Can you go to Heywards and grab more coffee filters and napkins. The water soaked right through the plastic wrapping on our last box.”

You nod, leaving your mom and Steve to clean up the basement themselves. Before heading out, you sneak behind the counter and make yourself a quick coffee to go.

“Where you going?” Rory asks as she reaches behind you to grab a banana for her customer at the register.

“Heywards to grab a couple things for Mom.”

“Oh. Make sure to grab toilet paper while you’re out. I think we’re almost out of it.”

“Got it.” 

Heywards is only a short drive from your mom’s cafe. It’s the closest convenient store that isn’t crazy pricey. It’s where your mom gets all her supplies whenever she runs out of things before shipment gets there. 

You use to always come here when you were younger with the boys, each of you, even Pope, stealing a small bag of chips or a candy bar here and there. Little did any of you know, Mr. Heyward caught your thieving hands every time but never said anything. 

The bell above the door chimes when you walk into the store. You know this place as well as you know the cafe, finding the toilet paper and coffee filter immediately. 

When Mr. Heyward looks up from the counter, his smile grows. He can pick you out of a crowd anywhere, but he hasn’t seen you in a long time. Last time he saw you, you had braces and overgrown bushy brows. Now you had bushed hair and shaved legs. 

“Hi. Mr. Heyward,” You grin shyly at him. You don’t know how he’s going to react to see you, unsure of what Pope might have told him about you. 

“Little Miss Y/L/N? Is that you?” Heyward smiles widely, pulling your own lips into a wider smile. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy with school and my mom’s cafe...” Both of those things were a lie. You just avoid the Cut to avoid the Pogues. 

“How’s the fam?” 

“They’re good,” You say as Heyward hands you your bags. “Mom says hello by the way. I’m actually taking these to her store now.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger. We miss your smiling face around her. Anette, too.” Heyward says, mentioning his wife. 

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Of course, darling.” 

Heyward and Anette always had a special place in their heart for you and Rory. They’re not one for gossip, but they knew a little bit about what your mom’s been through and have heard plenty of stories about your grandparents. They always thought, despite your mom’s background, that you and your sister were raised impressively. Anette always hoped that one day Pope and Rory would get together. Everyone always wanted their child to be with Rory. 

As your about to leave the store, the bell chimes again with another customer. Only it’s not another customer. It’s Pope and John B. They don’t see you at first, and you wonder if maybe you can sneak out without them seeing you. But something about that felt wrong. Especially because Heyward would more than likely mention to them that you were here. 

Pope sees you first and stops in his tracks. “Y/N?” 

“Hey, guys. Long time no see,” You smile at both of them. You bite down on your lip awkwardly when you meet John B’s stare. You don’t know if you should mention anything about his dad’s disappearance. But what would you say? Sorry? What good would that do?

“How’ve you been?” Pope gives you a small side hug, then John B. 

You shrug. “You know, living the dream.”

“How’s life as a Hybrid?” John B smirks. 

You roll your eyes playfully and groan. “Oh god. Never call me that again.”

You may be considered a Hybrid by everyone else, but you would never put yourself into that category. You grew up a Pogue, the same way everyone else did around you. The only thing tying you to the Kooks are your grandparents. 

“Why?” John B smirks. “I wish I was a Hybrid.”

You smirk back. “Maybe you will be one day. I hear you have a Kook of your own for arm candy.”

You saw a faint hint of blush on John B’s cheek at the mention of his girlfriend but you don’t mention it. “Sarah, yeah. She’s not like the other Kooks.”

“I would hope not. Her brother’s a dick.”

“Yeah,” They laugh. 

“We miss you, you know.” John B says. Pope looks at you, trying to read your expression. John B’s not wrong. They do all miss you, especially Pope. He felt like you were the only one who really understood him. Of course his other friends are great, but you actually took the time to try and understand his passions. Like forensic science. 

“I miss you guys too. It’s been a while.”

“Well, hey. We’re actually all getting together tonight at my place. Nothing big. Just a bonfire and a couple beers. You should stop by,” John B says.

“Yeah,” Pope says, immediately getting hopeful that you’ll show up. 

Your smile falters. The invite makes your heart swell and your lungs contract. It’s an invite you’ve been wanting for three years. And now that you have it, you don’t know what to say. It’d be different if it was just the four of you like old times. But now there’s Kie and Sarah and although you have nothing against them, you’re afraid they won’t accept you. The thought of your boys picking them over you terrifies you. 

“Okay. Yeah, sure. I’ll try to swing by later.” 

Pope smiles wide and looks at his friend to see his reaction. John B grins and nods, almost impressed that you had agreed. But he saw the twitch in your lips when the question was asked. 

“Great. I guess we’ll see you later then.” 

You nod. “Okay. Bye guys.”

You suck in a deep breath when the fresh air outside of Heyward’s store brushes over you. Your heart thumps wildly with both excitement and nerves when you’re finally able to collect your thoughts. You don’t know what you’ll do tonight, but the possibilities can change your entire summer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You spent the rest of the day mopping up the cafe’s basement and rearranging the shelves. You smelled of sweat and coffee grounds by the time you were done and dreamt of the shower you would be taking when you got home. 

Rory drove you home after the two of you closed up the cafe for the day. Neither of you said much. Rory was exhausted from running around behind the counter and you were too busy thinking about whether you’d go back to the place you used to call your second home.

You took a longer shower than usual, still pondering what your night would be like. Your head was telling you to stay home but your heart pulled you in the direction of the Cut. You yearned to hear about what the future held for Pope, and listen to John B retell stories of when you were kids, and be able to stare into JJ’s bright blue eyes without him noticing. 

You changed into a pair of jean shorts and a plain red cropped tank. Rory walks into your room as your brushing out your hair and looks at you as if you lost your mind.

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t wear that,” She says.

You brows scrunch together in confusion. “What are you talking about? I wear shit like this all the time.”

“Not to the Country Club, you don’t.” That’s when it hits you. Today’s been so hectic, you forgot what day it was. “It’s Sunday.”

Sunday dinner at the Country Club is now a weekly commitment forced upon you by your grandparents. Each week, your mom, sister, and you are forced to spend one dinner with your grandma and grandpa. This is basically your mom’s payment back for sending you and Rory to Kook Academy. Only they actually pay for the dinner. It’s usually the longest two hours of your entire week. It’s hard to listen to your grandfather rant about Real Estate and your grandma slyly critique your mother in almost every aspect of her life. 

“Shit. I completely forgot,” You say.

“Well, you better change. We’re leaving in about five minutes,” Rory says then plucks a gold necklace from your dresser. “Oh and can I wear this tonight?”

You sigh. “Sure.”

You change into a baby blue wrap around dress and pin your wet hair into a half up half down due. It’s gonna have to work for the limited time you have to get ready. After applying a thin layer of makeup to look the least bit presentable, you meet your mom and sister by the front door.

“Finally,” Your mom says when she sees you. 

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was Sunday.”

“It’s okay, honey. I just don’t think I can handle another late remark from Mom today.” She looks you up and down and grins. “You look great.”

Despite the many fiery fights you and your mom can have, she is also your best friend. It’s kind of like a love hate relationship. Steve says it’s because you’re exactly like your mom - almost like a sixteen year old version of her. 

You really hope that isn’t true. You’re not ready to have a kid in two years. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Your grandparents are already sitting at a round table in the corner of the country club by the two tall windows that reach up to the ceiling with a view looking out into the golf course. The best seat in the house for the richest a holes on the island. 

“Lorelai,” Your grandmother grins, but you can instantly tell it’s sarcastic. “Did you have to walk here?”

You speak up before your mom could. “Sorry Grandma. It’s my fault we’re late.”

Your grandparents are hard on your mom but easier on you and Rory, especially Rory.

“Well, you’re here now,” Your grandpa says. He’s usually the mediator between your mom and grandma. Although he’s usually sucks at it. “Sit. Sit.”

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, JJ shuffles through his many coworkers with his apron in one hand and a piece of fried calamari from Miss Carol’s appetizer in the other. 

“JJ -” She scolds and slaps his hand away from going in for a second piece. 

“Good evening Miss Carol,” JJ smirks and makes his way to the area between the kitchen and dining room where most of the servers and bust boys hang out. Some of the boys slap him on the back or shove him by the shoulder, chuckling to themselves. “What’s going on boys? Busy crowd?”

“What are you doing here? You never work Sundays,” His friend, Mitch, says. 

Luke Maybank was behind on several bills - worse than it’s ever been. They already shut off their electricity and JJ wanted to make sure the water wouldn’t be next. 

But JJ shrugs nonchalantly. “Little extra dough can't hurt.”

“Well, you picked a good day,” Raymond walks up to the blonde, rolling his sleeves. “You got Kook Royalty and their Hybrid offsprings in your section.” 

“What?” JJ looks through the small square Plexiglas on the swinging door. He knows exactly where to look and immediately sees you sitting with King and Queen Kook, looking absolutely miserable, pushing around your food with your fork. 

“Damn, Maybank. Almost broke your neck - you turned so fast.”

“Shut up, Easterling. I was just seeing how crowded we were,” JJ lied. He really just wanted to see if you were here. And now that he sees you are, he’s a little nervous to do his own damn job.

Raymond Easterling chuckles. “Yeah, I know what you were looking at. But don’t get your hopes up. There’s a reason Kooks call that girl the Heart Sucker. Not even the high and powerful JJ Maybank could get a piece of that.”

The guys around JJ and Raymond chuckle and nod in agreement, hearing the stories of how you’d reject every single guy that’s ever asked you out. Sometimes you’d go on a few dates, trying to push yourself out of your comfort zone, but then things would quickly become too much, and you’d get overwhelmed. 

JJ didn’t like the way Raymond talked about you or how the others laughed at your expense. His hands clenched into fists, tempted to throw a punch in Ray’s cocky face.  The guy’s just being a jerk because he’s one of the guys that got rejected by you, he thought. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” JJ shakes his head and ties his apron around his waist to distract his hands.

“No?” Raymond challenges him. “You think I’m wrong? You think you could pull the infamous Hybrid over there?”

JJ glances back through the window. You’re looking at your grandma with a clearly forced grin. You’re twirling your hair between your fingers, a habit you picked up when you were little to do when you’re bored. JJ would find you doing that in school all the time. 

You’re gorgeous, he thought. It’s no wonder that almost every guy on this island has tried to make a pass on you, including JJ himself, but his remarks always come off as playful, afraid of actually telling you how he feels about you. His fantasies about you went further than just getting you between the sheets. He could picture getting married, having children, and growing old together. Years ago, the two of you would talk about your future. Neither one of you cared about money or fancy jobs. All you wanted was to be free - of this island, of each other’s families, of responsibilities placed on you from birth. You hold the same values as JJ, and he’s never met another person like you. 

But JJ has a hard exterior. No one other than his best friends know his true heart, and he wasn’t going to let someone like Raymond Easterling find out about his soft spot for you. He would never hear the end of it.

JJ looks at you one last time. You’re talking to Rory, your face in his direction. This time you’re smiling, probably discussing something other than your grandparent’s expectations of you. He’d kill to see that smile every single day.

What’s the worst that could happen? You reject him? Yeah, that might kill JJ inside, but maybe you’d still be his friend, or continue to be acquaintances like you are now. As long as he gets to see you, he’d be okay. There was always the future. But who knows? Maybe you’d say yes? He’ll never know unless he tries. Right?

JJ fakes the same cocky grin that Raymond wears. “I haven’t failed yet.”

The guys around him whistle and shake their heads with smiles. 

“All right, Maybank. Let’s make a bet. I’ll give you one hundred dollars to get Y/N Y/L/N in the sack by the fourth of July.”

JJ scoffs. “You like giving away free money?” He ignored his racing heart at the thought of being that intimate with you.

Raymond nods. “Okay. Let’s put your money where your mouth is. Get her to say ‘I love you’ by the end of the season and I’ll raise you an extra hundred and cover all your dishwasher shifts in September.”

JJ raises his brows with surprise. No one offers to take the dishwashing shift. Sometimes the boys are pulled back there when the kitchen is short staffed and it’s easily one of the worst jobs at the Club.

This bet was almost too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Deal.” JJ says.

The boys shake hands on it and the other guys whisper to each other about how intrigued they are to see this play out.

JJ wipes his sweaty palms against his apron and pushes the door open to approach your table, hoping he can hear you over his thudding heart. 

“Good evening folks. May I take those empty plates out of your way?”

You look up at the voice you know so well and a smile raises on your lips. JJ meets your eyes and he winks at you, splattering your heart in flutters. 

“Please.” Your grandmother pushes her plate away from her, stuffed with filet and red wine.

“JJ,” Your mom grins up at him. Growing up, your mom always had a soft spot for the blonde Pogue. She’s heard the stories about his father, mostly from Steve, who actually grew up with Luke Maybank, his cousin. As a child, he was sent to live with Luke Maybank and his single father. Lets just say, he’s not surprised by the way Luke turned out. “Look at you. You’re all grown up now. Last time I saw you, Y/N was still pushing your head in the sand for stealing her popsicle.”

“Yeah. I quickly learned no one should mess with Y/N and her food,” JJ says.

“Never stopped you though,” You smirk at him.

“Lorelai. Who is this?” Your grandma asks, disregarding the boy himself.

“Mom,” Lorelai gives her mom a warning look. “This is JJ Maybank. He went to school with Y/N and Rory.” Lorelai knew to play it safe with her wording. She didn’t know where you and JJ stood. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him and she knew better than to ask. 

“Nice to meet you,” JJ says politely. “I’d shake your hand but mine are kinda full.” He motions to the plates in his hand.

“That’s quite all right.” Your grandma’s smile is so forced, it makes you uncomfortable. 

“I won’t hold you up. Has your server been around with the dessert menu?” JJ looks at you. “We have chocolate cake tonight.”

Heat rushes up your neck. Not because of the cake itself but because JJ remembered your favorite dessert. Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles. It was safe to save you were a choco-holic. The boys use to make it for you every year for your birthday. It usually came out burnt, none of them ever remembering how to properly make it. But it was all you needed to feel like a very special girl. 

“Your favorite,” Rory elbows you.

Your grandma cringes. “Sounds like diabetes on a plate.”

“Mom,” Lorelai scolds. 

“What?” She asks, not understanding the concept of a filter.

Now heat rushes to your cheeks for an entire different reason. “He did. We’re not doing dessert tonight. Thank you, though.”

JJ nods but feels disappointed by the way your face flinched at your grandmother’s comment. 

“My pleasure,” He says like he was taught to do and excuses himself to drop the plates off in the back before he can say anything else that would probably get him fired.

Your mom looks at your with raised brows. “He’s cute, honey.”

“Lorelai, please. He’s the busboy,” Your grandma says.

“He’s a good kid, Mom.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” You stand up. “I have to use the restroom.”

Rory gives you a knowing grin as you walk away from the table. When you walk into the hallway between the dining area and the front lobby, you immediately feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Sometimes just the presence of your grandparents and their pompous judgements can be suffocating. You do your best to bite your tongue around them, excusing yourself when you feel yourself getting heated. 

JJ catches a glimpse of your light blue dress out of the corner of his eye when he rounds the corner to collect the plates off a different table. He looks over his shoulder at Raymond, who’s staring at the blonde watching you, and winks.

“Hey, Y/N,” JJ says, walking up to you.

You look up from your phone and immediately smile. “Hey. I was actually hoping I’d catch you out here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You nervously tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry about my grandmother. She can be...”

JJ shakes his head. “Hey. It’s okay. I work for Kooks almost every single day. I’m use to it.”

You sigh. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control,” JJ says. “Besides, that’s probably the nicest she’s ever been to me.”

You hide your face in your hands. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”

JJ laughs and takes your wrists in his hands, slowly pulling them away from your face. Your eyes shoot up to his, immediately feeling a tingling feeling run through your skin, straight to your heart. 

“It’s okay. I promise,” He says softly. His voice is so sincere that you have no other option but to believe him. It almost makes your feel guiltier, wondering how much bullshit he’s been through with ungrateful Kooks that it’s so easy for him to forgive and forget.

“Okay,” Your voice is a whisper, taken off guard by how close he is to you and how he still hasn't let go of your hands. 

In that same moment, JJ realizes he’s still holding you and gently removes his hands. He coughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his neck, where sweat begins to bubble. Why is he so nervous?

“So um...” You say, suddenly feeling nervous too. “You going to John B’s tonight?”

JJ’s eyes shoot up in surprise. How did you know that? “Yeah. I’m heading over there after work.”

“I saw him and Pope at Heywards earlier today and they invited me over. I wasn’t sure if I should come or not.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Because it’s different now, you wanted to say. But you didn’t because you feel like the elephant in the room would only grow. And you didn’t want to admit you were nervous to meet Kie and Sarah outside of school. 

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You should definitely come. The boys miss you.”

You pretend like a little piece of your heart didn’t just break when JJ didn’t say ‘we.’ 

“What time do you get off of work?”

“Around 9ish.”

You nod. “I can pick you up if you’d like and we could go together?”

Your heart races after you suggest it. What if he says no? Why were you feeling this way? This is the same kid you use to make fun of for pouring milk into his bowl before his cereal. 

“Yeah. That’d be perfect.”

“Great!” Your phone pings with a text from Rory, telling you that your grandparents are wondering where you are. “Shit. I have to get back. I’ll see you at nine?”

“See you then,” JJ nods and turns back to the kitchen. When his eyes meet Raymond’s, he’s reminded of what he agreed to. Almost surprised how quickly he forgot about it. You were able to take his mind off of anything without even trying. He clears his throat to get rid of the giddy grin he was wearing after talking to you, wanting to look tough and casual in front of his coworker. “Easy.” He says to him. But that felt anything but easy. He could vomit with nerves.

“There’s still plenty of time for you to screw up, Maybank.”

JJ huffs. He’s not wrong. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

You drive up to the front of the country club and park in front of the main entrance. It’s 8:57. You’re early and will look eager. So you wait until 9:06 to text him that you’re here.

You changed into a pair of dark washed denim shorts, a yellow cropped tube top, a grey flannel, and navy converse. You changed your outfit about four times before deciding on your first one, not wanting to look too casual or too dressed up. 

For the last three years, you wondered when the four of you would get back together as a group. You wondered if it would ever happen. And now that two Kooks are involved, you feel more nervous than excited.

You jump when the passenger seat door opens, lost in the depth of your own head. JJ smiles, not seeing your reaction.”Cool ride,” he says and looks around the interior. 

“Thanks,” you say, pulling out into the road.

“I got you something,” JJ says.

You glance at him with furrowed brows. What could he have possibly gotten you since you saw him last? A book mark from the Country Club’s gift shop?

JJ reaches into his backpack and pulls out a plate with clear wrap around it. Your mouth drops when you see the chocolate cake on a plate in his hands, the smell immediately hitting your nose with pure delight.

“You saved me a piece?” You jump in your seat excitedly.

“Had to hide it good too or else Miss Carol would have had my ass handed to me,” JJ jokes and even pulls out two forks. He undoes the wrapping and cuts off a piece. He waits until you hit a stop sign and says, “Open up.”

You look at him and immediately open your mouth. He gently places the fork between your lips and you take the piece of cake off with your teeth. Like a baby.

Your eyes close with pure pleasure. “Oh my god. That’s amazing.”

“Miss Carol does know how to bake a mean cake,” JJ says and takes a bite of his own.

“Another one,” You say, glancing at the cake again. Like you said, choco-holic. “Please.” You say when JJ teases you by holding the fork away from you.

JJ laughs. “I like hearing you beg.”

You slap him in the arm with the back of your hand. “In your dreams, Maybank.”

“You got that right, Y/L/N.”

The two of you finish the cake with only a few bites each. Small but rich in chocolate that leaves you craving more. You were gonna have to meet this Miss Carol woman. 

After he puts the plate back in his bag, JJ reaches for the aux cord, but you quickly slap his hand away. “Hey. What do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re seriously gonna make me listen to this the entire way to John B’s?”

You scoff. “I’ll have you know Blink-182 is one of my favorite bands.”

“It’s also soccer moms’ favorite band,” JJ laughs at you.

You turn up the volume, blasting ‘All the Small Things’ and point to your ear. “Sorry. Can’t hear you!”

JJ rolls his eyes but laughs along with you, even bopping his head to the beat. You drive with the windows down, dancing and singing along to a bunch of throwback songs with JJ as if the two of you have been doing this forever. 

You pull up to John B’s and park behind his dad’s old van, better known as The Twinkie. When you turn down the music, JJ looks at you with a shake in his head. “Next time, I’m driving.”

“What was wrong with my driving?”

“We’re in the Outer Banks, Sparky, not NASCAR.”

You scoff and follow behind JJ who’s leading the way up John B’s driveway. As you get closer, you smell the smoky scent of a bonfire nearby and eventually hear John B’s laugh mixed in with a female’s. Your smile falters as nerves gather in the pit of your stomach. 

“What’s wrong?” JJ asks.

“Nothing,” You say, but JJ easily catches your lie and gives you a knowing look. “What if they don’t like me?”

“Who? Pope and John B? I’m pretty sure they like you more than me even after three years -”

“Not them, you idiot,” You shove him playfully by the shoulder as you two let yourselves inside. “Sarah and Kie.”

“Don’t you go to school with them?”

“Yeah, but we don’t talk,” You say quietly, not wanting them to hear you.

“Hm.”

“What?” JJ shrugs. “Nothing. I just didn’t think you cared about what other people thought.”

“I don’t,” You say quickly. “But they're your best friends. It’s different.”

“You don’t need their approval. You technically were here first.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been replaced,” You try to say it as a joke and even throw a smirk in there. 

But JJ stops in his track and looks at you seriously. “No one can replace you. Not even if they tried.”

You open your mouth to respond, but you’re at a loss for words. It’s not a common occurrence that JJ gets all serious on you. Warmth covers you like a blanket and the longer he holds your stare, the weaker your knees become. 

“JJ! Is that you?” John B calls out from the backyard.

“Yeah,” JJ yells back. He opens the fridge in John B’s kitchen. “Want a beer?” He offers to you.

You shake your head. “No thanks.”

For the first time, you take in John B’s home. It looks the same as it did three years ago, only a lot messier. The pull out couch looks like its been used recently with blankets and sheets tossed about on it. Empty beer cans and cigarette butts are thrown messily on the coffee tables and the air smells faintly of old marijuana. 

JJ leads you out to the back where four people are gathered around a fire. Three out of the four immediately smile when the two of you approach them, but Kie’s eyes narrow and her head tilts with confusion.

Shit, you think. 

“You came!” Pope laughs and hops up from his beach chair and embraces you in a hug.

You laugh, not expecting the embrace, but welcoming it all the same. John B’s next, giving you a quick hug and shaking his head.

“I gotta say, I didn’t think you were going to come,” John B says.

“You can thank me for that later,” JJ says jokingly.

“Actually when I heard JJ was coming, I almost changed my mind and stayed home,” You joke and smirk JJ’s way.

“Just like old times,” Pope says, looking between you and the blonde. The banter felt like the yall never separated in the first place. 

“Hey, you know Sarah and Kie, right?” John B points to the girls. Sarah stands up to say hi, and eventually Kie follows her, not wanting to look rude, but stays off to the side, keeping her distance.

“Yeah,” You wave awkwardly. 

“Hey!” Sarah says sweetly. “I didn’t realize you guys use to all hang out.”

“Y/N grew up down the street,” JJ explains and sips at his beer. 

“You want a drink or something?” Pope asks you, not knowing JJ already did.

“No thank you,” You say again.

“You don’t drink?” Kie asks. It was the first thing she’s said to you.

“Not usually,” You say and hold her stare. You try to get a read on her, but she’s had to get a tell on. You can’t tell if she just doesn’t like you or just doesn’t know you. Either way, it makes you uneasy. 

“Here, I’ll go grab you a chair,” Pope says and walks to the side of the house to grab another beat up beach chair. 

As the night goes on, you feel the tension in your shoulders loosen and your body feel lighter. Most of the night was spent retelling childhood stories the four of you shared. Sarah would laugh at most of them, occasionally rolling her eyes at her boyfriend from the stupid shit he would do, although it sounds like he’s no different to you now. 

You talked about the time you and JJ stole a golf cart for a joy ride on Figure Eight, or when you and John B pranked Pope by putting a dead fish in his locker, or how you and John B learned how to play guitar from youtube tutorials. 

Midnight came around quickly and exhaustion was slowly taking over your body. It’s been a long day between the cafe flooding, dinner with your grandparents, and now this. 

JJ was the first to notice you slowly fading. 

“You okay?” He asks you quietly as everyone else is caught up in conversation. 

“Yeah,” You say, lazily grinning at him. 

“We can leave if you want,” He says.

“You’re not staying?” You ask. It sounded like everyone was planning to spend the night here. And as much as you wanted to, you just didn’t feel comfortable enough yet. 

JJ shrugs. “My dad’s out of town tonight. It’ll be nice to have the house to myself.” Before you can say anything, he stands and brushes his hands against his pants. “All right, losers. We’re out of here.”

“Aw, you’re leaving?” Sarah pouts.

“Yeah, I’m beat and Y/N’s my ride home,” JJ says.

You were glad he didn’t call you out for being tired. You didn’t want to look lame in front of everybody, especially Kie.

“Thanks for having me,” You say to everyone. It might have been John B’s house, but it was everyone’s night you intruded on.

John B stands up to hug you. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You nod. “I won’t. I promise.”

Pope hugs you next. “Text me when you get back safe.”

“I will.”

“Bye!” Sarah waves and Kie exhales a ring of smoke from her blunt.

You wave at them before following JJ back to your car. 

“Nuh-uh-uh,” JJ says. You didn’t realize you both walked to the driver’s side.

“What? No.”

JJ nods and holds his hands out for your keys. “I’m not dying tonight.” 

“You’ve been drinking and smoking all night,” You say. You didn’t think JJ was drunk or even that high, but you were not going to let a teenager with an ounce of alcohol in his system get behind the wheel. “Next time. For now, hold on to the cupholder.”

JJ sighs dramatically and goes to the other side of the car and hops in the passenger seat. 

This time you keep the music quiet, listening to the hum of the radio instead of your phone. 

“Take a left,” JJ says.

“JJ, I know where you live. And it’s not left.”

“Don’t you trust me?” 

You snicker. “Not in the slightest.”

JJ rolls his eyes. “Just take the left.”

You hold your hands up in surrender and take the left turn. He directs you for a couple more miles until he has you park in front of a 24 hour diner. 

“What are we doing here?” You ask.

“I’m in the mood for a milkshake.”

“We just had cake!” You say.

“Come on, Sparky. Show me what that mouth can do,” JJ smirks. 

You go to hit him again but he takes off running to the front entrance and pulls the door open. You chase after him, almost running into his back at the front host stand where JJ safely smirks at you in triumph.

“Two please,” He says to the hostess. 

The old cranky woman leads you to a booth off to the side next to a window without a word. 

A couple minutes later, a waitress walks by and asks if you’re ready to order. 

“Yes. One chocolate milkshake and one black and white milkshake,” JJ orders for both of you, already knowing what flavor you’d want.

“And fries, please.” You say. The waitress nods, takes your menus, and walks off. JJ raises his brow at the extra order. “What?” You shrug. “Just showing you what my mouth can do.”

JJ scoffs. “What a tease.” 

You playfully kick his shin under the table.

“Did you have fun tonight?” JJ asks.

“Yeah,” You answer. “Felt like old times. The girls are nice too.”

You were about to only mention Sarah, but you didn’t want to cause any issues with Kie. Not yet at least. Maybe she just needed time to warm up to you.

“See? I told you they wouldn’t bite.”

A couple minutes later, the waitress comes back with your milkshakes and fries. 

“How’s John B doing? You know, with the whole Big John thing?” You ask delicately, unsure of how JJ would react to you pestering about John B’s business. “I didn’t want to ask and bring the mood down,” You explain yourself although you don’t need to.

JJ shrugs. “He’s in denial I think. Won’t sign a death certificate until he sees a body. He could be worse, though.”

“Yeah,” You say softly. You don’t know what you would do if you were in that situation. In a way you felt lucky that you never knew your dad at all. It would be harder to lose him, knowing who he was.

You take a fry and dip it into your milkshake before taking a bite. This makes JJ freeze and look at you like you have two heads. 

“What?” You say with your mouth full.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” You say and give him a look to do it.

JJ reluctantly picks up the fry and dunks it into his milkshake. He looks at the fry questioningly before popping it into his mouth. Somehow the sweetness of the milkshake and the saltiness of the french fry complement each other beautifully and his widen in pleasant surprise. 

“Oh wow,” JJ says.

“Told you,” You smirk.

You spend the next hour catching up, trying to fit the last three years into an hour. JJ does most of the talking because you want to know more about what John B, Pope, and JJ have been up to. Your life was so boring and depressing, you didn’t want to bore JJ with the details.

You drive JJ home and talk for a few minutes more when you park. He seems to be procrastinating getting out of the car, but you don’t mind. You could talk to him all night, suddenly not feeling tired anymore.

“All right. I’ll let you get home before the sun rises,” He says and opens the door. He pauses when his feet hit the ground and he looks back at you. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have to work at the shop, why?”

“Well, there’s a storm coming in. John B and I might go out to surf the surge before it hits. You still surf?”

You scoff. “Do I still surf?”

JJ holds his hands up in surrender. “Just checking. You think you can handle the surge?”

“Let’s not forget who the better surfer is, JJ.”

“I didn’t. It’s still me.”

“You wish.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Now you have a point to prove. You have to show JJ that you’re still the better surfer. 

“I'll see you tomorrow,” You agree. 

“Great, it’s a date.” He winks and shuts the door before you can tell him otherwise. 

You giggle to yourself as JJ walks up the front yard and stay there until he you see he gets in safely. 

You pull out of the driveway, wishing he had asked you out on a real date. One that didn’t involve John B.

Tag list: @super-funky-bisexual​ @sunsetswithjj​ @moniamaybank​ @throwawayfish​ @poguestyle17​ @5am-cigarette​ @jjpouggues​ @fly-away-from-here​ @buckys2thicc​

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

*

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

*

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

*

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

*

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

ascendance - 18

PAIRING: mob!bucky barnes x reader

WARNINGS: age gap (reader is 23, bucky is 37)

A/N: i had to post this bc i enjoy chaos. there you go everyone xx

PREVIOUS CHAPTER - NEXT CHAPTER | MASTERLIST

The room was golden with light, candles descending from the ceiling like phantoms in the night while several pastel and golden pastries were brought out of the kitchen and into the main area. People chatted happily, mindlessly holding the flutes of champagne being brought out in silver trays, the bubbles as rising as the soft music that played in the background. This was what a small celebration meant and this was what his life was going to be. An endless rotation of cocktail parties, yet James couldn’t find himself bothered about it. After all, he was merely 18 and knew nothing of the world. He was as pure as the first fallen snow in December, as longing as a nightingale for the evening. 18 years old. He’d always wanted to be 18 years old, always wanted to go to Yale like his father, follow in the family line. Yet, now he was 18 and a few hours older and he couldn’t exactly say he felt wiser or smarter. All he felt was hopeful for the future that awaited him after graduation this summer. A whole life in front of him. Yet in the middle of all this happiness, was his mother, sat in a red chair dressed in black. One of her children was leaving to university and the other, the other had just left. 

     - She’s gonna return, mum. - James spoke out, softly enough no one but the two of them could hear. His hand rested on her shoulder and the old woman merely caressed the top of his hand, leaning against it. - She’s just acting up.

     - She’s still talking to you, isn’t she, Jamie?

     - Every night. - he lied. Truth was, he had no idea where his sister was, he hadn’t heard from her for two months now and whatever contact he tried to initiate was always a failure. Nevertheless, he lied. He lied so she could feel better. 

The night continued, the whole of his family’s inner circle celebrating the golden boy and how bright did he shine with a naive like view of the world. He’s gonna be someone, some would say, while others would merely fawn at how handsome he was. A handsome, educated man. What a deadly match. What an expected continuation dynasty. 

James happily received the praise, basking into the celebration for his 18th birthday until the phone in the living room rang. He couldn’t understand much of what was being said other than his sister’s voice and his address. Whatever it was, it was urgent. He could hear it in her voice. He quickly made his way towards that address, excusing himself from the party. Once he arrived, his stomach dropped. Something was severely off. 

The ambience was dark, badly lit by the yellow flickering lights in the halls with echoes of the buzzing of the hot old light bulbs. There was no sound but that buzz and the heavy sound of his boots hitting the rotting wood floor boards. The scent in the air was putrid, a mix of what seemed like life meeting its end stage, cheap cider and weed. It was definitely different and he didn’t trust it.

At the end of the corridor there it was. 107. The 107th flat in purgatory with the door slightly opened. He pushed the door open, the smell getting more intense and his boots sticky with the liquor spilled on the floor. 

      - What did you do? - each word was punctuated with intense disbelief, as if this was all a nightmare. 

      - Bucky, help me! - his sister stood over the body of an unconscious man yet James was much to smart to know he was not unconscious. He wasn’t breathing, he was dead. - Bucky, please. 

      - What did you do? - the same words left his mouth, intense disbelief coating them. 

What an ending to a perfect dynasty. 

~

The two of them were laying on the floor like lovesick fools, unsure of what to say to each other. Heck what could they even say? Bucky had a lot to say, he had a lot to apologise for but he couldn’t face what he felt for her. He knew it was there, eating him alive, the need to be close to her, to be the one to make her happy but he was a logical man and logic was telling him that this was nothing but both their psyche choosing to equate trauma with love. 

They were slightly far apart, so close yet so far away. He preferred it this way, a safe distance so he wouldn’t be foolish like he always was when she was around. He wondered what it’d be like. He wondered what it’d be like if he loved her, or in lack of better words, if he allowed himself to love her like he did in his own mind. He knew what it’d be like, but he preferred not to think about it. He’d be lovesick but he already was.

It was her who made the first move however, her eyes scanning his as she tried not to think about the last time they’d been in this situation. What was the use of reminiscing on the past if it’s already gone? So, with the idea this could finally be different, she extended her hand towards him. Her hand trembled as she expected rejection and in all honesty so did Bucky but he couldn’t find it in himself to deny her. He wanted to hold her hand, pure and simple. And so he did. The two of them weren’t close but their hands were linked together, bodies against the cold floor. 

      - If you’re gonna leave, can you do it after I fall asleep? 

      - I’m not gonna leave. - he promised. He meant it. - Not if you don’t want me to.

      - I want you to stay. - she didn’t like to beg, she always found begging for a lover pathetic yet, she couldn’t help but do so. She was hopelessly lost in whatever feelings she had for the man standing in front of her. 

     - Ok. 

     - Where did you grow up? 

     - Where did that question came from? 

     - I don’t know what else to say. Besides, you never really tell me anything about yourself and I’d like to know. 

     - I’m not that interesting, Y/N.

     - Try me. - she moved closer, her head leaning against his arm. 

     - I was born in Connecticut but I grew up in New York. My father was a politician and my mother was an historian. I have a younger sister who got married and had a kid. That enough for you?

     - Your father was a politician and you ended up here? Is it like the mob movies?

     - No. - he chuckled. - Change of plans, I guess. 

     - You told me about your family but you’re not telling me about you. I wanna know about you.

     - There’s nothing to know about me. Tell me about you.

     - There’s nothing to know about me either.

     - That’s not true. - he looked at her completely. That kid-like face as if she trusted him and she did. The worse part was that she did trust him. Why did she trust him? - Where did you grow up?

     - Don’t change the topic. Tell me about you, what do you like?

     - I don’t know what I like. I like being alone and unbothered.

     - Come on, be serious. If you could have anything in the world, the deepest thing your heart desired, no matter what ... what would you have? What would you want?

Bucky thought about that question. What would he want? Well, if she’d asked him that a few years ago he’d know the answer; he wanted his life back. However, he was no longer eighteen, heck, she was closer to that age than he was and the kid whom he used to be no longer inhabited his being. Sometimes he could see him in his small hopes yet he’d done too much harm to the world to be that kid again. Besides, would he even like his old life now that he was broken? A monster awaiting judgment day? Bucky didn’t know. He didn’t like to think about it. But what could he want if he was ... normal? What did he most wanted right now in this very moment? It was hard to say, he’d never been asked what he wanted. He’d been told what to do, never what he wanted to do. Maybe she knew what she wanted but Bucky had to think long and hard about that question. Despite this, his heart, the only thing which somehow was not completely hollow after all these years did know what he wanted. He knew what he wanted the moment he first saw it, 3 years ago, with innocent eyes and aa bright smile. What he wanted was ...

     - I would have you. 

TAGLIST + BEA’S MOOTS (sorry moots, it is I here to annoy you): @lookiamtrying​ @buckyswillow​ @blossomslibrary​ @juliesland​ @iloveshawnieboi​ @unmagically​ @red-head011 @poisonous00​ @boofy1998​  @starbuckie​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​ @yosoysere​ @hungryyeyes​  @luckyfiction17​ @keito-123​ @everythingisoverrated​

[ginanosakka]

Mistakes Were Made

Masterlist

You’re Wrong | Next

“Ryu. .” You trailed off but you couldn’t find the words that would stop the tears pooling in his eyes.

He looked so hurt.

“Tell me, mom! Is Dynamight my dad?!” Ryu yelled, the tears finally spilling over as he pointed an accusing finger at you.

You looked at Katsuki who looked just as lost as distraught as you did, his attention never leaving Ryu despite him not even looking at him. You were baffled in this situation; how did you become the villain again? You spent six years bettering yourself and doing all you could do to be the best mom for Ryu, but all it took was Katsuki coming into the picture to flip the script back to the original plot: the plot where everyone was against you.

“Yes, he’s your dad. . but you don’t understand-“ Ryu cut you off.

“I don’t understand what?! That you were lying about my dad?! He’s right here and he does want to meet me!” He yelled, and as blindsided as you were by this situation you still were his mother and he was getting out of control. It could easily cause him to react with his quirk out of impulse knowing the temper he inherited, and you’d be damned if Ryu talked to you like Katsuki talks to everyone else.

“Ryu L/N,” you snapped in a harsh tone. “I can understand that you’re very upset right now, but I won’t accept you speaking like you've lost your mind and forgotten that I am your mother.”

When you finished speaking the room fell silent. Ryu’s head bowed but you could see the tears hit the kitchen floor. This was all what you were trying to avoid with Katsuki and Ryu, all this frustration and anger that you wanted to brush under the rug has blown up, and you were on the receiving end of the blast. Looking at Katsuki, he just seemed to be watching deep in thought now rather than lost while watching you parent, but there was a look in his eyes after you said his full name that could only be described as discontent.

You sighed and rubbed your temple, “I think we should-“

“I hate you.”

With your heart in pieces in your hands and tears heavy in your eyes, you stormed into your father’s office heaving from the squeezing in your lungs. Your disheveled appearance shocked him enough to stop the paperwork he was doing, something that was a near impossible task, but that meant so little to you now that you’d think you never yearned for his attention in the first place.

“Why did you do it?” You asked, not waiting a second to let him compose himself.

Your father’s brows furrowed, “do what, sweetheart?”

“You bought them all. Everyone. . They only talked to me because you bribed them, they used me because of you!” You raised your voice, stalking closer to his desk and staring dead into his eyes despite the tears that were blurring your vision.

“Y/N. . . it’s not what you think-“ you cut him off.

“I think you ruined my life, and for what?! Am I always going to be some incapable child to you?! You expect me..,” you paused as a sob bursted through your lungs. “You expect me to be like mom and stay in your shadow forever. . I’m not going to do it.”

The only sound in the room was your sobs while you wiped away your tears aggressively to see him stand with an unimpressed look on his face. He was always so gentle with you, treating you like a delicate dove he locked in a golden cage, but in moments it seems like the cage was broken up and you were set free to see everything hidden before. Everything your father kept hidden in plain sight from you through money and affection was now visible, and you were scared and wounded by what you were seeing.

“I can apologize for buying your friends and that boy you like so much, but it seems you’ve forgotten your place. As long as my money and sacrifice is what keeps you warm at night and gives you a future you’d never even be able to comprehend on your own, you’ll do what I say and I won’t hear another word about it.” Your father commanded, his voice booming in the room and causing you to tighten your hands into fists. “Now, how about you go ask your mother to take you shopping to feel better? I’ll find you some new friends-“

“I hate you!” You cried, his words finally pushing you over the edge.

You didn’t want new friends that were bought for you, the fake meteorites you had were already haunting you. Every moment spent with Mina was like some forced business interaction to her, but to you it was your happiness. The love you had for Katsuki was probably a chore for him like he was working some part time job, and now he finally quit and told the truth; the truth of how gullible and brainwashed you were. No one cared about you, you were a pawn even to your own parents, and the moment you decided you didn’t want to play anymore you’d likely be on your own and disowned.

‘I’ll never forgive you, father.’

“Y/N! Y/N!” You blinked back to reality where Katsuki had you by the shoulders shaking you as gently as he could with his naturally rough nature.

Katsuki jumped into the scene when those words fell from Ryu’s mouth, telling him how it wasn’t right and he should apologize as calmly as he could. It wasn’t like the little blonde boy needed a lecture from his twin by blood, he looked like he regretted it the moment he said it. Katsuki half expected you to attack the child like his mother did to him, her ruthless tactics still haunting his brain to this very day, but he could tell you were nothing like that. He hadn’t been around you long, but your world was so obviously centered around his son that it made his stomach turn when he thought about what he said about taking him away from you.

What he didn’t expect whatsoever was for you to completely space out in front of them, staring into the wall with such a pained expression he was worried you were somehow physically wounded by Ryu. The boy himself was in tears again while looking at you, wondering if he had hurt his mommy so bad that she couldn’t take it.

“Take him. Take Ryu with you to your home and take care of him for me. . okay?” You said blankly, even with the numbness that spread over your body you still cared about what happened to your son.

Bakugou nearly had a heart attack at your words, the panic of taking care of his child on his own when he just met them was nerve wracking, and he couldn’t comprehend what was going through your brain to trust him to do that. You looked so drained compared to mere minutes ago, and the hero in him was kicking into overdrive to save you from whatever the hell was going on inside your head.

“Don’t be stupid, dammit! I thought you were a good mother-“ Katsuki had never been silenced by a simple touch until your soft, warm hands grabbed onto his wrists that were still on your shoulders and looked him in the eyes showing how tired you were.

‘How is she doing this again?’ He thought angrily, the way his heart began to race the way it did when he was a teenager conflicting him once again.

“Please.” Was the only word that fell from your lips before you pried his arms off you and walked past him and Ryu out of the kitchen to your bedroom.

Katsuki stood there for a moment, unsure of where to go from here but knowing either way he’d be taking the kid he’d been waiting to see home with him. Ryu, no matter how upset he still was with you, was worried about that look on your face he’d never seen you make. The past and the present had finally met, and everything was becoming unclear and feelings were overwhelming. Luckily, if Katsuki learned anything from his mistakes in life; it was that there was always a way to make a better future.

Even if he didn’t know who you were anymore, or where that spoiled princess went, he was going to put everything he had into making this life work.

“Let’s get you home, kid.”

A/N: This took way too long for the length it is but the holidays have me working overtime. I hope you guys like it, and hopefully the next update will be a lengthy one by next week!

Also... THANK YOU FOR 100 FOLLOWERS <3!!!!!!!!!!

Taglist <3 : @fandomgirllover @cloudsgathering @that-bipolar-renegade-romantic @jazzylove @that-chick212 @bonbonthedragon @misssugarless @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @bakugous-bakahoe @pinkykookie17 @animexholic @arielting @samkysnks @simpforeveryone @damnirina @fireworkemoji102 @deneuves @tsumuuumiyaaaa @ladybeautiful18 @vintage-teddyxo @regalmigraine @samvmgh @iamagalaxy @officialtrashbusiness @xwackk @videogameboiwhowins @marajillana @ellasdilemma @plutoneu @saucey-kneecapzz42020 @thestarsanctuary @star-light-imagines

[alwaysachorusgirl]

Cat Moms Included

Pairing: Frederick Chilton x FemReader

Word Count: 1,862

For: @storiesofsvu 1 Year Anniversary Bingo

Square: Mother's/Father's Day

TW: none really, briefly implied smut, but mostly tooth-rotting fluff

A/N: Yes, I know I'm a bit late for Mother's Day, but hey, I got something done! Cat Daddy Frederick and Buttercup are back, and they brought a whole lot of fluff with them. As always, if anyone wants to be tagged in a future fic post, please let me know!

Tags: @madamsnape921; @itsjustmyfantasyroom; @prurientpuddlejumper; @thatesqcrush; @raulesparza4eva; @teamsladsandgents; @welcometothemxdhouse

Frederick was awoken by a gentle pressure on his chest and a small wet nose nuzzling his own. His eyes fluttered open to see Buttercup’s furry face gazing back at him. She rubbed her face against his chin.

“Mew?”

“Good morning to you, too, sweetheart,” he said softly to the growing kitten. “I suppose you want breakfast?”

“Mew.”

“Okay then,” Frederick chuckled, giving her a little scratch between her ears. “You’re going to have to move so I can get up and freshen up first.” Buttercup let out a huff, but reluctantly padded down to the end of the bed and sat down.

Now came the hard apart. Frederick cast his eyes to you. You were curled up next to him, still asleep, using him as your pillow with one arm draped across his torso. One of his arms was wrapped around you, making sure that you didn’t drift away from him during the night. And you were still both very naked from the previous night’s activities. Frederick brushed a wisp of hair out of your face with his free hand, and his heart swelled with love when you sighed contentedly in your sleep and a soft smile crept across your lips. The last thing he wanted to do was tear himself away from your side. But if he wanted to feed Buttercup and prepare the final part of your surprise, he was going to have to.

He slowly and carefully extracted himself from your limbs, thanking his lucky stars that you were a sound sleeper. All the while Buttercup was staring him down and flicking her tail impatiently. He moved to the dresser, pulling out a clean pair of briefs, pajama pants, and a t-shirt, and headed to the en-suite bathroom to dress and brush his teeth. When he was done freshening up and dressed, he stepped back out into the bedroom, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Darling! I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Hmm?” You looked up at him through dreamy half-lidded eyes, cuddling Buttercup. “Oh, no, my sweet girl just wanted to cuddle with her mommy, isn’t that right sweetie?” Buttercup just purred and rubbed her head against your cheek.

“Or she’s trying to coerce you into a second breakfast,” said Frederick with a sigh.

“Mew?” Buttercup whipped her head around at the sound of the word “Breakfast”.

“Yes, I’m still going to feed you. Now, come along and let your mother go back to sleep.” Buttercup swiftly stood and leapt from the bed down to the floor. Frederick looked back you lovingly. “I’ve got this, my love, you rest and stay right here. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? For me?” Your eyes went wide. “Frederick, you shouldn’t. You already spoil me far too much.”

Frederick walked to the edge of the bed and cupped your face in his hands. “You, my exquisite angel, deserve to be spoiled every day. And I fully intend to spend the rest of my life doing just that.” His lips found yours, melding perfectly with them, just like always. You moaned into the kiss and grabbed his t-shirt, trying to pull him closer. Frederick chuckled at this and gently pulled away, drawing a whine from you. “There will be plenty of time for that later, my love, but first, your surprise, and believe it or not, Buttercup helped.”

You giggled at that and glanced down at you fur baby. “Oh, did she now?”

“Mew.”

“She did indeed,” answered Frederick, “and I just need you to stay right here and don’t come downstairs, regardless of what you might hear or smell.”

“I’m extremely concerned, but I can do that.” You kissed him one more time. “You and Buttercup go do whatever it is you need to do; I need to use the bathroom.”

Buttercup jumped off the bed as Frederick took your hand helped you stand. He sucked in a breath at the sight of your still naked body, awestruck by your beauty. It didn’t go unnoticed by you, and you made a point of teasing your lover, making it impossible for him to not stare at your ass as you bent over to pick your green silk robe up off the floor.

“Like what you see, Frederick?” You slung the robe over your shoulder and swayed your hips as you sauntered toward the bathroom.

“You minx, you know perfectly well that I can never get enough.”

“Well, I guess you’d better hurry back then.” You gave him a suggestive look over your shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.

Frederick released a breath and looked down at Buttercup. “Let’s get to work then, shall we?”

*********************

You took your time brushing your teeth and washing your face. You were incessantly curious as to what Frederick and Buttercup were up to. As far as you knew, it wasn’t a special occasion. Not that Frederick needed one as an excuse to spoil you. He did so every chance he got. You did your best to do the same for him. It just seemed odd. The both of you always slept in on Sunday mornings. Even if Buttercup woke you up demanding breakfast, you were usually the one to get up and feed her, always coming right back to the comfort of Frederick’s arms after she was settled. You brushed your hair out and exited the bathroom. You would know soon enough what your dear, sweet man had up his sleeve.

***********************

After putting down fresh food and water for Buttercup, Frederick washed his hands, started brewing a fresh pot of your favorite coffee, and got to work. He had gotten out the waffle iron (and its instruction manual) and set it up on the counter the night before. He began pulling additional items from the cabinets and refrigerator one-by-one: a mixing bowl, waffle mix, a whisk, measuring cups, vegetable oil, eggs, chocolate chips, fresh strawberries, whipped cream, butter, syrup, and non-stick cooking spray. He opened the waffle iron and made sure the heart shaped mold was still securely attached, then closed it, plugged it in, and pushed the button to pre-heat.

He then got to work with measuring and mixing. He followed the instructions on the box of waffle mix, doing everything in the same order that you always did. He even used your method for cracking eggs, counting to three before swiftly cracking the shell on the edge of the bowl. He had been practicing with you for months. You loved waffles, and he had wanted to be able to make them for you. It had started with him observing and taking notes, but you insisted that when it came to cooking, you had to learn by doing. And so, you had given him a task and provided him with plenty of encouragement and praise. And you never yelled or belittled him when he made mistakes. You would always reassure him and the two of you would figure out a way to fix it.

“Mew,” Buttercup interrupted his train of thought. He glanced down and smiled at her, then chuckled as he saw her crouch down, wiggle her backside, then leap from the floor to the countertop.

“You’re getting good at that,” he remarked, “a month ago you still needed a chair to help you get all the way up. You’re getting bigger and stronger every day.”

“Mew,” replied Buttercup. “Mew?”

“Yes, I’m cooking without supervision. It’s all part of our plan to surprise Mommy, remember?”

“Mew?”

“Yes, I know what I’m doing.” Frederick finished whisking the waffle batter and verified that the waffle iron was hot and ready to go. He opened it and carefully and sprayed it with the non-stick cooking spray, and then used a measuring cup to pour the batter into the mold. He then closed the device and flipped it over, activating the built-in timer. He moved to busy himself with slicing up the strawberries while waiting.

“Mew?”

“Yes, I signed your name on the card.”

“Mew?”

“Yes, your gift is all wrapped and hiding in the bedroom closet.”

“Mew, mew?”

“Yes, I know I left my cane upstairs. I’ll be okay without it. And yes, I can get the tray upstairs without dropping it. I practiced while Mommy was at the store yesterday.”

The waffle maker started beeping and Frederick flipped it over and opened it. A heart shaped, golden brown chocolate chip waffle sat in the center of it, and Frederick grinned, quite please with himself. He used a fork to lift it out of the machine and onto a plate. He looked over at Buttercup, who appeared to be rather impressed.

“Not bad for “unsupervised”, eh? What do you say we try another one?”

*********************

You were lounging in bed in the silk pajamas that Frederick had bought you for Christmas, a copy of Jane Austen’s “Northanger Abbey” in hand. Frederick and Buttercup had not yet returned, and your curiosity gnawed at you with every passing moment. Your stomach growled for the umpteenth time. If they didn’t return soon you going to march down into the kitchen and devour whatever you found in the fridge. But then you heard the sound of feet padding steadily up the stairs, and sound of Frederick’s voice telling Buttercup to go on ahead. You put down your book as you saw Buttercup come trotting into the room. She leapt up onto the bed and made herself comfortable in your open arms. You kissed the top of her head and she purred contentedly.

“There’s my sweet baby, did you have fun with Daddy?”

“I would say so, “said Frederick, entering the room with a try of food, coffee, and cranberry juice.

“Frederick, what’s all this?” You sat up as Frederick made his way over to the bed, carefully placing the tray across your lap. Your mouth watered at the sight of the waffles, topped with butter, syrup, strawberries, and whipped cream.

“It’s for you, my love, Happy Mother’s Day,” replied Frederick, kissing your cheek.

“Mother’s Day? But Frederick we don’t- “

“It’s been expanded to include pet moms, and that means you,” said Frederick matter-of-factly. “And Buttercup agrees with me, don’t you sweetheart?”

“Mew,” said Buttercup, nuzzling your cheek with her nose.

You felt yourself getting misty eyed, your heart swelling with emotions. “Oh Frederick, thank you, it’s perfect. Now, come here.” You patted the spot next to you and pulled Frederick in for a kiss as he sat down next to you. “I love you, Frederick.”

“I love you, too, darling. Now, dig in.” He indicated the waffles, and you quickly picked the knife and fork and did so.

“Mmm… Frederick these are amazing! You did wonderful job, my love.”

“Thank you, my darling, I had an expert teacher.”

“Mew?” You saw Buttercup eyeing the plate hungrily, licking her chops. You put a small dollop of whipped cream on your finger and held it out to her. She eagerly lapped it up. You giggled and placed another kiss on her head. “Such a silly girl.”

And with that, you settled in, content to enjoy your breakfast and spend the day relaxing with your beloved boyfriend and fur baby.

[everlarkficexchange]

Just Close Your Eyes, You'll Be Alright

Written by: @alliswell21

Prompt 154: Soulmate au where your soulmates injuries and scars show up on your body tinted in their favorite color. Katniss through the years as she discovers new marks, pondering what it could possibly be, finally figuring out that her soulmate is being hurt way too regularly and in very specific places. Do her parents figure out Peeta is being abused? How do they find and “rescue” him? Or does Peeta live his whole childhood being abused before turning 18? Does he runaway? How do he and Katniss find their way to one another? [submitted by @lovely-tothe-bone / @peetamewllark]

Teen and up

AU- Modern setting (but like without cell phones). One Shot. 

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Language, child abuse and neglect, injuries, implied (non-descriptive) underage smut. Nobody dies! Unbetaed. 

-lyrics of Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift, Feat. The Civil Wars - Songs from District 12 and Beyond (2012)

Author’s note: Thank you to @lovely-tothe-bone for her inspiring prompt and to the organizers of EFE, for bringing the challenge back so faithfully, you ladies rock! 

KPKPKPKP

“Look at her!” Papa screeched at the policeman, lifting the back of my favorite pink polka dotted shirt. “You have to do something about this, Sheriff Cray!” Papa demanded, angrily.

  The man just watched, like he didn’t care. Then sat back down lazily, “There’s nothing much I can do, to be honest. Unless you can produce the child sporting the actual bruises, my hands are tied.” Said the policeman.

  I had no idea what the problem was, I felt fine, but ever since my 5th birthday, every time Mama helped me out of my day clothes for my bath, she wept and held me close to her chest, whispering “No child deserves to be treated so poorly,”

  Papa too always made a face and looked sad and angry when Mama showed him my back after my baths. 

  It was funny how bath time could easily be my favorite time of day, but it made the grown ups upset somehow. I just liked that mama would rub ointments on my back, bottom and thighs, carefully and without fuzzing about the time she was spending away from my baby sister, Primrose. Is not that I didn’t like Prim— I thought she was as lovely as a doll— I didn’t mind sharing mama’s snuggles with her either, but it was nice to just feel mama’s warm hands caressing me to sleep every now and then. 

  Either way, I wished someone would tell me what was so wrong with my behind that had the grown ups acting so weird. 

  They were starting to scare me, really.

  “There has to be something we can do! There are genetic tests to determine matchless people, couldn’t we use the same technology to find the markers matching my daughter’s counterpart to identify him?” 

  “Mr. Everdeen, I’m not a geneticist. I wouldn’t know about anything like it… and who’s to say we could use it to find your girl’s soulmate? Then we what? It’ll open an unknown Pandora’s box situation, people would start tracking soulmates illegally or something less than honorable. It’ll certainly set a precedent we cannot foresee the ramifications of!”

  “You’re telling me that there’s some kid out there, somewhere, getting beaten week in and week out, and you’ll do nothing about it?! You’ll allow the abuse to continue uninterrupted?” 

  The man nodded slowly, “You said it yourself, Mr. Everdeen. The kid’s ‘out there, somewhere’, we don’t even know if he’s local, or his age. In any case, I only have jurisdiction over District 12, and I can’t very well launch a country wide investigation on an alleged case of abuse, specially if  we have no victim,”

  “But my daughter’s soulmate is suffering! Who knows what permanent damage this poor child may have as an adult! It’s my daughter’s future we’re talking about!”

  “Most unfortunate, sir. I don’t wanna seem unsympathetic, Mr. Everdeen, but unless your little girl can figure out a way to communicate with her soulmate, find… an address— at the very least a name— there isn’t anything we can do to help.”

  Papa huffed, his nose flared, “Fine. Thank you for your consideration…Sheriff.” Papa put his big ol’ hand on my shoulder and guided me away, “Come on Katniss, it’s time to go home.”

  I looked up at Papa and reached for his hand. I smiled at him, “It’s okay, Papa. Mama says to give grumpy people time, and they may be nicer the next time we talk to them.”

  Papa smiled at me, but it didn’t crinkled the corner of his eyes, like real smiles did, “That’s nice sweetie… although, that usually only applies to people just waking up from naps, like you and me,”

  I giggled when he picked me up and tickled my tummy. 

  Papa kept talking to grown ups about my back, but nothing was ever done about it. 

  ———————-

I was 11 when our world pitched upside down. 

  Papa was one the foramen on shift at the town’s coal mine when the earth shifted and an entire tunnel collapsed. 

  Prim and I were in school when the sirens went off. There’s nothing worse than to hear the end of your world being advertised so loudly and without mercy. 

  I grabbed my sister’s hand and rushed to the mines; we found our mother there, clinging to the yellow tape cordoning off the site. 

  I should’ve known something wasn’t right when I was the one seeking Mama out, trying to comfort her, instead of the other way around. It was the first time the concept of a soulmate stopped being an abstract notion, and became a reality, because my mother stopped functioning altogether the moment she realized Papa had been hurt.

  I saw how much a soulmate could affect you. It wasn’t only the marks on the skin— those came without conscious pain— it was the fear of knowing that someone you loved was hurting, sometimes badly, and not being able to do anything about it. 

  Mama’s left leg started glowing pink from the shin down at first, and the color began to shift to a darker red the longer Papa laid underground. 

  Unbeknownst to us, my father had been pinned under fallen rock and dirt after pushing a man to safety, risking his own life. The sharp end of a pickax perforated Papa’s leg in the cave-in. The pickaxe worked as a plug, keeping him from bleeding out while he waited for the rescue crew to reach him. 

  Papa laid on the floor of the very last lift to surface with rescued miners. He was unconscious. Had suffered extensive blood loss. The lone medic in the rescue crew couldn’t fix him up right away, but Mama was a nurse, and like a switch flipping on, she ripped off the bottom of her skirt, and tied a tourniquet around my father’s thigh, saving his life at the cost of his limb. 

  My father lived, but his leg had to be amputated. 

  He couldn’t work in the mines anymore, and what little money we got as compensation from his injuries, were put into paying off the mortgage, because Papa decided that having a roof over his family’s heads was far more important than having a leg. 

  The rub was, a roof didn’t fill our stomachs or put a coat around Prim’s shivering shoulders. Mama put a hold on her nursing career, obsessing over Papa’s care, despite his protests. Someone had to pick up the pieces, and that someone turned to be me. 

  I started selling everything I could carry out of the house in my arms: tools, kitchen appliances, small furniture, etc. But we never had many possessions to begin with, so my wares ran out soon, and I turned to our closets for their meager treasures.

  I sold my parents best clothes, along with my sister’s winter boots that didn’t fit her anymore. I looked at my own shoes with longing, but put them into Primrose’s shoe rack, deciding I could manage with Mama’s boots, if I stuffed them with newspaper. Mama never left the house anyway. Neither did Papa for that matter, but he wasn’t dead, just convalescencing, so I left him a pair of footwear just in case, and sold his work boots and his Sunday loafers. 

  The day I was down to the last pair of clothing, we had been slurping on mint tea for the third day in a row from a few old leaves I found in the very back of the pantry. It was the last of our food, besides Papa’s bland diet, but I refused to let on on how precariously stocked we were, until absolutely necessary.

  But, nobody wanted the hand-me-down baby clothes I had for sale, nor the slightly beaten stroller I was pushing around with my ‘merchandise’. 

  Icy cold rain, soaked me to the bone. I was so tired and downtrodden, I ran to the first awning I found, unwilling to go back home to Prim’s sunken blue eyes and chapped lips, asking for something to eat, while my hands were empty. 

  I tripped and fell face first on the umbrella stroller, breaking it irreparably and soiling the few onesies I’d been trying to sell. 

  With my wares ruined, and winded by a sharp pain shooting through my elbow, I limped towards a scraggly apple tree a few feet away. I recognized the place as the alley behind the town’s bakery, just by the smell alone. 

  I cupped my elbow, wondering if I’d broken it or merely banged it up? That’s when I saw the dumpster. 

  Big ugly thing, dirty and smelly. I climbed a wooden crate to dig for anything edible inside, but before I could lift the lid, a screeching voice shouted at me.

  “Get out of there, Seam brat!” 

  I jumped off the crate, startled, and cowed behind the dumpster when I saw the baker’s grumpy wife sneering at me from the warmth of her kitchen’s back door. 

  A boy about my age— I recognized him as one of my classmates from school— peeked his towheaded face around the woman, and although they were a good five yards away, I could see his blue eyes widened as he took me in. The boy slipped back inside, as his mother spewed threats of calling the police on me and whatnot.

  I started debating whether I wanted to trace back and drag my broken stroller over; pretend I was merely trying to dump it in the garbage, while inspecting the trash for food… but the baker’s wife was nicknamed the Witch by all the neighborhood children for a reason. 

  Before my mind was made, a loud, metallic bang resonated into the street from inside the bakery. Yelling ensued, then the sound of a meaty hand against a small face. 

  A few seconds later, the witch was chasing the boy out the back door, “Toss it in the trash, you stupid creature! Nobody will pay money for burnt bread anyway!” 

  The boy scurried by with his head down. 

  My eyes stuck on the bread in his hands, was probably the reason I missed the shiner under his eye. He stopped right in front of the dumpster, but instead of throwing the ruined loaves in, he tossed them in my direction. 

  I didn’t wait around to ask if he meant for me to grab them. I just scooped them up and fled like a bat out of heck. 

  When I got home, Mama gasped in horror. She grabbed me by the shoulders and pressed me to her chest. “Oh no! It’s getting worse. They don’t even care to hide the bruises anymore!” 

  Mama lathered my face with all the medicinal herbs she had at hand, while apologizing profusely for abandoning me and Prim to our own devices. She vowed to find a job, and to take better care of us. 

  “No child should ever suffer like this!” I couldn’t tell if she meant Prim and I, or whoever my soulmate was.

  Mama interrogated me about my whereabouts and how I came upon the bread in my arms, but she seemed to rest easier after a while. 

  When I was finally able to look at my face in the mirror, I was horror struck by the deep orange bruise swelling under my eye. It took three days for the bruise to go away completely even with mama’s careful fingers.

  Coincidentally, the baker’s son didn’t show up to school for the next four days. By the time he did, I had lost any confidence in myself to go up to him and thank him for the bread that fed us for a few days; the loaves were perfect! Only the crust had been charred, but I had a hunch the boy knew that when he threw the bread to me; I was also convinced he burned the bread on purpose, I was just too chicken to ask him why? Which made it even harder to hold his gaze when we crossed each other in the school hallways. 

  All I knew was that because of the selfless actions of the boy in my year at school, my mother seemed to wake from her single minded obsession. The boy with the bread gave our family a sense of hope, despite the fact that it would take some time for Mama to find work and produce enough money for the family. Papa’s medical needs had to be met as well, and he was due a new leg. 

  While those thoughts churned in my head, my eyes focused on a bright yellow bloom across the school yard. The first dandelion of the season! I picked the cheerful blossom, and the idea on how to feed my family until Mama was back on her feet, came to me. 

  After school, I took Prim’s hand and a clean bucket in the other; together we scoured the yard and the woods nearby for all the dandelions we could fit in the bucket. That night, we gorged ourselves on dandelion salad, and the next day, I pulled from under my parent’s bed, the only thing of value we had left in the house, Papa’s hunting bow. 

  “Are you sure you can handle it, pumpkin?” My father asked, watching me carefully.

  “You taught me how to do it,” I said, trying to hide my nerves.

  “I taught you with a smaller bow,” he pointed out, “why don’t use yours?”

  I shouldered the heavy bow, and took a few loose arrows in my hand, “I sold it. These are all we have left now,”

  After a handful of days practicing, I actually shot  something worth eating. Seeing my mother’s blue eyes pop in surprise when I dropped the dead rabbit on the table, was priceless. 

  ——————-

  One early morning, right before summer break, I happened across another hunter… a trapper, to be precise. 

  A lanky, scowling boy, with three fat bunnies tied to his belt, and a fourth hanging in the air by a simple— yet elegant— wire snare. 

  I’d seen his traps before, his prey with their dead eyes and lolling tongues, just high enough off the ground to keep other animals from taking off with them. Papa told me that hunter etiquette was to be observed; if I happened across a trap that wasn’t mine, I was not to touch it, out of respect for my fellow hunters. That still didn’t discourage me from looking! After all, the snares looked like works of art, and I had no idea how to set any on my own.

  “Stealing is a punishable offense, you know,” Snapped the boy, and suddenly I realized just how tall he was. 

  From up close, I could see the beginning of some stubble under his chin. 

  “I wasn’t gonna take it…” I stepped away from the twitching bunny, with my hands raised in surrender. “Admiring your work, that’s all. By the way, I’m Katniss Everdeen, what’s your name?” I asked, trying to be friendly. 

  “Name’s Gale. Hawthorne. So… you know how to use the thing hanging from your back, Catnip, or is that just for show?” He practically bumped me onto my butt, stepping passed me while pulling a knife from his belt to cut his kill down. He turned to watch me, smirking. “That thing looks bigger than you, are you sure you can lift it up?”

  I scowled at him, wondering if he was expecting to see me squirm or something. I was smaller than the average 12 year old, but I was fast and scrappy. 

  “My name is KatNISS. I can shoot my own food thank you very much,” I held my bow aloft and moved so he could see my quiver full of arrows, “my weapons aren’t props or fakes,” I said, haughtily.

  “Yeah, well, it still looks bigger than you,”

  I rolled my eyes, fed up. Any other time I’d meekly shy away, and let him be; but I was feeling stubborn and confrontational, so I pulled my bow, nocked an arrow and let it fly, all in a fluid motion. 

  Gale gaped with a hint of fear in his gray eyes. 

  I felt smug and satisfied. 

  I wasn’t aiming at anything in particular, I just wanted the obnoxious boy to shut it, but by a stroke of luck my arrow pierced a falling leaf, and imbedded itself deep into the knot of a gnarly looking tree trunk. 

  “Wow! That was amazing, Catnip!” Gale said in awe. 

  “It’s Katniss… I’m okay, my father was better,” I said, puffing my chest a little, “I haven’t managed stealth yet, not like Papa before the accident, anyway. He doesn’t hunt anymore.”

  Gale frowned. “Was your dad in the cave-in?” He asked grimly.

  I nodded. 

  “So was mine. He almost didn’t make it.”

  “Same.”

  He just stood there, staring at the ground for a moment, then I tried to play cool, “Hey, I’d be willing to spare some shooting lessons, in exchange for some snaring techniques,” 

  Gale watched me, intently. He finally nodded and stuck his hand out for me to shake, “Deal!” 

  I smiled. Papa always said that good hunting partners were hard to find, and while I didn’t want a new hunting partner— I already had my father!— I could always exchange knowledge with a fellow hunter and improve my game. 

——————-

Papa was fitted with a basic prosthetic leg. He couldn’t run or swim with it, but having the ability to walk without crutches gave him a “new lease in life”, as he called it. 

  He found work doing odd jobs for Haymitch Abernathy, a hermit drunk, with more money than he knew what to do with, and no family to spend it on. The man needed someone to talk to every now and then, and seeing as he and my father were close in age, they developed a strange rapport between them. 

  Still, Papa wasn’t completely confident with his fake leg, no matter how many physical therapies he attended; he still walked with a pronounced limp. Yet, he always had a word of comfort for Mama. 

  My mother often blamed herself for Papa’s disability. 

  He’d tell her that she did the right thing, that it was thanks to her torniquete he was still alive, and she should never doubt her own healing skills. But every now and then, my mother would catch a glance of her permanently grey skinned leg, and silent tears would slide down her exhausted, pretty face.

  By then, I was old enough to know that the soft orange marks hidden under my clothes, meant a kid somewhere in Panem, probably my age, was getting beaten on a regular basis. It was sad to think about, but I’d grown so used to the marks, they felt like a distant happening without a meaningful connection to me. The bruises were there… just shy of a shirt sleeve, or around mid thigh, where they could be concealed by shorts; the way I saw them, they were like oversized freckles that came and went. A nuisance. That’s why watching my mother weep over her shadowy leg, was always unnerving and a little odd. 

  Was I supposed to despair the same way she did over my own soulmate marks? Was I broken or heartless if I didn’t feel as strongly? 

  Until I saw my mother’s grief over her soulmate’s leg, it didn’t register to me just how much the orange bruises were supposed to affect me. 

  I started to think if I wasn’t any better than the person dispensing the punches.

  One day, I was leaning on my parents bedroom door, watching Mama applying soothing oils to her gray leg with the utmost love and care.

  “Why do you rub so much medicine on your leg? It doesn’t seem to be bringing back your normal color,” I asked, staring where her fingers massaged into her flesh. 

  Mama stopped and called me over, to stand on her side of the bed. 

  “Papa is fast asleep, do you see?” She pointed out, kindly.

  I looked past her shoulder, where my father was sprawled on the mattress on his stomach, dead to the world. 

  I nodded.

  Mama smiled, “Do you remember all we’ve told you about soulmates? I’m sure they’ve taught you at school other stuff as well,” 

  Again, I nodded, just a little puzzled. “Soulmates have a very strong bond. They can’t feel when the other hurts, but they can see the marks, tinted in their favorite colors. That’s how we identify our soulmates, because we match and they can see themselves reflected back.” 

  “Exactly.” Said my mother, beaming. “Now, your papa and I are soulmates, and we love each other very much. When Papa’s leg was separated from his body, my body reflected that loss, despite still retaining my own leg. We match. The one thing most people don’t seem to realize, is that the connection goes both ways. I may not feel the physical pain Papa does, but I can still do things to my leg to help him feel better.

  “For example, when he feels phantom itches, I scratch and his itching sensation goes away. When he can’t fall asleep because he’s uncomfortable without his leg, I massage lavender oil on mine, until he relaxes and goes to sleep. Everything I do to heal my body, and take care of it, helps my soulmate feel better.”

  “Is that why you put lotions on my marks? To help my soulmate feel better?” 

  Mama’s lips thinned out; she didn’t like talking about the orange marks on my body. 

  “Katniss,” she said very seriously, “I tend to your bruises because I love you. I worry about your soulmate, because I love you. I try to keep you as healthy and happy as possible, because that will help your soulmate heal faster… because I love you. I can cure your soulmate’s body through yours, but I cannot protect his heart, mind, or feelings. Right now, you both are too young to feel the pull of your bond, but one day, when your bodies have matured, you’ll have this… yearning, to find one another, and then, I just hope, whoever your soulmate is, knows we tried to help.”

  I cocked my head, “Should I be sad every time new marks show up?”

  Mama inhaled a deep breath, “We should feel sad every time a child is mistreated, darling, no matter how we’re related,”

  From that day on, I paid close attention to every child in my class for bruises matching mine. I also kept pomades and tinctures in my school bag, in case I ever saw another kid getting hurt. I wouldn’t say I started to develop deeper feelings for my soulmate after that, but I did feel deeper empathy for my classmates… I just couldn’t stomach big injuries, gore or vomit, but smaller cuts and bruises… those I could manage. 

————————

“Silver Anderson figured out her cousin was dating her soulmate!” A girl in my year was telling a cluster of other 15 year-old girls in the locker room. “Do you remember how Silver has been wearing a turtleneck for the last two days with this darned awful heat?”

  The other girls hummed their yeses. 

  “Well, is because Silver’s soulmate had a hickey on the throat, given by Silver’s cousin, who was his girlfriend or whatever. But apparently the cousin went over to visit Silver with her boyfriend, and one look at the guy’s neck, and Silver recognized the mark!” 

  There were gasps all around. 

  It wasn’t rare to hear of soulmates having relationships with other people before finding each other, but it was almost unheard of a relative dating somebody’s soulmate so close.

  I finished tying up my shoelaces, and started rebranding my hair, making a mental note to double shampoo, to get all the sweat out.

  “What an idiot! Who gets hickeys from their ‘whiles’?” Snorted somebody. 

  I wasn’t much for gossip, but even I had to agree. 

  ‘Whiles’, weren’t permanent romantic interests, they were just to pass the time while waiting to find your soulmate. ‘Whiles’ were people to satisfy ones curiosity about dating and that kind of stuff, with no strings attached or substance; ‘whiles’ had a bad connotation associated with. 

  “Oh, the boy had never gotten one mark in his body that wasn’t his, so, he assumed he didn’t have a soulmate, and the cousin has already been confirmed to be a matchless.”

  A big “Oh!” Swept the room. 

  Matchless were born without a soulmate, which meant they could choose to be with whoever they wanted as long as they were matchless as well, or with nobody at all. 

  Sometimes I envied their freedom to choose, but other times I felt a sense of safety, knowing there was a person somewhere in the world meant just for me and me to them. 

  Soulmates were genetically evolved to complement one another, but some just wanted to experiment before settling down. Lately, though, matchless births were growing in number, and that upset people for whatever reason, as if the freedom of choice was scary or a curse, then again matchless were usually whiles and those were looked down on. 

  “That’s awful!” Said a girl.

  “I knew Silver’s near freakish obsession with keeping her skin pristine and hidden would bring her issues finding her soulmate someday,” Declared another.

  “I don’t think she wanted to find him,” whispered someone else.

  “Oh well, they did find each other! You can’t hide from your destiny. That’s just silly!”

  “Either way, I feel bad for the cousin, because apparently she and Silver’s soulmate were talking about marriage, since they thought they were both matchless.” Informed the first one. 

  I lost interest in the conversation when it turned speculative, and stood up to shove my P.E. uniform into my locker. 

  Someone suddenly called, “Everdeen, how about those orange blooms on your arms?” 

  My eyes widened, and immediately, I dropped my arms, pulling my sleeves as far down as they would go to cover my soulmate’s private marks.

  “Oh… um… yeah. My mother thinks my soulmate might be an athlete,” I stuttered; Mama had only said such a thing in passing once, when a couple bruises appeared that didn’t match the usual ones. “Also, he seems to work with his hands. Lots of nicks and scrapes.” I wiggled my fingers in front of me. That much was true, my soulmate probably wore those marks freely.

  “Oooh!” A girl, Delly Cartwright, reached to take a closer look. “Could be a carpenter. Or a locksmith? Maybe a farmer!”

  “It could be the blacksmith’s son! Doesn’t Silver have an unmarried brother?” Asked another girl.

  “Yeah… a kid like 10! Ugh, Everdeen, I really hope he’s not your soulmate… can you imagine being so much older than your soulmate?!” Interjected the same girl that spotted my bruises. 

  I scowled. Age was a stupid thing to complain about. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to have an age gap between soulmates… my father was six years older than my mother, and Mrs. Sae from the Soup Corner at the market, was a handful of years older than her soulmate. 

  Still…

  “No. My soulmate is most likely my age. I’ve gotten his marks my whole life,” I shrugged, absently rubbing my arm, where the brand new bruise appeared that morning. 

  “Oh… at least that’s something. Knowing that your soulmate isn’t so much younger than you, and that he might at least have an apprenticeship somewhere,”

  “Right,” I said, turning away, wondering if it was awful of me to wish for a boy who never got marks on his body, like Silver’s pristine skin? At least that would mean my soulmate was safe and treated fairly. 

———————-

Papa and I shared many qualities. I inherited his coloring: olive skin, gray eyes, dark, straight hair, our penchant for singing mountain ballads, and the same quickening of the blood when we got a kill during hunting. Prim favored our mother more closely, with their fair skin, blonde wavy licks and blue eyes, they also were more skilled as healers and more soft-hearted towards animals. 

  The day Prim brought home a half dead cat, riddled with fleas and missing an ear to be patched up and adopted into our family, my first instinct was to drown the orange pelt and be done with it, but Prim got upset and worked up, and I just couldn’t stomach her cries over what I considered to be the world’s ugliest cat… his face was flat, like it’d been smashed against a wall…

  It took a long time to calm my sister down, and Papa made me pinky promise that I wouldn’t kill the fur sack and pretend it ran away, which I only did reluctantly, because I loved my sister and didn’t want her to be crossed with me. 

  Papa asked me to walk with him into the woods, afterwards, which I did readily. 

  Before he lost his leg, we used to go hunting all the time; everything I knew about hunting and foraging, I learned from him. But after losing his leg, we’ve only gone to the woods to hike and get him used to his prosthesis in the uneven terrain. 

  It was good exercise for him. The fresh air seemed to lift his spirits too. 

  We didn’t hunt together anymore. Papa’s tread wasn’t feather-like the way it used to be, prey scattered away before we even saw it.  

  It was alright. We enjoyed being out there together, and he still had lots to teach me about edible plants. Sometimes he’d find one of his old spiles, and then it would hit me: all his knowledge would’ve been lost if he’d died in that cave-in. I would’ve never known where to look for those spiles; I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to harvest sap and turn it into syrup. 

  Sometimes, I had to sit down and catch my breath when those thoughts knocked the wind out of me. 

  I was having one such moment, when out of the blue, my father spoke in a low, calmed tone. 

  “There’s a new chief of police,” he said while sitting on a log, next to me. 

  “I heard.” I wasn’t trying to be snippy with him, but every time a new chief or sheriff was appointed to our district, Papa wanted to run back into the precinct, and demand they look for my soulmate. 

  Appealing to the police never led anywhere. It didn’t matter if they had new staff, they always gave us the same spiel: can’t investigate an abuse case without a victim. They couldn’t go looking for a person without a name or an address. 

  After a while, one just started feeling like it was an impossible task, to help one child feel safe. 

  Papa sighed. “We could try ourselves. I’ve been saving some money, and we could—“

  “What? We could what?” I snapped. “We could go door to door visiting every little town in Panem until we find the bruised up mutt matching me?” I was at the verge of tears. 

  Mama said that once my body was matured enough, I’d start feeling the pull. Well, I kinda felt it, calling desperately. It started around my 14th birthday, when I started having a regular cycle, and puberty was at its summit. 

  First, I was curious about my other half and began cataloguing all the soulmate marks I could see easily. Suddenly I had whole maps of my hands and arms, and legs. Mama suggested I keep track of my hidden marks too, just in case. The curiosity persisted and evolved into an incessant wondering: where was he? How was he getting along? How could I help him protect himself? 

  “Haymitch may have a way, sweetheart. He knows people, and he likes you… he says you’ve got spunk,” Papa smirked.

  I’d met Haymitch Abernathy countless times. He was rude and sarcastic. I usually responded to him in kind, earning myself a host of reprimands from my parents— although Papa still couldn’t hide his pride, despite trying his hardest. 

  “What would he know about soulmates anyway?” I muttered.

  Papa shook his head, standing up, “Haymitch lost his girl, mother and brother all at once during a special outing. There was a car crash. Haymitch was badly hurt, but survived. His family didn’t. His soulmate was 16, so was him. The government paid him excessively for damages and the loss of his soulmate, because it was proved the city had skimped on roadside safety that caused the accident. But money didn’t fill the void of losing his loved ones. Haymitch never recovered. 

  “He told me once that losing a soulmate is akin to drowning. Except you’re still breathing without filling your lungs with oxygen…” Papa picked up the bucket we brought to collect sap, and smiled sadly at me. “Katniss, I may be exaggerating by hounding the police about your soulmate, but sometimes I worry that if we don’t find that kid soon, you could very well share Haymitch’s fate. Believe me when I say that I’d do anything in this world, to keep that from happening to you.” 

  I turned 16 that spring.

  I started carrying a small mirror on me, to try and look over my shoulders into places I couldn’t reach, obsessing over every little mark that sprouted anew on my back. 

  I wasn’t sure if the all consuming watching, and the doubts that kept me up at night, not knowing what was being done to my soulmate, wondering if he’d survive another day, was the pull Mama talked about, or simply terror at becoming the next Haymitch Abernathy. Either way, I became more vigilant for injured teens around me, but a sinking feeling in my gut started nagging at me, that my soulmate was an expert at hiding in plain sight by now… how would I ever find him if he was as adept at camouflaging as I suspected?

—————————

“This spot is perfectly in the middle of the turkeys’ path.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest to glare at Gale, “You just spilled a bunch of blood there. No critter is gonna come this way anymore with that stink.”

  “Turkeys aren’t that smart, Catnip,” Gale looked up from his belt after securing his new catch— his pants were covered in gore from where the rabbit nearly cut its own foot off trying to fight the snare’s grip. “I’m more than confident that if we set traps here, we’ll catch at least a fat Tom…more if we set up a system wide enough,”

  After a somewhat rocky start, Gale and I learned to respect each other’s skills, even joining forces for certain seasons, like deer and turkey hunting. We also fished together on occasion. It was safe to say we had a friendship after three… almost four years of partnership in the woods. At 18 Gale was less obnoxious, but still a stubborn ass. 

  “And I’m telling you, the path is tainted now. We need to put feed on the other side of the bushes, to keep them in the area.”

  “That’ll take weeks!” 

  “Then you shouldn’t have let that bunny bleed to death in here!” 

  “Listen here, Catnip—” whatever he was about to say, died in his throat.

  “What?!” I demanded, angrily, when he just stared at me horror struck.

  “Your nose!” He roared. “Your eyes!” He tumbled forward, and squished my cheeks in his one, long-fingered hand. “There’s more coming!”

  I yanked myself away from him. “Cut it out!”

  “I think your soulmate is getting the shit beaten out of!”

  I grunted and brought my fingers to my face, as if I could feel the changes. 

  Gale had seen some of my bruises, enough to be sure I had a soulmate, but not enough to realize my soulmate was being abused.

  I rubbed under my nose, and the tip of my index came back bloody. 

  I gasped. That had never happened before. 

  “How bad is it?” I asked Gale, frantically. 

  “Um… orange keeps popping up all over your face. There’s some running up your arm right now.” He sounded careful, but frightened. “It’s like… burn marks,”

  I looked down, where indeed, long, fat tongues of intense orange glowed up my left arm. I’ve seen glowing marks before, but always in the tip of my fingers or the sides of my hands, I never connected the glowing with fire— burn marks— but it made sense. I guess my soulmate must handle fire regularly. 

  “What’s happening?” I pulled my little mirror from my pocket, to see my face, and nearly sobbed at the sight.

  One eye was completely covered in orange. Burn marks ran all the way from my elbow up to my cheek, and part of my forehead. My nose had a tiny, bloody smear, and my lip had streaks of orange here and there. 

  Whatever happened, was bad.

  “Fuck… Do you know where he is, by any chance?” Gale winced. 

  “No… but I’m about to find out!” I looked around for a place to sit, then pulled my small knife out of my boot. 

  Once seated, I examined my forearms. The flaming marks started at the elbow on my left arm, and went up on that side, my right arm was free of injury, except for my palms. Both were glowing orange, but not too bad. 

  “Okay… here goes nothing!” I gritted through my teeth, placing the tip of my knife to my arm, I traced the word, “WHERE?” crudely, and just deep enough to break the skin.

  Gale made a face, but crouched closed by, staring intently. “Do you think it’ll work?” He asked dubiously. “He might be unconscious for all we know,” 

  “We’ll see.”

  The minutes rolled by and no answer came. I was starting to panic; all I could think about was would that be the day I became the next Haymitch Abernathy? At least he got to meet his soulmate and have a relationship with her before she died; I had no idea who mine was. Was it worse that way, knowing them and then losing them, or was it worst to never meet them at all? Would I become soulless? Would my entire body turn gray? Would I ever find another soulmate? Haymitch never said if he ever looked for another, but I knew it was possible to get a secondary soulmate if enough time went by. 

  “Look!” Gale shouted. 

  A shaky “D12” appeared under my message. 

  A relieved gasp left my mouth. 

  “District 12! That’s good! He could’ve been all the way in District 4, and then what were you gonna do? Call the authorities there?” Gale muttered, clearly invested in what was happening to me.

  Tears stung my eyes. I wrote: “ME 2” 

  We’ve been in the same district the whole time, and I still had no idea where to find him! 

  I turned the knife back to the first word, and traced a line under it “WHERE?”

  The answer came back faster. “S H”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I moaned,  “What kind of abbreviation is that? Ugh! I’m trying to help you!” I screamed at my arm as if my soulmate could hear it.

  “Seam House?” Gale mused… “No, there are hundreds, if not thousands of houses in the Seam,” he said.

  The Seam was the poorer part of the district, where people like us lived: low income families, miners, laborers and the such. 

  “Ah! Ask if he means Slag Heap? If I was trying to pick a fight with someone, that’s where I’d go.”

  “He didn’t pick a fight!” I snapped, defensive and angry. “He’s been beaten every other day, since I can remember. My parents used to go to the police station every year to see if they could do something about it. Nobody ever did! They always said we needed to figure out a way to communicate with him… well, I’m doing it now!”

  Gale frowned, “That’s shitty. I’m sorry to hear that. The Slag Heap could still be it, though. Many people go there to be alone… if they’re running from someone, there’s plenty hiding spots,”

  That sounded logical, “Okay… but the slag heap isn’t exactly small, and there’s some woodsy area to consider too,”

  “Mmm… asking has been working so far,” 

  “Yeah, but the whole mutilation part is getting to me…” I glared, he wasn’t the one cutting his arm, “I’m starting to get woozy,” 

  “You’re a hunter, Catnip! Blood is nothing,”

  “Animals, Gale! Not my own blood,”

  “There’s no difference,” Gale cupped my face in his hands, to keep my eyes on his gray, steely ones. “we’re all animals. We all bleed the same. Your soulmate needs your help, if I knew who mine was, and I knew she was in trouble, I’d be rushing to them… you can do this, Catnip,”

  I took a deep, cleansing breath, and nodded. “I’ll ask him. As soon as we know where to go… could you please fetch my father? He’ll know what to do,” 

  “You got it, Catnip!” He let go of me, and I felt renewed courage after his weird pep talk.

  Once again, I trace the tip of my knife on my skin, “SLAG H? WHERE?”

  “YES    NE”

  “North East! I told you it’ll work!” 

  “Yeah,” I grumbled, spelling making one last message: “W8 4 ME”

  “K”

  With half a plan in motion, Gale rushed to find my father, and I made a mad dash to the slag heap, where years and years of dumping dirt and rocks removed from the mines had formed small hills and mounds at the edge of the district. 

  “Hello!” I called out loudly. “Can anybody hear me?!” 

  There wasn’t a whole lot of vegetation in the slag heap, only hundreds of disturbed soil pits and little mountains… some were tall and wide enough they’ll easily conceal a person or two looking for privacy. 

  “Anybody here?” I called again.

  A weak cough answered in the distance. 

  I rushed in it’s direction, hoping it was my soulmate, and not a couple trying to steal away a few minutes alone. 

  “Please, tell me where you are!” I called before another round of coughing reached me. 

  “Here to finish me off, sweetheart?” Came a weak, raspy voice from behind me.

  I turned around but saw nothing besides dirt, and sticks, and moss on rocks. 

  I swallowed, “Where are you?” I stepped closer to the heap in front of me, and then…

  “Well, don’t step on me!” 

  I jumped back and looked downwards, and finally saw dirty pieces of flannel and denim, incongruous with the area, and under all the debris, I realized a person had dug a little wedge at the foot of the hill, and thrown the stuff he’d dug out back on top of himself. The disguise was clever, camouflaging himself into the terrain. 

  I gasped and dropped to the ground, pulling handfuls of earth out of the way. A jolt of recognition hit me when a pair of bright blue eyes blinked open and shut, slowly, as if fighting off fatigue. 

  “Don’t go to sleep!” I warned.

  “I’m sorry, but it might be too late for that already. There’s an angel hovering above me, and I’m not sure I’m not dreaming it,” a row of white teeth appeared from the soil.

  My knee-jerk reaction was to chuff and roll my eyes, but if he was throwing me those cheesy lines, it meant he was somewhat lucid, and it was imperative to keep him that way. 

  “How do you know is not a nightmare?” I countered.

  “Because Katniss Everdeen coming to my rescue, and being my soulmate could never be a bad dream. On the contrary It’s only my deepest, most desperate hope, really…” he trailed off, and closed his eyes again. 

  I was momentarily frightened.

  “Keep talking,” I ordered, brushing dirt off his head. Some of it mixed in with his blood and sweat, turning into a thick mud. I could see more of his battered face; my heart beat erratically against my rib cage, there were so many bruises. “Peeta, keep talking,” 

  His untouched eye opened slowly, a lazy, sideways smile greeted me, warming me up. “You know my name?” 

  I chuckled, startled, “You know mine,”

  “Everyone knows you, Katniss ‘the huntress’ Everdeen!” He reached up, tentatively, and touched the tip of my braid, whispering under his breath, something that sounded like: unreal.

  Just saying his name felt otherworldly; like breathing for the first time. I’ve never uttered it before, for fear of bringing forward memories of that awful day in the rain, by the bakery’s scraggly apple tree. 

  “And you’re Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread. I’ve known your name for a long time, baker’s youngest son, whose kindness saved my entire family from starvation,” I cupped his injured face in my hands, and I couldn’t help the slight tremble in my voice. 

  He seemed to melt at the sound of my voice; then his hands came to touch my face. “I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe you found me!” He said, an edge of incredulity and awe colored his tone, but then his face fell, “But, your sweet, beautiful face… it’s all…” a fat tear rolled down his muddy cheek, while his thumb gently caressed my temple and the side of my face. “I’m so sorry, Katniss… I never wanted you to look like this! I always tried to shift positions, so you’d never had to see how bad it got. I’m so sorry,” he was crying so hard, he started to shake and cough.

  It took inhuman strength not to cry myself; I knew he needed me to protect him, and there would be time later to fall apart and feel emotional. 

  “Shush, I’m here now.” I knelt next to him and locked my arms around his head, pulling him against my chest, so he could hear my heart beating only for him. “I’m going to take care of you.”

  “I really hoped it was you. I really did…” he heaved into my neck, his arms wrapping gingerly around my waist, “thank you for finding me,”

  “Of course I found you… I’ve been looking for you for ages,” I whispered, finally giving in, shedding some tears, relieved that the tension, fear, uncertainty, and frustration were finally gone. My soulmate was in my arms, where he belonged! “My parents started looking for you when we were little. But we’re together now,”

  Peeta calmed down some, but he was still breathing too fast, “Now that you have me… what are you gonna do with me?” He asked meekly. 

  I smiled down at him, “I’ll put you somewhere safe, where you can never get hurt again,” 

  He closed his eyes. “I’d like that…” 

  “Peeta, you can’t go to sleep just yet, okay?”

  “I’m so tired, Katniss,”

  “I know,” I cooed. I had no idea I was capable of speaking with such softness. “My father will get here soon, and then we’ll patch you up real well.”

  “I can’t go back to my house though—“

  “You ain’t going there, kid!” Papa said from a few feet away. Gale and two police officers followed closely. 

  I must’ve been completely enthralled with my soulmate, because I never heard them coming, 

  “Even if it’s the last thing I do, I won’t let you go back to that place!” My father stated. 

  And that was that!

  ——————————-

“Tell me what happened,” Officer Darius asked in a soft tone, trying to be encouraging.

  My soulmate inhaled; one eye was so swollen it was completely shut, his other one roved around the room nervously. Peeta locked his gaze with mine, beseeching, and I offered my hand in support. He clung to it like a lifeline. 

  “My mother asked me to burn a pile of leaves and branches in the backyard that had been there since fall, but the branches were damp and it was taking me a while to fire it up. Since it’s the last week to burn stuff, my mom got impatient. She screamed at me, called me incompetent and useless… the usual stuff—“

  “Does your mother call you names regularly?” Asked the officer. 

  “My mom calls everybody names. I guess that’s how she was raised. Her mom used to call her names too…” Peeta shrugged.

  “That’s no reason to keep the cycle going,” my mama grumbled quietly, so only I could hear her.”

  “After insulting you, what else happened?” Prompted the police woman, Officer Purnia.

  Peeta scowled. “I told her I’d pour some lighter fluid on the pile and let it soak for a few minutes, but she wouldn’t hear it. Said I was doing it wrong, I was too stupid, I would never accomplish shit if I couldn’t even light up some dead branches… and, well. I got fed up. I told her she could start the fire herself if I was doing such a lousy job… my mom�� she—She doesn’t like to be talked back…” He sagged on his hospital bed, and turned his face away. 

  “What do you mean?” Asked officer Purnia, taking notes, trying to keep an impassive mask on.

  “The first slap landed across my ear because I dared to move away from her flying hand,” Peeta said tersely, “She didn’t like that either, so she took aim again, but with the bottle of lighter fluid on her palm. She practically smashed it against my face.” He stopped to gasp for air, while his good eye filled with tears. “I think fluid squirted everywhere, I smelled like my hair and clothes had been doused in the stuff,” he raked a shaking hand over the singed hair at his temple. 

  I caressed his arm to sooth him. 

  He smiled gratefully at me, and faced the officers to continue. “I’d just put a piece of burning cardboard into the pile. I guess the leaves caught fire during the squabble with mom, and I must’ve lost my balance after taking a plastic bottle full of liquid to the face, because next thing I know, I’m bracing my hands on the ground, on burning sticks, and then I’m on fire myself.”

  Peeta sustained first degree burns on the different spots from his left forearm, up. Luckily, his wounds were managed as soon as we got to the emergency room, and his treating doctor said he would recover, with minimal scarring.

  “How did you end up at the Slag Heap?” Asked Officer Darius. 

  Peeta sighed, “My mom kind of freaked out when she realized I was on fire. She picked up a rag from somewhere and started hitting me with it…” he paused, “in retrospect, I think she may have actually been trying to help me, but… I just saw it like she was still trying to beat me, so I ran off. I tripped, fell, then rolled on the ground, she started calling my name, coming closer to me. I was scared. I took off again and didn’t stop until I fell at the foot of that mound of dirt in the slag heap. That’s when I noticed my soulmate’s note.”

  Officer Darius quirked up a reddish eyebrow, “Your soulmate’s note?” 

  “Yeah… these,” Peeta tried to peel back the bandage over his arm, but my mother put her hand over it, and shook her head. 

  “Here!” I said, immediately shoving my own arm in front of the officers. 

  Both examined my arm. “How did you think of doing that, Miss Everdeen?” 

  “I was inspired by your bosses actually,” I snarled.

  “Katniss!” Mama chided, and then politely addressed the officers. “You see, my husband and I have come to the authorities for many years, urging them to find a way to locate our daughter’s soulmate. You see, she’d started exhibiting her soulmate’s bruises from a very young age, which in my professional experience, were inconsistent with normal toddler scrapes and bumps—“

  “The chief of police always said to find a way to communicate with him, ask where he was… so I did,” I interrupted, haughtily. “I got you a real life victim to investigate. You’re welcome.”

  The officers stared at me, flabbergasted. 

  Mama made a dismaying noise in the back of her throat, but Peeta’s face— burnt, bruised and swollen— lighted up, with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen a person direct at me. 

  Mama interjected, conciliatory, “My husband and I believe, your department should have enough evidence to investigate Peeta’s case, now?” My mother’s searching blue eyes seemed to x-ray the officers. 

  “Well, Miss and Mrs. Everdeen, Mister Mellark, I think we have everything we need for now. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.” Said Officer Purnia snapping shut her notebook. 

  “Mr. Mellark, your case worker, Miss Trinket, will be in as soon as the matter of your emergency custody is settled.” Informed Officer Darius, right before wishing us a good evening.

  Peeta frowned, “Are they sending me to like a home or something? What about my brothers? They can’t stay home with my mom… she’ll go nuts on them!” 

  “No, no, Peeta,” Mama spoke softly, “Miss Trinket is already on it. Haymitch Abernathy has offered his house for your brothers to stay at for a few days while things get sorted out. You’re welcome to join them, of course, but your injuries need supervision and several cleanings daily, so Mr. Everdeen and I feel it is in everyone’s best interest if you stay with us, at least until you’ve healed enough.” Mama hesitated, and then patted my soulmate’s hand, “I hope that’s okay with you, but if it isn’t—“

  “It’s absolutely great, ma’am! Yes, I—thank you,” 

  Mama nodded, “Well, I’m gonna go get some stuff taken care of, and check on that case worker. Then they’ll hopefully let us go home… Katniss, I’ll need your help with something before we leave, alright?”

  “‘kay.” 

  “Mrs. Everdeen…thank you,” Peeta said meekly. 

  Mama just stood stoically by the door, “You’re family, Peeta, it’s the least we could do for you.” The door clicked shut leaving me alone with my soulmate.

  We were both silent for a minute. Then Peeta said half amused, half shyly, “I think the guy cop liked you. I caught him smirking a couple of times after your ruthless answers.” His smile was crooked. Boyish. I almost swooned. 

  I shrugged. “I don’t think he cared that much,”

  “Are you serious?” Peeta laughed, “Katniss, you have no idea the effect you can have,”

  I scowled at him, and he just shook his head. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or complimenting me. He changed the topic before I could decide which. 

  “So, you’ve been looking for me then?” He sounded nervous, and a little uncertain, “isn’t it weird…we are soulmates, but the only thing I know for sure about you, is that your favorite color is green?” He rubbed his fingers together, then showed me the tips, where he had dark green spots, exactly on the same place I had permanent calluses from pulling on my bow string. 

  I bit my lower lip, studying the thin spidering of green nicks and scratches, were I surmised my own marks have appeared after my daily trips into the woods. 

  “Your favorite color is orange. Not bright, but muted…”

  “Like the sunset,” he finished for me. 

  Mind bonding wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities between soulmates, but my understanding on the matter was, that the bond had to be physically sealed before a pair could develop those empathic connections, where soulmates shared perfectly synchronized thoughts, as if they had one mind. Peeta and I weren’t there just yet, but it felt like we understood each other pretty well already. 

  He just stared at me in fascination, before his face fell, “I hope you don’t get permanently disfigured, if my burn scars don’t go away completely… you are so pretty.”

  I rolled my eyes, pleased that he thought I was pretty, but not really knowing how to respond graciously. I’d never been called pretty by a boy before, not that it’d have the same effect as when Peeta said it… “You’re just saying that I’m pretty because I’m your soulmate,” 

  He smiled sadly, “No… I really mean it. I’ve had a crush on you since I can remember. I just new I belonged to someone since I was like 4, when I saw my first soulmate scratch on my knees. Your favorite colors back then were teal and pink. Your marks were always swirls of the two colors. I liked them. I liked that I belonged to someone who enjoyed colors, like myself… I wondered what your marks looked like, but then, I hoped you never had to see my marks. I was ashamed of them.”  

  My chest tightened, I climbed onto his bed, and pressed my side right against his, “Hey… I’ve like your marks.” I stuttered, “my parents never let me see the ones on my back until I was older, but I liked the ones you got in normal places. Yours appeared as rainbows where we were little.” I held his hand in mine. “I don’t care if we stay fire mutts forever, Peeta, the important thing is that we are together now,” 

  “Thank you for finding me,”

  “Thank you for leading me to you,”

  We leaned our heads together, and fell into an easy silence.

  “Katniss…”

  “Mmm,”

  “We are soulmates.” 

  I tilted my head away, to look at him, “Yeah. We already established that,” I said suspiciously.

  Peeta smirked, “You know, we’re supposed to be madly in love…so, it’s okay to kiss me whenever you want to,” 

  I snorted and rolled my eyes, but he was right. In any other circumstance, I’m sure we would’ve already progressed into couple-y, lovey-dovey stuff. 

  “If you’re already fishing for kisses, that means you’re healthy then!” I kissed his forehead. “But let me tell you right now, cheek and sass won’t take too far, sir,”

  “It won’t?” he pouted, “then I’ll just have to swoop in when I see an opening,” he leaned into me, and I let him plant a peck, full on my lips. 

  My first kiss ever, and all I could register was how chapped his lips were… besides the small fluttering of butterfly wings in the pit of my stomach, of course. 

  “Well, time for a sip of water, and you should rest some too.” I said feeding him the straw in the Styrofoam cup full of icy water by his bed. 

  After he drank, we gravitated towards each other, meeting in the middle. Our second kiss was short, sweet, and full of relief. 

  I liked it. In fact, I wanted another, but Peeta was drowsy after the day we’ve had. 

  “I remember you used to sing, so beautifully, even the birds would stop to listen,” Peeta said, shyly… “would you… mind singing for me?”

  “I don’t sing all that much nowadays, but if that’s what you want…”

  He stared at me expectantly, so I had no other choice. I combed back his freshly washed hair, and started.

  “Just close your eyes;

The sun is going down.

You’ll be alright;

No one can hurt you now.

Come morning light,

You and I’ll be safe and sound...”

  When Mama came back, Peeta was asleep, and so she took me outside while my father sat in the room with the case worker, signing in my soulmate’s release papers, waiting for him to wake up. 

  “I want you to take these,” Mama produced a packet of medicine from a white, pharmaceutical baggie. 

  “Birth control?!” I groaned, embarrassed. 

  “Don’t look so scandalized, Katniss,” Mama rolled her eyes, “You and Peeta are healthy, newly acquainted teenaged soulmates, who will suddenly coexist together in close quarters. Papa and I agreed that starting you on contraceptives is the right thing to do,” she fixed me with a stare that broker no protests, “That said, we are not giving you carte blanche to act on pure hormonal instincts, Katniss. While we aren’t so naive to believe you won’t explore intimacy with your soulmate, we fully expect you to use caution, and make responsible decisions. Is that clear?” 

  I nodded, and snatched the pills from Mama’s outstretched hand. My face was burning with mortification, but I was grateful for my parents’ wherewithal and openness. 

  The next few days proved harsh and blissful at the same time. After 11 years pestering the authorities, Papa finally got the law to prosecute my soulmate’s parents for abuse and neglect. To call it a victory, was understatement. 

  Peeta’s father was declared another victim of the Witch’s abuse, but court ordered him to see a therapist and get evaluated by a professional, before he could come back home to his sons. 

  Mrs. Mellark was charged with endangering a child, battery, abuse and arson. She was court ordered to seek anger management and psychological counseling. She had been abused as a child too, and after watching her son in fire, it finally clicked in her head, that she needed to put a stop to the cycle… late as it may be. She went willingly when the police served her arrest warrants. 

  Since Peeta and his middle brother were still minors, they were temporarily placed under their eldest brother’s care; but the eldest brother was only 19 and had no idea how to be a father figure, so strange as it was, my parents insisted on having them all bunk in our tiny house, which was comically insufficient. Thank heavens Haymitch Abernathy was still willing to help. 

  The grumpy old drunk invited the lot of us to stay at his place for as long as we needed, and after cleaning up all the empty bottles and general messes around his huge house, we could enjoy the place at our leisure. 

  The boys kept working at the bakery, since they needed a source of income, and something to keep themselves occupied. Mama said they needed the normalcy of their business to cope. 

  It was a good thing Haymitch’s house was so big, since Peeta started having horrible nightmares after his mother was released from holding, after making bail; her trial was still pending, but my poor soulmate suffered severe PTSD from the events that brought us together. Neither of his brothers wanted to share a room with him at night…which allowed me to slip in when I heard him crying out desperately and fearfully.

  Peeta would only go back to sleep after I laid beside him and sang, while carding my fingers through his sweat-damped, ashy blond waves. 

  “I’m not okay until I can see you’re safe,” he told me once. 

  After the third night in a row of this happening, I just stayed with him in his bed. My parents didn’t exactly approve— we were still 16— but there wasn’t much they could say to stop us. After all, our soulmate bond trumped any other familial bond; we just couldn’t legally get married and apply for housing until we were both 18. 

  Peeta still woke up in cold sweats at night, but my arms were there to fend off the terrors, and so were my lips. 

  On the night I felt a hunger so consuming and devastating, gnawing at me from my core, radiating to the tips of my being, I was glad my mother put me on birth control. 

  My soulmate gently, but steadily joined us together, cementing our physical bond for the rest of time, while branding his love and adoration to me into my very skin, with fevered lips and shaky hands. We gasped and whispered vows of devotion to one another, and then an explosion of feelings and emotions went off… I couldn’t tell where his life force started, and mine ended. We were one. Sharing a single soul. 

  After, we laid tangled together, our hearts beating as one. Peeta kissed my knuckles, and asked.

  “You looked for me, for years. Real or not real?”

  “Real.”

  He kissed my forehead, “Will you sing?” 

  “Of course,” I combed back his hair with loving fingers, and sang.

  “Just close your eyes;

You’ll be alright;

Come morning light,

You and I’ll be safe and sound.”

[capitainelevi]

148 OMG

Thank you for your ask!! ❤️❤️ Drabble challenge: Followers send a number to your ask and you write a drabble using that sentence/prompt in your piece.

"Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?”

Stay

Petra chooses to spend her last night alive with her captain.

Word count: 1374

Levi found himself roaming the empty hallways in the middle of the night, as sleep was the last thing on his mind. The castle was quiet. With death watching over them, waiting to take them at the slightest mistake on their part, each member of his squad sought out the calmness of solitude.

Levi knew of the turmoil resting in each of their hearts, as he noticed the confliction in their gaze when the child with nothing but awe in his eyes had the potential to be their greatest enemy. Not that he did not share their thoughts. Levi did not trust Eren, not since getting a glimpse of his hunger for violence, that had nothing to do with his titan powers. And he did not expect his squad to trust blindly either. He had trained them well, and he took great pride each time their blades came down on a titan`s nape.

Lost in his thoughts, it took Levi more time than it should have had to notice the shadow slowly making its way towards him. Worried about Eren`s safety, Levi took out his knife, determined to make the intruder regret meddling with Scout affairs. He made his way out of the shadows, and just as he was about to put the knife against the throat of the mysterious figure, he got a glimpse of amber hair.

"Captain, you scared me to death!"

Petra put her hand on her chest, attempting to calm her heart, threatening to burst out any moment. Her late-night walk was supposed to calm her restless mind, not end up with her getting stabbed by the man she loved. Levi mumbled something under his breath about it being her fault for walking around like a ghost before putting his knife back in his coat. He could feel the question on Petra`s mind, but he was not ready to share his past with her yet, not even the reason why he felt the need to carry a knife on him at any time.

"What are you doing, Petra?"

"Actually, I was looking for you, captain. Do you have a moment?"

His presence had always brought her comfort, and Petra found herself looking for his company more and more as the years went by. At first, the thought that Levi was just trying to be understanding towards a subordinate in their time of need plagued her mind, and guilt for taking up his time was keeping her awake at night. Petra soon realized it was just her captain`s nature, but that he enjoyed her presence as well. She knew a few hours with him on the night before an expedition would always calm her heart.

Levi led the way to the mess hall, as per their nightly routine. He had wondered if the stakes resting on her shoulders would keep her away that night, and while he would never admit it to anyone, Levi was touched that Petra would waste her potential last night alive by his side.

"Come on."

Petra could not explain it, but watching Levi prepare tea for her became one of her pleasures. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the moment they shared, and she wished for time to stand still. She closed her eyes and smiled at the image in front of her, of Levi preparing tea for them, but in the kitchen of the small home they could share. Not until we are free, she had to remind herself. She got pulled out of her fantasy by Levi placing the cup of perfectly brewed tea in front of her, and she smiled in gratitude.

"I figured you`d spend your night writing to your father."

His question surprised Petra, as she had never expected her captain to know her so well. While she opened up about her relationship with her father, she never had expected Levi to notice her habit of leaving a letter behind each time the Survey Corps had an expedition. Just in case, she had told her father.

"I did, but this one was shorter. It`s hard to find new ways to say goodbye with every expedition."

Levi said nothing, and he tried to disregard the hole forming in his chest at the thought of losing her. Levi was not delusional enough to fool himself that he did not care about her. But it was the deepness of his feelings that he tried to keep himself away from. They were still soldiers at the end of the day, and love was not something they could afford. They drank their tea in silence before it became unbearable for Petra. If it was truly her last night alive, she needed to make sure she was making the right choices.

"Captain?"

"Yes, Petra?"

Petra ran her finger along the rim of her cup, nervous about sharing what was keeping her up. But if she knew her captain well enough, Levi would have the same thoughts as her.

"Do you think we`re wrong to trust Eren?"

The silence that followed her question was an answer good enough for her. She had not been wrong in assuming what was on her captain`s mind. Petra would have followed Levi to Hell and back if he asked her, but it also comforted her, knowing he shared her thoughts.

"I don`t know. But it`s the best choice we have for now."

While most were bothered by his candor, Petra always appreciated the honesty behind his words. She had always preferred the ugly truth, even in the middle of battle, and it became the root of the trust she placed in him.

"It`s hard to imagine such a sweet boy could mean to do us harm. To do humanity harm."

Levi trusted Petra enough not to remind her to keep her guard up around Eren. She was an excellent soldier, and he knew she would always make the right choice, no matter how harsh it may be on her. Levi clinked cups with her, and he did not miss the amusement on her face at his gesture that seemed so uncharacteristic.

"Cheers to possibly our last mission."

Petra laughed and took a sip of her cup, without giving a second thought to her answer- "Captain, you`re going to be the last one standing."

As the meaning behind her words settled in, the atmosphere changed to sorrowful in a matter of seconds. Petra was preparing to switch the conversation to another story from her and Oluo`s training days when her captain cut in- "Any regrets, Petra?"

Petra gazed at the floor as if it had the answer to all her questions. As silly as Levi would find it, she had never given much thought to it. While the idea of dying young brought Petra sadness, it was something she had accepted the moment she put the green cape on her shoulders. But what would she regret losing? What was the future she was leaving behind? The first thought that came to mind was him. It had always been him. Petra could not imagine a future without him by her side. Petra took a deep breath, but as she was about to answer, she changed her mind.

"No. How about you, captain?"

Levi shook his head no- "No regrets."

They talked more about the mission until Petra`s eyelids became heavy, and she closed her eyes to rest them for just a moment. Levi smiled when he realized his subordinate was dead asleep, and he took down his jacket and placed it on her back. Levi took a moment to admire her. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself picking up a strand of her hair and placing it behind her ear. He ran his thumb up and down on the soft skin on her cheek, and he bent down and placed a small kiss on it.

"Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?"

It was not the first time Levi woke her up this way, but she had always kept quiet about it. But his words from earlier were still loud in her ears. She needed to know.

"You know why."

Levi left her behind, making his way to get himself ready for the expedition- "Get some rest, Petra."

ao3

[marvelship-oneshots]

FIRST, HESITANT KISS (WINTERIRON)

[1.5k words]

FIRST, HESITANT KISS: hesitant and nervous. Lips hover over each other for a few seconds before barely brushing a few times, breath fanning across each other’s faces, waiting for the other to make a move. It’s just a soft press, but it’s enough, for now at least.

Steve was gone. He had been gone for months but for Bucky it was still difficult to wrap his head around the idea of his best friend being dead. From that day, everything went downhill. Accepting that he was never going to see his best friend again, was heartbreaking and suffocating. He didn’t think he could live in a world without Steve. But he had to. He had no choice but to carry on and to be as much as a support for Tony.

The pain Bucky felt every day was nothing compared to what Tony must have been feeling. He had lost his fiance, the father of his children.

On the day of the final battle, Steve decided to go against the plan, he took the gauntlet that, according to the backup plan, Tony was supposed to take, and snapped. Thanos’ army got dusted but Seve felt his life slowly leaving his body.

Since that day, Tony fell in a never-ending tunnel of depression and grief. No one could blame him really, they were all grieving. It was up to Bucky to help Tony as much as he could. He had promised Steve before he died that he would take care of his family. They were his last words to Steve and he had every intention to keep that promise.

Bucky slowly moved in with Tony, not that noticed anyway. Tony spent every day in his lab, working on some sort of project, God only knew what he was doing. Then, he would start drinking and pass out, either on the couch or right there on the table. Sometimes even on the floor.

Bucky spent his days with Peter and Morgan, driving them to school, making them meals, helping with homework and just hanging out with them. He knew he was not Steve, nor Tony, but he did everything he could to make them feel a little better. Once they were in bed, Bucky would take care of Tony, picking him up from the lab, forcing him into the shower, holding his head when he was throwing up and cleaning up for him, tucking him into bed, just for Tony to repeat everything the day after.

Bucky knew that it was not a healthy way to cope with the pain, he knew he should talk with someone his own age, but he just couldn’t. When he was around the kids or taking care of Tony, he would forget just for a while that his best friend was never coming back. But he couldn’t bring himself to look for help or to get in touch with someone, anyone really. Sam tried to get him to talk, to hang out, but he never answered his call nor replied to his texts. Sam could be a little too much sometimes and he had too many things on his mind to deal with him.

Bucky tucked Morgan in her bed.

“Can you tell me a Pops’ story?” she had asked, with her little voice.

Bucky kneeled next to her bed and started telling her what he remembered of Steve from the 40s. Then, he gave her three kisses, two on the cheeks and one on the forehead, and walked out, turning off the light. He brushed a tear away from his cheek before going to check on Peter. Peter was on his bed with a book on his knees.

“G’night Pete” he said softly, trying to hide his broken voice, then closed the door and walked to the kitchen.

He put the dishes in the dishwasher and the leftovers in a tupperware, stocking them in the fridge. He wrote on a post-it the grocery list, reminding that the next day, after driving the kids to school, he would have to stop at the store.

Then Bucky walked to the lab, finding Tony on the couch. He was still awake, looking in front of him but his eyes were off, there was no spark. Bucky took the bottle from Tony’s hand putting it on the floor.

“C’mon Tony, let’s get you to bed” Bucky said, helping Tony to get up. Tony put his arm around Bucky’s neck and followed his lead. Bucky got him to the bathroom and Tony and started preparing his bath.

“I get him from here” Tony finally whispered, melting all of the words together.

“You sure?”

Tony nodded and Bucky left the room, going back to the lab to tidy up a bit.

Bucky decided to cut his hair. He needed a change in his life and he figured that his hair was an amazing point to start. He also asked the barber how to take care of it,  thinking that maybe if he had a routine to stick to, he could slowly start to get better, dedicating a little bit of time to himself. His hair was shorter, not like it was before the war but neither long as HYDRA kept it. It perfectly framed his face, Bucky liked it, he liked the change and most of all, being in charge of his body, even if it was only his hair. Steve would have liked it. The kids liked it, Morgan in particular.

The day went like any other day for the past 10 months. He helped Peter with his homework, played with Morgan, made dinner and put them to bed, telling Morgan yet another story about her Pops.

Then, he went to Tony. He helped him stand and took him up bridal style and took him to the bathroom. He opened the toilet seat and held Tony’s head over it, drying his forehead with a towel.

“Water” Tony mumbled and Bucky handed him the glass that was standing on the sink.

Bucky helped Tony stand up and stripped him of his clothes, pushing him in the shower. He opened the cold water and pushed him under the cold water jet. Tony tried to escape but Bucky pinned him against the wall.

“This has to stop Tony”

Tony managed to break out from Bucky’s grip. Bucky stepped into the shower, pushing Tony harder but still not bringing in his whole supersoldier strength.

“You can’t keep doing this, Tony. Peter and morgan need you, they need their father”

Tony finally snapped out of his trance, looking at Bucky. He could feel his eyes filling with tears and threw himself at Bucky, letting go of all the tears he was holding in.

Bucky sat on the bed with only a white towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another one. he was waiting for Tony, wanting to make sure Tony was ok. Tony handed him a pile of clothes, presumably Steve’s, and sat next to him.

“I know I’ve been a crappy Dad lately, I know it’s not fair for the kids” he brushed away a tear.

“It’s hard, James, it’s really hard”

Bucky took Tony’s hand.

“It’s been so long and it still hurts like the first day. It hurts so bad”

Bucky pulled Tony closer to himself, gently stroking the back of his head.

“I know, Tony”

“I miss him, James, I miss him every day”

Bucky pressed his lips on Tony’s forehead.

“I miss him too”

Tony turned towards Bucky, as he did the same shortly after. Bucky pressed his forehead on Tony’s while still holding his hands.

Their lips brushed against each other, they were so close that they could breathe each other’s air.

Tony looked down.

“I- he breathed out loudly- can’t”

Bucky squeezed his hand.

“When Steve died, I promised him I would take care of you, of all of you, and that’s what I’m doing. I know it’s hard, I know it hurts, but he would want you to move on”

A tear fell on Tony’s cheek and Bucky swiped it away.

“I am here for you, Tony, for whatever you need, I’m here”

Tony looked back at Bucky’s blue eyes and let a small smile appear on his face. Bucky smiled, not wanting to move away. Their lips were almost touching. They were both looking at each other’s lips. Bucky moved his head closer and kissed Tony’s red lips. It was barely a kiss. Their lips were pressed on each other’s but it was enough to send a nice, warm shock down their spines.

“Can you stay here, tonight?”

Bucky smiled and nodded.

Bucky flipped the last pancake and placed the plate in the middle of the table, calling the kids for breakfast. It became a habit, having breakfast together before driving them to school. But what he didn’t expect was for Tony to walk into the kitchen, taking a plate and sitting down next to Bucky. Bucky filled their cups with coffee, looking at the shorter man smiling.

Tony took Bucky’s hand under the table and gently squeezed it, looking at him in the eyes and smiling softly.

Maybe he would really be his future.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Secrets ~ 1

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A buried family secret comes to light thrusting you to the forefront of an old alliance.

Note: Bruh, other series are still going. At least one update a week for existing series in future, I promise! Probably more. 

This was semi-inspired by The Princess Diaries but obviously we’re not going highschool. 

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You found it hard to focus on the lecture. You copied the slides without processing the words. You couldn’t tear your mind from the unusual stranger. The one who had slipped from the room not ten minutes earlier. The one no one else seemed to notice; even the professor as she outlined the fall of the Roman Empire.

You did because you were early every week. You sat in the same seat, pulled out your notebook and pen, and put your phone on silent. You’d worked too long to screw this up. Years of saving and scrounging just to pay the application fee, bursaries awarded for your volunteer work and nearly forgotten extracurriculars from high school.

So, you noticed. The man sat in the back row with not a possession before him. Silent, discerning, and to be frank, a bit too old for the student body. Even you, after several years away from academics, thought so. You used the reflection in your phone screen to watch him and when he stood and left without cause, you angled it after his departure.

Perhaps he had come to the wrong room. Or maybe he had got the wrong time. He could be an older student or a guest speaker. Whatever he was, he was gone and you needed to focus. You didn’t have much time outside of class to revise your notes. Between your job at the campus bookstore and your intern position at the museum, you didn’t have time for anything beyond a few hours sleep.

You packed up as the lecture came to an end. Tuesdays, Professor Halren went over the week’s material and Thursdays you had a class discussion on the assigned articles. Basic, simple, but at least eighty pages of reading a week. You climbed the steps between the rows of tables and passed through the upper doors. The east entrance down the rear stairwell was the quickest exit.

You tossed your bag in the passenger seat of your crummy used Honda, parked in front of the burger joint several blocks away from campus parking. It cost you more to park on-site than it did for the beat-up contraption itself.

You drove to the museum and got out, your lanyard around your neck denoting you as a volunteer. You usually worked the help desk or handed out pamphlets for upcoming tours. Most of the time it was quiet enough for you to study in between visitors.

Sheila was the curator on duty that night. She kept to her office, saying she trusted you to direct the rare patrons who arrived on a Tuesday night. As expected, it was dead. You wandered around with textbook in hand, occasionally looking up to check that you were alone.

There was a man by the chart of Greek gods and their relations. A spiderweb with no end. You closed your book and quietly set it down on the nearest bench as you kept an eye on the man. It was him, the one from the lecture hall. A frightening coincidence. He leaned closer to the diagram then turned away, walking, no marching along the wall and rounding the corner into the next section.

Your heart was beating; in confusion and fear. You followed, carefully not to let your shoes click as you did. As you reached the next corridor, he was nowhere to be seen. You continued on, around corner and corner, on and on, looking up and down the walkways. He was gone.

You came back to the bench where you left your textbook. You glanced around one last time and opened it. Behind the cover was a ribbon, a tricade of red, white, and blue, a star emblazoned three-quarters of the way up embroidered in gold and silver. You’d seen it before but none so new as this.

You held it up and felt it between your fingers. You closed the book again and tucked it under your arm. You went to the next wing; medieval history. You walked along the timeline of European kingdoms, below each was a display of royal families of each. 

The same ribbon, aged and frayed, laid beneath the kingdom of Astrania, marked by the house of Rogers. A long storied bloodline thrust in and out of power by civil wars and politics well into the twentieth century. A country that stood still, one of the few who still lauded a monarch, as famous as the Windsors in England and beyond. The last vestiges of long lost era.

You shoved the ribbon in your pocket. It was likely a souvenir from some commodified tour of the country. A forgotten novelty sold for pennies and shoved into a used textbook. You shrugged and headed back to your usual spot among the ancient civilizations. Strange things happened. That was life.

👑

You spent your few hours before midnight writing up your rough draft for Life and Death in Ancient Greece then finally crashed. You slept on your back, uncomfortably; a heavy, exhausted sleep. You woke to voices. Your mother’s and another. One you didn’t know.

You checked the time, it was barely seven in the morning. You grumbled as you sat up. Your mother’s tone set you on edge as her voice rose. You stood and crossed to the door. You turned the handle slowly, listening through the crack of the door as you eased it open.

“You get out of my house.” She snarled. You’d never heard her sound so vicious. “I am not that person anymore. I never was.”

“You can hide behind a name,” The deep voice replied evenly. “It doesn’t change your real one.”

“My father is dead, his name died with him.” She hissed. “I won’t tell you again to leave.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll call the police, asshole.”

“I’ve been sent here under the banner of diplomacy, what are they gonna do?”

You stepped out as the argument continued, your mother growing angrier as you tiptoed down the hallway to the kitchen. She grabbed a frying pan from the dish rack as you stopped in the doorway and she waved it at the man standing on the other side of the table.

“I’ll just have to make you,” She warned. “Now go--”

“Mum,” You rubbed your eyes. “What’s going on?” You looked to the man as he turned to look at you. It was the same man from the day before. You recoiled and pressed yourself to the wall. “Who is that?”

“No one. He’s leaving.” She edged around the table and drew back the frying pan.

He didn’t move. She swung and he caught the pan as his palm deflected it away from his head. He wrenched it away from her and tossed it away.

“Sit down, your highness,” He glared at your mother as he clanked the pan against the table.

You frowned and looked at your mother. Her eyes glinted at you and she shook her head.

“You will not tell my daughter what to do,” She scowled. “Not in my house.”

“You can send me away now, but I’ll be back.” He looked around the kitchen. “Looks like you can afford a fine lawyer, indeed.”

“Lawyer?” Your mother spat.

“There’s a contract, Princess,” He sneered. 

“There is no kingdom left. No crown, no throne.” Your mother neared and grabbed your wrist, drawing you to her. “My daughter does not belong to anyone.”

“Your own father signed the accord. We paid our dues, even after his fall, we expect you to fulfill your end of the contract.”

“My father is dead,” She pushed in front of you, shielding you from the man. His square jaw twitched and his blue eyes glimmered defiantly.

“As his heir, you would acquire his responsibility. She is his first born granddaughter.” The man asserted. 

“She has no title.” Your mother insisted. “You can see we have no wealth, no holdings. We are displaced; we are common.”

“Princess Karissa of Ecklun,” The man addressed your mother, “Her daughter, Duchess of Brey. You needn’t land to uphold your titles… and your obligations.”

“The contract is old. Outdated.” Your mother countered. “There are other duchesses. Real ones.”

“The contract is legal still, it has been upheld to this point and there is no clause for annulment. Unless of course you have the funds to buy out the agreement.” He challenged. “Fifteen million, with interest.”

Your mother was silent. He hand squeezed your wrist. 

“I never received any of these payments you claim to have made,” She said.

“In a trust, as stated in the contract, to be accessible upon the day of marriage.” He declared. “If you insist, however, I can return with my legal council… and a military escort.”

Your mother let out a long breath. She released you and shakily pulled out a chair from the table. “Sit,” She gestured you forward and drew another chair out. “I’ll entertain your… discussion.”

You stepped forward and sat and she did too. The man across from you lowered himself into another chair and set down his briefcase on the floor. He reached inside and drew out a bundle of papers. He slid them across to your mother.

“If you’d like to look over the terms,” He smirked. “You’ll see all is as I said.”

“He couldn’t find another bride?” She spat as she ignored the contract.

“Not legally.” He insisted and looked at you. “Forgive me. I didn’t introduce myself, your highness. James Barnes, I am a representative of the Astranian court.”

“I don’t--” You blinked. “I don’t understand what’s--”

“Yes, apparently your mother has created a convincing ruse here in this… slum,” He sighed. “What do you know of your grandfather?”

“Don’t talk to her.” Your mother snipped. “Talk to me.”

“She must know--”

“I will explain. That is my responsibility. My right.” She sneered and grabbed the papers. 

She flipped the first page, then the second, she continued as she hastily read through it. You peeked over her shoulder but she kept turning away to block you. When she finished, she turned it face down.

“You signed it, Princess,” The man said.

“I was sixteen.” She said. “I was still a child.”

“You were a married woman.” He returned.

“A girl forced into a ring.” She slapped the paper. “And you would have me do the same to my daughter?”

“You already did,” He said plainly. “And she is older. Quite a few years, in fact.”

“It took you years to find us,” She grinned. “You think you’ll be as lucky again?”

“You are being watched. You have been watched.” He pushed his shoulders back. “We have waited long enough.”

“Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” You said.

The man, Barnes, looked at you. Appalled.

“I will,” Your mother squeezed your arm. “Mr. Barnes.” She turned back to him, her head held high. “Might you allow me some time to prepare?”

“To run?” He challenged.

“If we are being watched as you say, that should not be an issue,” She sniffed. “You must understand the circumstance.”

“I do understand your negligence,” He raised a brow. “One day. That is all I can allow you.”

He left the contract and stood. He took his briefcase and nodded to the table. “A copy for your records.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card and flicked it onto the document. “My information should you require it.”

He bowed his head and turned to leave you. The door opened and closed loudly as he strode out the back door. You sat, perplexed, and reached for the contract. Your mother caught your hand. She turned to you and drew your hand back with her.

“Honey,” She said softly. “I need you to listen to me. Just-- don’t talk, just listen.”

“Mum, I--”

“You’re going to hate me. I know that hate, I felt the same for my own father. I would not blame you for hating me even more than that.” She said grimly. “But please, there is much I need to tell you. That I should’ve told you before.”

“I don’t-- I don’t understand.” You sputtered.

“So just listen,” She pleaded. You nodded and your stomach bubbled nervously. “You’ve heard of Ecklun? You were always so fond of history.” You confirmed and she continued on. “And Astrania. Occasional allies until the dissolution of the former… but that all doesn’t matter.” 

Your mother hung her head. 

“My father knew the tide was against him. He tried to rally his reinforcements, he made promises to those he thought could help. He was the king, you see? He was dethroned, we were all thrown out of the country. I tried to… stay with him. Tried to make him move on but he wouldn’t. So after I had you, I left. Your father didn’t want to let go either and he refused to come with me.”

She touched her cheek and shuddered.

“It was all gone so I thought that meant it was over. Everything. The promises, the debts.” She shook her head. “I tried so hard to start over. For you. But… Your grandfather promised you to the heir of Astrania to fund his personal guard. The same that ejected us from our home.”

She twined her fingers together then pulled them apart. She gulped before she found her voice again.

“That heir is now in power,” She could barely look at you. “And you… you are to be his wife.”

“I-- no, they can’t-- it--”

“I thought I could stop it. I didn’t think they’d want it still but-- I always hated how backwards it all was. Bloodlines, lineage, privilege… It was all so ridiculous.” She huffed. “I-- tried. I failed.”

“You ran once, we can--”

“That man found me. I am not foolish to think he did not come with back-up. I have seen what happens when you undermine others. I have seen the ugliness of it. I can’t say what’s worse; to let them have you or to refuse and suffer further. You don’t know how-- I was stupid enough to think I could ever outpace them.”

You gaped at her. Shocked, angry, sickened.

“And now I can’t stop them.” She uttered.

“You didn’t tell me,” You breathed. “You should have told me.”

“I’m sorry--”

“I have school, work...I… No, they can’t. I have a life!” You stood and the chair wobbled.

“Honey, please,” She got to her feet. “I know how it feels. Trust me. My father, he did the same--”

“So what? Family tradition?” You scoffed. “They can’t make me. I’m staying. I’m going to school, I’m working. I’m not--”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I won’t go!” You shouted.

“They’ll make you.”

“How?”

She looked at you. Her face was grim, her wrinkles more apparent than ever before. She didn’t need to say.

“They can’t--”

“They’ll find a way.” She muttered. “They always do. I’m so so sor--”

“So I’ll make them drag me,” You said. “I’ll fight it.”

“It’s treason--”

“It’s the twenty-first century!”

“Not there. It’s not the same as here. There’s no one to stop them.” 

You didn’t know what to say. You hit the table and swore. You stormed from the room and slammed your door before you fell onto the bed and screamed into your pillows. 

It was a dream. It had to be a dream!